Date: Sat, 14 Feb 2004 22:48:40 +0000 (GMT)
From: Alex Douglas <alex_d0uglas@yahoo.co.uk>
Subject: Sins and Lovers Part One

This story is mostly true with all names changed to protect the
innocent, and some incidents altered to protect the guilty. You know
who you are... ;)

"Robert", this one's for you, wherever you are.

Alex

Copyright (c)2002 Alex D

Sins and Lovers

Bad start to a day: wake up call at 5:45am. I bashed my head on the top
bunk as I got up and, trying to be quiet, blundered out the door of the
dorm into the reception area, head spinning from the copious quantities
of alcohol I'd consumed the previous night. It was silent: no one was
there except for the night receptionist, who was fast asleep at the
desk, drooling over her doodle-covered notepad. I shook her awake and
one look at my face, illuminated by a harsh fluorescent light above,
was enough to startle her into consciousness . "Looking lush, Alex" she
laughed , wandering off.

I slumped into the seat and immediately my eyes began to close. The
small, cavern-like room was still, the grotty sofas that were the
meeting and hanging out place for people from all over the world looked
abandoned and forlorn. Even the ashtrays were empty. There was a
surreal quality to the place, though that might have had something to
do with my blurred vision or the newly-hideous lemon paint on the
walls. The owner of the hostel wouldn't be getting up for another
couple of hours. Most of the guys I'd been out with the night before
were unlikely to get up for another couple of days. Hopefully there
would be no over-eager sightseers getting up early today to disturb me.
They always irritated me, those people: frantic creatures surrounded by
maps, leaflets and clutching their Lonely Planets, who were taking
three days to "do" Jerusalem before moving on to god knows where.
"Jesus, relax, take it in" I would mutter as I would check another
batch of them in, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. (Them, not me). Then I
would relax and get back into the true culture of Jerusalem for the
hostel inhabitant: roll another joint, crack open another beer, sit back
and soak it all up, all the sights and sounds of daily life in this
most amazing, mad, beautiful ancient city. The Lonely Planet "list"
could wait. The noise outside was already starting, muffled as it was
by the thick walls of the hostel. People getting their shops ready for
another day, deliveries being made, the call to prayer ringing out over
those narrow bustling streets of the Old City. Sighing with pleasure, I
fell asleep.

It took a hefty shaking to wake me up again. Disorientated, I looked at
my watch and groaned. 7am! I looked up. The guy was just standing
there, arms folded, with a sarcastic twist to his expression. He was
tall, lean, well built. Very well fitting jeans emphasised his hard
thighs and decent looking packet. I caught myself looking and blushed.
A weighty backpack was propped up against the wall, looked like he had
the kitchen sink in there. I rubbed my eyes.

"Can I get a bed sometime this week?" he asked, voice dripping with
sarcasm. It took a minute for my brain to follow my body and wake up.

"Uh...private or dorm?" I stammered, seized by a jaw-breaking yawn.

He sighed theatrically. "I don't give a shit. As long as it's
comfortable and cheap and somewhere I can get a goddamn night's sleep."


Arsehole, I thought privately as I got out the registration book. "Dorm
it is then" I said, scanning the page for spaces in the "Moron's
Gallery" where the reception workers would put anyone they didn't like.
There was a free bed and I was pleased. I took his passport. His name
was Robert Gomez: he was 28 and he was American. The passport photo was
truly hideous. He must have been about 18 when it was taken, grinning
cheesily with  train track braces shining and, even better, a mullet
haircut, permed at the back. I smothered a laugh and slipped it into
the passport drawer, which I locked. He had obviously noticed my mirth
because he was blushing furiously and looking even more angry.

