The Moses Stone Read Free Page B

souk , the clatter of the metalworkers’ hammers a constant counterpoint to the hum of conversation, of buyers haggling with traders, and the occasional shouts as voices were raised in excitement or anger.
    And, as usual, it was full of both people and cats.
    The first time Margaret had visited the medina and souk , she’d been appalled at the sheer number of feral cats they’d seen. But her concern was allayed almost immediately when she realized how healthy they looked and saw the first of several feeding areas, where noticeably well-fed cats and kittens lolled about, and where plates of food were left out for the market’s feline residents. She presumed that the traders welcomed their presence because they would ensure that the number of rats and mice were kept under control, though the look of some of the larger cats sleeping in the sun suggested it had been quite a long time since they’d had to hunt for their own dinners.
    The sheer range of products and skills on offer in the souk was, as always, amazing. They passed stalls selling black metal lanterns; blue and green glass bottles that could be made to order; leather goods, including chairs; exquisite boxes fashioned from cedar; shoes; clothes hanging on racks and poles that extended out into the narrow streets, forcing passersby to duck and weave their way around them; clocks; spices sold from open sacks; carpets; blankets, and silver trinkets. Margaret always stopped at one particular stall and watched, fascinated, as sheets of silver were hammered flat and then cut, shaped, molded and soldered to form teapots, bowls and utensils.
    And everywhere she looked there were food stalls, selling everything from sandwiches to lamb cooked in traditional Moroccan tajines, the peculiarly shaped earthenware pots that look something like inverted funnels. The first time they had walked through the souk , Margaret had wanted to try some of the local “fast food,” but Ralph had cautioned her against it.
    “Just look at the condition of those stalls,” he’d said. “A British health inspector would have a fit if he saw them. These people have no idea about hygiene.”
    Margaret had been tempted to point out that everybody they’d seen looked notably healthy on their diet of local food, prepared without the “benefit” of flavorings, colorings, preservatives and all the other assorted chemical compounds that seemed increasingly essential in the British diet, but bit her lip. So they had, predictably enough, eaten every meal in their hotel since they’d arrived in the city. Ralph had even been suspicious of some of the dishes served in the hotel dining room, but they had to eat somewhere, and it seemed to him to be the safest option.
    Taking pictures in the souk hadn’t proved to be quite as easy as Margaret had expected, because most of the traders and shoppers appeared very reluctant to be photographed, even by a tourist. And, obviously, what she had been hoping to capture on her pocket-sized Olympus were the people there—they were what she wanted to remember.
    When yet another tall Moroccan swerved away from her as she raised the camera, she muttered in irritation. “Oh, for God’s sake.”
    Margaret lowered the Olympus and held it at chest height, partially concealed by her handbag. She’d altered the length of the bag’s strap, looped it over her shoulder and was holding it against her body with her left hand because they were in an area where pickpockets were known to operate. She would take a scatter-gun approach to her photographic mission, she decided, and just click the shutter as they walked through the souk, not bothering to aim the camera properly. That was one advantage of digital photography—the memory card was big enough to hold well over a hundred pictures. She’d be able to delete those that were no good when she got back home to Kent, and she had a spare data card with her if she filled up the one in the camera.
    “OK, Ralph,” Margaret