When three hours had passed Lara had scribbled down five pages of notes, went through three crates of stelae, and was content with what she'd found. Her arm muscles ached from lifting the heavy stone slabs out of boxes and placing them back again.
It had turned out that the photocopies she'd gotten from Evers were the missing link indeed. The engravings did not provide much in terms of exact information, but together with a map of Petra she'd acquired they aided Lara in determining the purposes different buildings had been used for. She was most interested in anything designated as "storage". Tourist guidebooks only covered the most picturesque ruins and left out places that were inaccessible, in danger of collapsing, far from the central sights, or otherwise uninteresting.
She would have a good start in Petra as she'd managed to narrow her search down into four sites. One seemed rather unlikely as it was situated quite centrally near the Siqq – a narrow canyon which served as the entrance to the city. It was likely to have been excavated already. The other three were off the beaten track and would probably require the smuggling of a tent and food into the ruins area for staying overnight.
She closed the crates, gathered her notes and left the room, shouting an 'ma'a salaama' – 'peace be to you' – for the guard who flashed him a smile as she disappeared up the stairs.
She left the museum and hit the streets of the bazaar area as darkness began creeping into the city.
During her walk into downtown Lara had passed the Roman Theatre, one of the less than five restored sights of the ancient times in Amman. She'd taken a peek into the ruined structure as admission was free, and had been suprised because of the likeness of the place to the Coliseum in Rome. As well aware as she was of the unbelievably vast effect the Roman empire had had on world culture, it stilt felt strange to see true proof of the unilateral culture of those times. Lara felt in awe of anyone who'd dared to stand against the mighty empire like Cleopatra or Spartacus had.
She'd enjoyed a short break sitting in the front row of the amphitheatre and drinking from her water bottle.
She felt strangely exhilarated, her spirits raised by the things she'd gotten confirmed at the museum. She was no longer in stuffy old England, where trouble seemed to lurk behind every corner.
Winston had tried to reach her via cellphone. Someone had probably called the mansion about the funeral arrangements.
Although it was more likely it was the odd reporter or a business associate. Lara wondered why she had such a strong premonition that someone'd been trying to reach her about her father?
Her jet-lagged mind must've been playing tricks on her.
She'd arrived in the bazaars at eight p.m., shopped for some warm clothes - a couple of gallabias for sleeping, some tea and biscuits for long nights - and stacked up some preserves. She wasn't exactly looking forward to eating from cans again, so she decided to stick to her original plan of finding a suitable restaurant for at least one civilized meal before camping out in Petra.
She did not have to browse long before discovering a tiny place that served the usual Jordanian delicacies including kibbih and faooliya – a well-seasoned bean stew, which Lara stomached with a still almost non-existant appetite. She paid and wandered out. It wasn't late yet – only eight p.m., and she did not much fancy the thought of spending the rest of the evening at the hotel – she'd done quite enough reading for the day.
She decided for a nearby bar frequented by Middle East expatriates, a place decorated with red velvet and mahogany, which reminded Lara of... her father.
If Amman in general had not changed, the Churchill Bar had.
She found the place easily as she'd been there numerous times. Named after Winston Churchill who'd drawn the Saudi-Arabian-Jordanian border known as 'Winston's hiccup' due to its wigglyness, it had always been a spot for Lara to get to speak her mother tongue instead of blabbering in her imperfect Arabic.
Now she could not make out single word in English. The place was smoky, worn-out and full of Jordanians and other Arabs. Nargiles were burning and the scent of apple mixed with tobacco dried Lara's throat.
Well, then, everything changes, she sighed, and seeted herself at the bar. It was no longer under the rule of a Moroccan bartender she'd learned to call 'Mike'. Behind the counter, am Egyptian-looking man in a yellowish dress shirt was polishing a scraped wine glass.
"Masa al-kheer," he greeted Lara carefully, giving her a more-than appreciative yet suspicious gaze which she ignored.
"Masa an-noor. Whisky, law samaht," she requested, looking over her shoulder. Arabic pop was quietly drumming from a forlorn cassette recorder in the corner. She decided to gulp down her drink and get out as fast as she could. She was gathering enough looks as it was.
"Maa fiish," the bartender replied loudly. 'We don't have that.'
Lara was getting slightly annoyed. She decided not to push her luck with requesting another Western variety. There was only one thing she could order that they would certainly have, but the thought did not seem very appealing. "Araq then, if you please," she carefully pronounced, and the bartender gave her a slight nod.