"This way" I indicated and set off up the narrow winding staircase. We
emerged on the roof. I shivered and realised I had forgotten to change
my stained t-shirt from the night before. Oh well. The Moron's Gallery
was just to the left, a newly built room housing 8 people. It was
quiet, clean and, more importantly, far from other people. I showed him
to his bed and he climbed in immediately without another word. I went
back to reception to get a better look at the passport. It was a hobby
of mine, reading other people's private documents that they had left at
reception for safe storage. Even letters that arrived for people I
knew. I was becoming shameless, a creature without any moral fibre. I
had another laugh at the photo before leafing through the passport to
see where he'd been. He had flown into Cairo about two weeks previously
and had crossed the border into Eilat two days ago. I wondered how long
he was going to stay. Replacing his passport, I lost interest and my
mind began to wander idly. I glanced at my watch and realised that the
restaurant downstairs would be just be opening. Ringing down my usual
order of hummus, chips and salad, I flicked on the video and put my
feet up. I enjoyed my "work", but sometimes it was so hard!!

*	*	*

By the time my shift finished at 2.30pm, I was absolutely dog tired. It
had been a rotten morning. Jens, a lumbering Dutch giant who had been
there so long he was considered part of the furniture, had staggered in
just as I was about to eat my breakfast, pissed on the sofa and barely
made it to his bed before throwing up on the floor and collapsing in a
heap, flies still undone and cock hanging out. The hostel owner had
gone ballistic at the state of the place (and me) so I had to drag out
the mop and bucket and unwillingly try to clean up. Thankfully, the old
cleaning lady came in before I had to tackle the puke. She was cackling
to herself as she mopped, stealing glances at Jens's...well, giant. I
could hardly stop looking at it myself and after deciding it would be
too cruel to take a photo, I threw a blanket over him.

One arduous task left before I could relax: laundry.

Stepping out onto those smooth old stones, I smelt the aroma of felafel
cooking. It was always the same, going outside into the ever moving
traffic of people and carts (and the occasional donkey): that feeling
of sinking into some kind of mad river. I loved it. Fighting my way
through hanging clothes and into the main market street that separated
the Old City's Christian and Muslim quarters, I listened to the chatter
and the noise as I was pushed and shoved by old women carrying
impossible loads. The nut seller standing in his usual spot. Souvenir
shops crammed with everything from life-size baby Jesuses to Dead Sea
salts, spice shops, bric a brac shops. My favourite place was a sheesha
cafe up near Damascus Gate where you could just sit, smoke and watch
the world go by. But that day I was in no mood for anything. I just
wanted to get my clothes and fall asleep. Humming tunelessly to a
wailing Arab pop song blaring out from a nearby spice shop, I turned
off the main street and headed down a winding side street, head down.

Sitting on a small foldaway stool by the side of the narrow street,
illuminated by a shaft of light filtering through the canopies and
clothes lines above, was a red-haired girl, surrounded by giggling,
boisterous children. There was a sketch pad on her lap which was
obviously the focus of their attention. Her small round glasses
reflected the sun at me for a second and I was left with dancing sparks
before my eyes as I stopped in my tracks. The children were scrambling
over each other to see what she was drawing, laughing and pointing.
Being a nosey sort, I couldn't help but go over myself. An old woman
had fallen asleep on a spread out rug, beside what were likely her
front door steps. Her grey hair was peeking out from under her
headscarf in fine wisps, her mouth open revealing mostly gums. The
small pile of vegetables she was selling was still intact beside her. I
looked down at the girl's sketch book and saw the woman completely
reflected in it, grey, like an old photograph. It was the most
incredible drawing I'd ever seen. "That is fantastic" I told the
serious-looking artist, open-mouthed. Without looking up, she grinned
and began to sketch the background in more detail, capturing the
weathered splendour of the carving surrounding the door, the texture of
the stone, filling in more shadow. Finally she put down her pencil and
looked up. "There's so much beauty in this city" she said, smiling a
warm, sunny smile, folding her glasses away. She wasn't beautiful
herself by any means, with her too-thin body and big nose, but there
was something about her, her soft southern Irish accent ... I felt like
Michael Corleone in the Godfather when he met Apollonia. The
thunderbolt had struck.

