4
CAIRO TO DAMASCUS
fore me the dark pavement, sleek and glistening with the
spring rain. It was a warm rain, a lush, fertile rain, holding
within it the magic to germinate whatever wanted to sprout.
Taxis passed, splashing New York's mud and water on me.
I walked for a long, long time. Eventually my feet led me to
the doek area of New York's West Side.
I stopped under a trestle and leaned against one of the supports. Then I shook my head and body like a poodle in from
the rain. Up the road was an all-night diner. I dug my hands
back into my pockets, bent my head, and began to cross to the
other side. A car skidded to a stop in front of me. There was
no splash, no sounding of the horn, no swearing from an irate
driver. I halted when someone flashed on a light.
"Police," I thought to myself, and stood there, the glare
full on my face. I was blinded, and I knew I must have looked
silly, with water running down me on all sides, down my
neck, under my shirt, into my socks. It's the most carefree
feeling in the world if the rain is warm.
The man behind the wheel rolled down the car window to
see me better. I stared into the flashlight and I think I smiled
a bit. "Take a good look," I thought. "I haven't done anything—yet!" After a moment the flash went out, the window
was rolled up, and the car vanished. I crossed to the diner,
shook myself at the door, entered, and sat on a stool.
"Coffee!" I said.
"Nice night for ducks," the man behind the counter said.
He was tall and gaunt, in his early forties: his long-jawed face
was broken into a thousand premature wrinkles. They were
especially thick around his deep-set eyes.
"Coffee!" I repeated.
I caught my hair in a scalp-lock and squeezed it like a mop
to keep the rainwater from dripping into my coffee. Then I
squeezed my collar and cuffs because rivulets of water were
flooding the counter. The counterman looked on. The coffee
felt good to my throat, like a hot egg-nog spiked with old rum.
But it was making mc too drowsy, so I put down a coin.