Mazen tried and failed to ignore his stomach’s grumbling as he trailed behind Layla. The appetizing smells made him remember that he had not eaten since iftar and that the morning meal had consisted of nothing but olives and hummus. He was doing his best to not think about how empty his stomach was when, without warning, Layla pulled him toward a stall stacked high with pans of apricot leather.
The thick paste had been rolled into varying sizes. One of the men behind the stall was stacking these rolls and delivering them to customers while the other carefully cut the leather sheets into more edible strips. Layla pushed her way through the long line to the front, where she waved down the seller. Mazen marveled at the familiar way they bantered, leaning close and speaking in low voices as if exchanging illicit gossip. At the end of the conversation, Layla came away with a single roll of apricot leather, which she handed to Mazen.
“It’s no meal, but it should at least stop the grumbling for a bit.” When Mazen gave her a curious look, she looked away and said, “I delivered a message for the stall owner. He owed me a favor for it. I decided to take it in the form of dessert.”
Mazen smiled. “You didn’t have to waste that favor on me. Shukran.”
Layla simply shrugged and resumed walking. Mazen hurried after her. “So, you are a messenger, then?” He tore off a piece of the leather and bit into it. It was startlingly sweet, and pleasant to chew.
Layla nodded as they veered into a souk alley. “That’s right. And you? Which quarter do you work in?” The question seemed nonchalant, but Mazen had spoken with enough crafty nobles to recognize a quest for information.
A story began to unfold in his head. A story for Yousef. “I work as a scribe for a high-ranking nobleman.” He smiled sheepishly. “I’m afraid I cannot offer more details about the correspondences. That information is confidential.”
Layla angled her head. “And what is a scribe doing in the souk, looking for a storyteller?”
Mazen stuffed another piece of the dessert into his mouth, swallowed, and said, “Is it so strange for a man to seek out entertainment beyond his occupation?”
Or freedom beyond the walls of his home? He bit down on the words.
Layla’s lips quirked. “Of course not. I’ve just never known a grown man to seek out a storyteller in his free time.”
Mazen laughed. “And until I met you, I’d never made the acquaintance of someone who would jump headfirst into a dark building to investigate a stranger.”
At first, Mazen thought it was a trick of the light, but no, Layla actually did blush at his words. When she next spoke, it was in a mumble. “You’re lucky I did investigate.”
“I am. I will forever be grateful for it.”
“Careful, Yousef.” She grinned. “Forever is a long time to be beholden to someone.”
She stopped suddenly and gestured ahead. Mazen ate the last of the leather as he took in the sight before them. Finally, they had arrived at Old Rhuba’s golden-tarped stall, which was open for business. The space was humble and austere, nothing but a simple rug stretched beneath an eye-catching cloth canopy. Old Rhuba sat cross-legged on the carpet with an elaborate cane resting across his knees. Mazen had met the storyteller only once before, but he immediately recognized that there were new carvings on the instrument. The observation filled him with awe, as he knew each mark constituted a new story Old Rhuba had added to his repertoire of tales.
Though the cane was remarkable, the storyteller was even more so; he was the only merchant in the souk with such unique eyes: one the shade of oak and the other the hue of golden sand. His face was like crinkled parchment, and he had an impressive silver-white beard that bunched at his lap. Though it was impossible to see his lips beneath the beard, Mazen could tell he was smiling by the wrinkles at the edges of his eyes.
“Why, if it isn’t Layla! And I have seen your face before, ya sayyid, but I am afraid you never offered your name.”
Mazen was surprised—and pleased—he’d been remembered. He couldn’t help his smile. “Yousef. It is a pleasure to see you again.”
“Likewise, Yousef.” The old man turned his attention to Layla. “And you, Layla. Would you deliver a message to Dahlia for me? Tell her I accept her invitation to perform tomorrow evening.”
Layla smiled. Not the crooked grin she’d flashed earlier, but a bright smile that made her eyes sparkle. “Of course. It’s always an honor to have you with us.”
Mazen blinked. “Will you be telling a special story?”