We chatted for a bit about the city, our travels, our hostels...I had
almost convinced her to come and stay at mine when she suddenly looked
beyond me, waved and shouted. As she stood up, the children dispersed,
chattering loudly. Looking round, I saw she was beckoning some kind of
Adonis, six foot and towering over me. He was beautifully tanned and
well muscled yet bordering on the crusty traveller. There was evidence
of a goatee and he definitely had a on a Bob Marley t-shirt. Even an
ankle bracelet. I was disgusted. She hugged him and kissed him, and I
was crushed. Obviously they hadn't seen each other in a long time.

"Oh Darren!!!" she was squealing as he whirled her round.  Not knowing
whether to stay or slink off unnoticed, I was still weighing up the
pros and cons of the situation when she began to introduce me to her
flawed god.

"This is Darren!" she gushed, patting him on his tremendous pecs.
"We...met in India. Darren, this is..." There was an uncomfortable
pause. "Alex" I muttered, holding out my hand. He pumped my arm up and
down, nearly wrenching it from its socket. I winced. "Pleased to meet
ya!" he bellowed, abruptly turning his attention to...whatever her name
was. It was obvious that they had a lot to talk about so I slid off,
collected my clothes went back to the hostel and without speaking to
anybody I flopped out on top of my sleeping bag, exhausted and pissed
off.

*	*	*

A few days later, I had a day off. I had lost all track of time by then,
and also all courage needed to go chasing the girl I fancied. The other
guys in my dorm were going that day to visit Yad Vashem, the Holocaust
museum. I had been already, and passed on a second visit, still feeling
traumatised from the first. There was a photograph there that had
chilled me to the bone, a black and white, blurred image of a woman
clutching a child, standing windswept on the edge of a vast pit of
bodies as a German soldier prepared to fire. I had stared at it until I
couldn't see it any more, feeling helpless and despairing of the
ugliness of human nature.

It was a sunny day so I decided to grab a takeaway felafel and head up
to the roof with a few beers and the book I'd started reading on the
plane which I rarely had time for. I found a nice spot behind the
washing lines. Casim, the owner of the hostel, kept a mattress there
for emergencies. Whatever that meant. Maybe for one of the painted
tarts he pulled when he went to...wherever. I hauled it out and flopped
down, idly gazing round at the chaotic rooftops of the Old City that
sprung up haphazardly around us. If I stood on my tiptoes, I knew I
could be able to see the golden dome of the Al-Aqsa mosque. Another
nearby historical site I hadn't yet bothered to go and see. Once I'd
guzzled my "picnic" and smoked a joint (or two)I began to get sleepy,
the wind warm in my face. After reading only one page I put the book
over my head and closed my eyes. My dreams were sadly not filled with
the face of my beautiful artist: I dreamt of washing my clothes in a
bucket, naked in the street while passers by stared and laughed.

I woke up shortly after with the odd feeling of being watched. Removing
the book from my face, I sat up. Robert was there, lying on his side on
a rug opposite me. He was staring unashamedly, and didn't look away
when I caught his eye. He smiled lazily, and I began to wonder if I had
felafel sauce on my chin or something.

"You look cute when you're asleep" he said, winking. "Which seems to
be...most of the time?"

I slid on my sunglasses. "You have the knack of catching me at bad
times" I said haughtily. The compliment was wasted on me, stoned as I
was.

"What kind of an accent is that?" he asked, the grin getting wider. I
bristled and lifted my book, hoping to signal an end to any further
attempts at conversation.

"Whatever, man" he said eventually and rolled onto his back, using his
bag as a pillow. Spreading his newspaper out over his stomach and lap,
he began to read, moving his outstretched leg idly from side to side. I
took the opportunity to sneak another look at him through my
sunglasses.

Sleek, dark hair swept back in a ponytail. The hint of stubble. White
t-shirt, plain khaki shorts, sandals. I reminded myself he hadn't had
time to become a crusty just yet although the hair showed potential. My
gaze travelled up his leg. The tan began to fade as thigh met shorts.
There was no distinct line, just a graduation from very brown to...He
shifted position again and I caught a distinct glimpse something
tantalisingly shadowy nestling against his upper thigh. I couldn't take
my eyes off him, waiting for him to move again so I could see it again.
It formed a very nice bulge in his shorts, certainly. My cock started
to swell and I was surprised at my body's reaction. I flipped myself casually onto my
stomach in case he noticed I was pitching a tent. Still pretending to
read, I continued to stare and was rewarded when he sat up to fold his
paper away. He took a swig from his can of mango juice and lay down on
his back again, feet on the ground, knees bent in the air. Again I saw
what I was looking for, nestling against his thigh in the darkness of
the cover of his shorts, but it wasn't a great view. Still, I couldn't
stop looking. By this stage my cock was beating a tattoo against the
hard, scratchy mattress and I wiggled, only making my predicament
worse.

