Sitting. Just sitting. Not wandering around some historical site, not getting yet another lecture from Sergei, not having every other person trying to sell him something from a carpet to a chess set to a washing machine. Sitting was good. The waiter, who spoke no English, kept the pots of coffee full and added a plate of pastry as dry and crumbly as papyrus. He left Doug alone to write out his dozen postcards, each saying just about the same thing. Left him alone to half-start and re-start a list under the heading The Mystery of the Grape. Left him alone to observe the tough guy sitting by the door, the one with the overly hairy mustache, overly hairy eyebrows, and overly hairy ears. Left him alone to glance down the alley and through the medieval gateway, watching for the unmistakable shape of Aisha Al-Kady heading towards the jewelry shop of Nasser Ashkanani. The waiter left him so alone that when a man entered from the rear of the café, pulled up a chair behind Doug, and placed a knife against the small of Doug’s back, Doug didn’t even bother to look up for help.
