Damascus: Jewel of the Orient
385
"A friend of her friends in Baghdad, and a friend of her
friends in America. Our comradeship extends around the
world."
Bayram Volga proved stubborn and suspicious, but I finally
persuaded him that I was trustworthy. He told me where she
lived. By nine o'clock that night I located an attractive twostory house surrounded by an iron fence. The street itself was
dark. I made sure the house was not watched, then rang the
bell. I rang again, and once again with no response. Had I
been sent on a wild-goose chase? Something in me told me not
to give up. I walked casually up the block toward the streetlight on the corner, then down again on the other side, lurking
in the shadows to kill the next half hour. Suddenly, I saw a
woman coming up the other side of the street. I moved deep
into the shadow of a doorway and watched her disappear into
the house. Ten minutes later I rang the bell again. This time
it was answered.
I faced a tall woman in her middle twenties, with ravishing
almond-shaped eyes and light skin, in a French dress with a
pronounced V-neck within which her plumpness was compressed arrestingly. Naturally wavy hair flowed down over her
shoulders. Somehow I visualized that the maidens in the
Arabian Nights must have looked somewhat like Victoria
Naasan.
"You are Victoria Naasan?" I said. "Bayram Volga and
Abdou have sent me."
"Come in please, quickly," she said, in excellent English.
It was strange to find myself alone with an attractive Moslem girl. This had never happened during all the months of
my stay in the Arab countries.
"You seem to be alone here?" I said.
"Yes. I live with a Russian family, but they are away in
Beirut now."
"In Cairo," I said, "I spoke with many who are working
hard." I mentioned Nabaoui, and the Communist newspaper
El Gamaheer.