Before long, I was desperate for a wank and began hoping that Robert
would get up and go. I put my head down, frustrated and unable to
believe that I had become so aroused just by looking up a man's shorts.
He just had the most amazing thighs. But he lay there, oblivious. Soon
though, it was obvious that he had fallen asleep, judging by the soft
snores. I leapt up at the opportunity, covering my obvious excitement
with my book and dashing over to the toilets. I was almost whimpering
as I dropped the book and rapidly choked my spunk out all over the
toilet seat (who says men can aim), seeing stars in the process.

Robert was still lying there when I sneaked past him. He had crossed his
legs, and was looking incredibly chaste. His mouth was slightly open
and I tried to imagine what it would be like to taste him, to lie with
my head on his belly, listening to his body gurgle. I rubbed the scars
on my wrists reflectively, a habit I was no longer trying to break. No
one asked about them, no one stared. I'd thrown away the daft looking
wristbands I used to cover them with. I had found a place where I was
truly happy and accepted, and I meant to enjoy it for as long as I
could.

Reception was warm and buzzing with new arrivals. I could smell the
harshness of Noblesse cigarette smoke stinging the back of my throat.
Helping myself to coffee, I sat down, lit up and started chatting to
whoever would listen, thinking "this is the life. Isn't this just the
fucking life."

*	*	*

A few days later, I found myself a new job. It was quite by chance.
Bored of the hostel's dismal restaurant, I headed up towards the Jaffa
Gate  in search of something different. I longed for a bacon buttie,
although there was little chance of finding one. Shopkeepers were
beginning to acknowledge me as I passed , and I was happy. I felt like
I would never leave this amazing place, I was so in love with every
crack on the paving stones, every tacky souvenir. I 'd been planning to
grab a tub of hummus and some pitta bread and go sit beside the Citadel
to eat but a new restaurant caught my eye and I decided to go in. It
was like a cave inside, small and cramped with about seven tables in
total, arching ceilings painted white and red patterned Turkish carpets
on the walls. There was the obligatory portrait of Yasser Arafat so I
went and sat beside it. A few other travellers were sitting around,
conspicuous in their "backpacker uniform". I could spot the ones who'd
been to Dahab, in Sinai, because they had coloured weaves in their
hair. Probably done by one of the swarms of Bedouin girls trying to
make a bit of money. I could hear strains of "Buffalo Soldier" but I
was in such a good mood I decided to stay anyway. The menu seemed to be
basic Arab cuisine, so I ordered hummus and pitta bread just to be
different and got out my book, determined to get beyond the first
chapter.

A few minutes later some kind of fight started in the kitchen and there
was the noise of smashing plates. And who should  storm out but Robert,
flinging a grotty looking apron behind him and shouting "Fuck you!" to
an angry looking Arab chef who I later discovered was the owner. "And
fuck you!!" The chef shouted all over the place, purple with fury, his
white hat slipping over one eye as he gesticulated wildly. Robert
turned in the doorway. "Fuck you!" he shouted again, jutting up a
middle finger, his dark eyes flashing. "And your mother! And your
sister! And your brother!!!" With that, he was gone. I thought the chef
was going to have a heart attack.  He was muttering to himself as he fished
out a hanky and began to mop his sweaty, purple face. I actually thought he was
going to drop dead right there, so I went over and asked if he was OK.

"He fuck me!" he moaned and wailed. "Tonight will be busy and no barman!
No waitress! It is all shit!" He took a minute to compose himself, then
looked up at me as if seeing me for the first time. "You!" he gasped. "
You have a job? You want to be barman?" I thought about it for a
nanosecond and shrugged. "Why not" I said. "What time do you want me?"

