412
CAIRO TO DAMASCUS
I had learned that a friendly consular official in Damascus
was scheduled to leave for Beirut, the capital of Lebanon, the
next day. He was indebted to me for a favor. I bundled together my precious notes, my photographic files, and all my
incriminating papers such as my press card from the Jewish
Agency. I went through my pockets. Leaping into a taxi I
took the packet to my friend with the plea that he leave it for
me with friends in Beirut. Then I went to Stefan's house
where I found him about to take a nap. "I'm leaving for
Beirut immediately," I said. "Write me in care of the American Embassy when you come, and we'll have a good time
together."
My house was clean. My work was done in Damascus. I
could leave immediately for Lebanon, and duck Dr. Imam's
call. Or I could keep my appointment with him. I decided on
the latter course.
Promptly at five my telephone rang: "Mr. Marmarian, Dr.
Imam is here."
"Send him up. . . . And bring us some iced lemonade."
Dr. Imam was dressed in an immaculate white summer suit.
"Mit ahlen wa sahlen, Herr Doktor. Welcome a hundred
times," I said in my best Arabic-German manner. "Sit down,
please."
"How much longer are you going to stay in Damascus?" he
began.
"Oh, another week. I've just had my permit extended. Why
do you ask?"
"I have heard good reports about you from members of the
Arabic Club, but actually I know nothing about you. Whenever you see me you are in a hurry to leave. You ask many
questions but you do not talk about yourself. I have checked
at the airport here and in Beirut, and they had no record of
your arrivals or departures."
"I never travel by plane. I always take buses, railroads, or
taxis."
"We have lost faith in European journalists," Dr. Imam