She took another look behind her shoulder. All other customers had returned to what they had been doing.
She received her drink – the local high-alcohol content clear liquid that in Greece went under the title ouzo. It was not as bad as she's remembered – she'd drank some before, often trying to drink a potential business partner under the table. Her alcohol consumption had lessened in the recent years, though. It took the edge off her work.
Spur of the moment, she decided to order another. Halfway through her glass of firewater a young man sat down to the bar stool next to her, grinning. The youth was probably not much older than eighteen.
"Min wayn inta?" he inquired without even greeting her formally first. He wanted to know where she was from. In Lara's experience this could mean trouble.
"Ingleeziyya," Lara replied nonchalantly and refused to turn to face him. "Inta?" she asked, inquiring in exchange where he was from. Jordanians were such a patriotic bunch this question was likely to result in sulking and a haste departure.
But the youth grinned even more widely – he obviously now believed he'd established contact. "Dimashq."
So he was from Damascos, Syria. It explained his daring behavior – Jordanians, in Lara's experience, did not try to hit off women in such an impolite way.
"Fii ghurfa il-leylah?" he then enquired, showing his teeth and placing a hand on Lara's thigh. 'Have you got a room tonight', he'd asked.
His audacity had reached a level which made Lara abandon her drink, turn and face him, enraged.
"Shu?" she asked. 'What?'
"Khudni al-otel," the youth requested as though speaking to a chauffeur, cocking his eyebrows. 'Take me to the hotel'. His hand never left her thigh.
Lara grabbed his wrist, and banged it onto the counter. "Haram!" she hissed. 'Shame on you!' which was the worst thing she could come up with.
The youth did not seem the least bit of put off. He tried to touch Lara's arm, and she reciprocated by kicking his chair so it clattered off from below him, sending him falling onto the wooden floor. What followed was a series of curses in Arabic.
Then Lara noticed another young man approaching. His chum probably. How marvelous.
The rest of the crowd watched, a look of only mild interest on their faces.
The first man scrambled back to his feet. Judging by his expression Lara'd gotten her message clear. But he wasn't through with her yet.
He approached Lara, who was following the other man with her gaze, and slammed her against the counter when she'd been distracted for a split second. Lara replied by ramming her knee up his groin and then slamming her foot onto his sandal-clad toes. He yelped in pain and after doubling briefly over tried to throw a punch. Lara knelt down and his fist hit thin air.
Then her own foot was yanked from underneath her. The youth's recently arrived friend had grabbed her ankle and made her lose her balance. She went down, cursing, and when the second youth approached Lara kicked her legs outwards into the insides of his ankles, and finished the move with a devastating kick to his midriff. He fell backwards like a marionette.
The first youth had plucked up his courage again while Lara jumped back up to her feet. His right hand reached for her throat and he'd dug up a pocket knife from somewhere which he held in his left. Lara jumped back, grabbed a discarded beer bottle and threw it in his face. He didn't duck fast enough, and the bottle hit his face, cracking and leaving a bloody gash on his cheek. He dropped the knife, his left hand flying up to his face. Lara used this time to punch him in his midriff and sweep his legs out with a low sideways kick. He fell, and did not get up.
For a plit second Lara thought about giving him a good kick to the side, but decided she'd had enough.
She left the bar, the slightly annoyed gazes of other customers following her. She hailed a taxi, slumped into the backseat and let out a breath she hadn't realized holding.
Soon the adrenaline faded. The taxi parked outside her hotel, and she turned her daybag upside down in search of her wallet. When she'd found it and quickly paid the driver she stuffed her belongings back into the bag and left the car, legs shaking. It was due to sheer willpower that she managed to scramble up into her room before collapsing onto the bed, cheeks wet with tears.
It was unlikely of her to be so affected by a simple barfight. She'd faced harassment before, and had managed not to let herself wonder what might've happened if she had not been able to defend herself.
Ten years of field work had hardened her, and this should not have been more than a mild annoyance which she would put behind her right after it had happened.
Why did she lay on the bed then, shaking uncontrollably and feeling awful? Why did it feel like any emotion that she let herself experience threw her emotional state into a devouring hurricane? As long as she stayed disinterested and concentrated on her work everything was alright, but the balance was fragile.
What in God's name is wrong with me?