*	*	*

The restaurant was an utter madhouse but I loved every minute of it. It
was pretty much the only place where Arabs could socialise, so I got to
know the faces of the regulars quite quickly. I enjoyed chatting to the
waitresses, other travellers staying in other hostels and loving
Jerusalem just as much as I did. The waitresses weren't so fond of
George, the owner. He never missed an opportunity to grope them but
they gave as good as they got, pinching him when he was carrying
armfuls of hot food or on the phone to his wife, mocking his obvious
wig. I quickly settled into a routine, sleeping until about two
o'clock, eating and going to work at five. After work I'd often go out,
with the waitresses or George himself. He had a thing about poker, it
sounded like an opportunity to make serious money but there was
something sinister about thick, black eyebrows and ridiculously
enormous moustache that made me think owing him money(which would be
the inevitable consequence of my cack-handed poker playing) was not a
wise thing to do.

Back at the hostel, life continued on much as it had done, although our
little circle of long termers was starting to diminish. Sam, the Kiwi
guy who slept in the bunk above me, had finally gone to Egypt. Claire
and Tony were moving on to Eilat to try and get a job on the boats. Our
dorm now had empty beds and I was worried what freaks would get them
next now that I no longer had any control over who was put where.

Robert had taken my job at reception and was getting on famously with
the others. And I was beginning to warm to him. His personality, I
mean. I already knew his body was pretty hot. He had the most bizarre
sense of humour and he knew how to drink. Boy, did he know how to
drink! He fitted right in, one of the guys. And yet there was a part of
him that no one could reach. I used to ask "what brought you to
Jerusalem?" but he would just smile enigmatically and change the
subject. His family and home were also taboo subjects. Like most of us,
I figured, he was escaping from something. He was always talking about
one of his friends though, a college buddy called Tim. What they had
studied, he never said. Why he and Tim had fallen out was also never
mentioned. After days of unashamed prying, I was almost choking with
curiosity and resolved to worm it out of him one way or another.

"So this Tim guy. What's the crack there" I remarked subtly one day as
Robert and I made our way through the security barriers into Jewish
Quarter. We were heading in the direction of the Western wall. I had
partaken of some weed before leaving the hostel and was feeling
particularly mellow. Sitting watching the devout milling around in
their old-fashioned clothes, praying and bobbing in front of this holy
site was a favourite pastime of mine. We sat on a bench in the sun.
There was a chill in the air. Autumn was definitely in full swing ,
although thankfully it was still sunny.

"Tim. Hmmmm ." Robert's gaze drifted off into space. " We were
friends...then we weren't."

"Why?" I asked, thinking he was about to crack and finally divulge
something interesting.

He looked round, smiling that lazy smile. "My sexuality?"

It took a moment for my drug-addled brain to register what he was
saying. He was coming out to me. I felt kind of privileged even though
it was obviously no big deal for him. I mean, he'd obviously told this
Tim bloke who clearly had taken it badly. "Oh" I said, looking away. He
looked even cuter when he was being honest.

There was a silence but it was comfortable enough. Robert got up and
started taking some photos of the Wall and the large square around us.
I leaned back and stretched out, smiling like a cat that had the cream.
I was dreaming what he must look like naked. Even better, him and that
artist girl together, lying on a bed somewhere, ready to do my bidding.
I didn't realise I'd fallen asleep until Robert had to shake me out of
my stupor.

"Got a good one of you there" he laughed, tapping his camera. "Man, I've
never met anyone who can fall asleep the way you do!"

I shrugged, grinning. "I'm turning it into an art form"

He sat down beside me again. "So this is tell all stuff, is it" he
remarked. "You're quite the interrogator. And hey, I'm feeling a little
curious myself." I said nothing, wondering where this was going. " I
tell you, you tell me, right? How did you get those scars?"

My breath left my body for a second. I supposed I deserved it, with all
my brutal probings into his private life. I was just surprised. My
scars had become a kind of talisman that shielded me from such
questions, because people were always too embarrassed to ask. I could
flaunt them under the noses of my closest friends and family, and yet
no one had ever asked me why I had done it.

I thought for a minute, and the question hung in the air, getting louder
and louder in my mind. It became too much. I stood up suddenly. "I have
to go and get my washing" I said stupidly, thrusting my hands in my
pockets. I walked away quickly, hoping he couldn't see the tears that
stung my eyes.

That night, the lads from my dorm were heading up to the new city for a
session, but I pretended to be sick and went to bed early, glad to have
a bit of solitude for a change. My head was whirling with stuff I was
trying to forget.

"How did you get those scars?" Robert's question rang round in my head.

A bath full of blood, my mother's face shining with tears.

I slipped on my Walkman and turned up the music until I thought of
nothing.

*	*	*

It must have been the middle of the night when Robert woke me up. My
Walkman had gone dead. He reeked of beer.

"Come and see what I've got" he whispered loudly.

Instead of heading up to the roof, he took me into one of the private
rooms. Leaning against the wall was a huge wooden cross. It looked like
one of the ones the monks dragged along the Via Dolorosa every Friday.
Robert steadied himself against the wall, laughing loudly. "I stole it
from the Church of the Holy Sepulchre!" he chuckled. "Gonna bring it
home as a souvenir!"

"You are nuts" I said finally, smiling despite myself, imagining Robert
staggering through the dimly lit streets dragging a stolen cross and
giggling like a naughty schoolboy.

Robert was standing so close now I could feel him breathing. I could
almost taste the beer too. Goosebumps all over my skin... I'm thinking he's
drunk, he doesn't know what he's doing. And just because Robert was gay
didn't mean he fancied me, I reminded myself. He was obviously
plastered. I was about to make a move to the door when his arms snaked
round my waist.

"You're intriguing" he whispered in my ear. "I like a mystery." I was
rooted to the spot. His lips were right against the back of my neck. I
shivered involuntarily. "Robert..." I began.

He forced me to face him, putting a finger to my lips. "Shh" he
whispered, stroking my cheek. I didn't know where to look. I felt my
face begin to burn as I looked into his bloodshot eyes. Slowly he
leaned forward and then we were kissing, and it felt like the most
natural thing in the world. My hands slid under his t-shirt and ran
over the smooth skin of his muscular back. No guilty feelings. No
regrets.

He broke the kiss, breathing heavily. "Sleep with me tonight" he said.

Embarrassed, I looked away. "I've never slept with a man before" I
eventually stammered, my cheeks burning. What if I was crap in bed? I
wanted to flee, to turn back the clock and go out with the lads so all
this could have been avoided. Things were getting way too complicated
too quickly. One minute I was listening to Pulp on my Walkman, the next
I was thinking about the logistics of gay sex. I wasn't precisely sure
of what I wanted. My head was whirling with doubt when he laughed and
sat down on the bed. He patted the mattress and smiled, that slow smile
that was driving me so crazy. "Don't worry" he said, winking. "Just
sleep here. With me. Please."

Gingerly, I sat down beside him. "OK" I said, in a small voice. I lay
down, facing the wall and  after turning off the light and locking the
door, he got in behind me. We made spoons in the bed, his arms around
me, his breathing in my ear. He had a boner, I could feel it pressing
against me. I was too terrified to make a move and yet hoping something
would happen, but he fell asleep pretty quickly, his arm draped over
me. The hairs on his thighs tickled the back of mine. I lay there
staring into the darkness, grinning until I thought my  face would
crack. The room smelt of damp, old sneakers and beer, the blankets were
itchy.

Even today, six years later, it is one of my most vivid memories.

*	*	*

My sickness coincided with the assassination of Yitzhak Rabin a few days
later. I remember very little about it all, feverish and delirious as I
was. They must have moved me into one of the private rooms, for when I
came round after a couple of days of burning and vomiting, I was back
in the bed Robert and I had shared. The cross was gone and the room was
bare except for a bucket beside my bed. I was ravenous but too ill to
eat. The reflection in the cracked mirror against the dismally-painted
green walls was of a greasy-haired apparition that had crawled straight
out of a grave. In fact I noticed a distinct similarity between my own
complexion and that of the walls. I looked down at the grotty carpet,
wondering if it tasted as bad as my tongue. Wrapping an itchy blanket
around me and coughing, I staggered into the reception area to see who
was about.

And of course, there she was, the artist, sitting on a sofa, eyes fixed
on the TV. Cringing, I was about to sneak back into the room when Jens
bellowed from behind the reception desk "Alex!! Welcome back into the
land of the living, man! Want me to ring down for some food?"

My stomach lurched and growled at the same time. "Not yet, thanks" I
said, my head light as I went over to sit on the free sofa. It was the
one Jens had pissed on but I didn't care. "Where is everyone?" I said.

"It's the funeral today" he replied. "They've all gone out to see if
they can see anything."

"Whose funeral?" I asked.

The girl looked at me, amazement written all over her face. "Where have
you been?" she asked, though there was a laugh in her voice.

"Don't ask!" Jens laughed, shuffling his newspaper. "It's been like the
Exorcist in here, man! He thought I was his mother a couple of times.
Isn't that right, baby!! Lucky Robert was so happy to help, you know
that guy is a saint."

"Yeah, thanks for that mate" I replied sarcastically, turning my
attention to the TV. A coffin, draped in the Israeli flag, surrounded
by important-looking people. I spotted Bill Clinton wearing a skull cap
and said innocently, "I didn't know Clinton was Jewish."

Jens began to laugh, banging his fist on the table as tears sprang to
his eyes. " You are too funny, man!" he cried, shaking his head. The
artist girl was also laughing. Sadly I conceded, as my eyes began to
stream again, that it was going to be impossible to salvage any dignity
from this situation.

When she had composed herself, she cleared her throat and tried to look
serious. She  looked me up and down and said, "I take it you've been
out of action."

"Whose bloody funeral is it?" I croaked, irritated and feeling
picked-on.

"Yitzhak Rabin's" she replied. "It's a tragic thing. Even the
Palestinians seem sorry about it. I expected them to be dancing in the
streets."

"I think Rabin was best of a bad lot for them" Jens said.

"What happened to him?" I asked.

"He was assassinated. Shot by some right-winger."

"Oh" I nodded as if all had become clear. I realised how much time I had
spent stoned and oblivious to world events. My stomach growled again as
my eyes drifted over the TV screen, not really seeing anything, finally
resting on the girl. She looked so beautiful in the long hippy-style
dress she was wearing. She even suited the sandals, her perfect toes
painted a deep purple to match the dress. Being awake was exhausting
me. I was in no condition to make pleasant conversation, but I felt
compelled to do so. While I was thinking about what to say, my eyelids
started to droop and before I knew it, I was asleep again.

When I woke up, she was gone.

*	*	*

It took a few more days to feel like myself again. Jens was cursing me,
he had caught whatever it was I'd had and was lying in bed with his
head in a bucket. I had seen enough puke to last me a lifetime, but I
dutifully fetched and carried for him as he had done for me. When I
went back to work, I found that George had given my job to someone
else. Casim was pleased. He despised George and his family for "giving
away their birthright" "I thought George's family were Christians" I
protested, my mind a muddle. "They are Israelian citizens" he sneered.
That didn't clear anything up. Having been brought up to avoid
political discussions, I didn't press the issue. He ignored me and
showed me his ID card which stated his nationality as Jordanian. "To
them, Palestine doesn't exist" he spat, looking at the card with a
disgusted look. I gave up thinking about the messy politics of Israel,
Palestine, whatever it was. I changed my term for it depending on who I
spoke to. How similar it was to home, yet so much more complicated!
"You work here, again" he said, smiling broadly, patting the dusty
reception desk, so I didn't argue.

I finally discovered the identity of my artist girl: her name was
Suzanne, from Limerick. She hung about quite a bit at reception, when
she wasn't out painting or sketching. I suddenly became obsessed with
personal hygiene, spending at least half an hour in the shower every
day hoping to erase from her mind the image of me staggering off my
sick bed looking green and disgusting. We were getting on really well,
and I was happy. She filled me in on the Darren story, giggling as she
remembered it.

"I was staying in this grotty old place in Varanasi" she told me one
night down in the restaurant, a beer in her hand. " I was sitting at
5am waiting to go for a boat ride down the Ganges, you know, to watch
the sunrise. Anyway he joined me, it was the first time I'd met him,
and I thought my luck was in. I mean, he IS gorgeous! So we went off,
did the boat ride, and the next thing you know he's hanging over the
side of this wee rowing boat, puking his guts out into the holy river!
The boat man was disgusted. I went off him after that, when he started
telling me all about his diahorrea and moaning about how disgusting
India was. I mean" she was becoming more animated, and I was
mesmerised, "it's a poor place. Some people have literally nothing. And
they do hassle you for money and all. He just wouldn't stop
complaining. I hate people like that, when they expect a place to be
just like home. He's away now to Egypt. God help them there!"

"I totally agree" I said, swigging from my beer. "You should see some of
the people I've checked in. They find out there's a communal bathroom
and they're like "gross!" What do they expect for 12 shekels a night?"

She laughed. "I'm glad I moved here" she said. "The other place I was
staying in was full of weirdoes. There was this bloke who went around
in big robes, like Jesus, quoting out of the bible and all. English
bloke. Total nutter. You wonder what gets into these people."

"The Jerusalem syndrome" I said. "There's a loony bin full of them
somewhere around. People arrive and they're so overwhelmed with the
place they start thinking they're Jesus."

She laughed again, and my heart pounded blissfully. She was great
company, full of interesting stories. Her tales of India really brought
the place alive, the squalor, the splendour, the colours, the smells.
She showed me her sketches of the erotic Nepalese temple in Varanasi,
the Taj Mahal in Agra, the Viceroy's palace in Shimla. Mostly she
sketched people. Just ordinary people doing everyday things. Boys
playing cricket on the steps of the ghats. A rickshaw driver in a Delhi
street. A policeman sleeping in the shade of the fierce Indian sun.
They were amazing.

"I'm going to Jordan soon, I'm not sure exactly when," she said, and my
heart sank.

"How long for?" I asked. I had got used to the intransigent nature of
the friendships I had made over the months: very intense but fleeting.
People moved on all the time, and I knew in my heart of hearts I too
would have to find the right time to leave. I just hoped she would stay
a while more.

"Just a week." I breathed a sigh of relief. She continued: "I hope to
stay in Jerusalem for at least another month or more. There's just so
much to do and see, I feel I haven't even scratched the surface."

"I know the feeling" I mused. "I still haven't seen the Dome of the
Rock, even though I've been here months and it's only round the
corner."

There was a comfortable silence as we listened to the chatter and the
music. I wondered if I should ask her out on a date or something. Up
until then, my romantic encounters had been limited to a drunken shag
with a heavily pierced German girl who thankfully had moved on weeks
before. I bitterly regretted losing my virginity on such an occasion,
but then again, I had been off my rocker on some nasty gin. And I had
to admit she had done some great things with her tongue stud. Then
there was the snog with Robert. Nothing had happened since then. He had
been strange with me after that and I noticed he was drinking a lot.
Every night, someone had to help him to bed. No one knew where he went,
just that wherever it was, he went there alone.

Before I could speak, she leaned in closer. "You're cute" she said,
smiling. The beer's getting to her, I thought, but I was excited.
"Shame you're, well, unavailable. I suppose most cute guys are."

"Cute guys are what?" I didn't like the way she'd said unavailable.

"Well..." her face was beginning to glow. "Gay, I suppose."

I spluttered into my beer. "What gave you that idea?" I asked,
dumbfounded.

She looked confused. "Well, everyone said so."

My head was spinning. "Everyone?" I repeated dumbly.

"Well, just Robert" she admitted. "He said you two were...well, you
know."

"I'm going to kill him" I said, suddenly defensive. "That's bullshit.
What exactly did he say?"

"When you were sick, he told me he couldn't wait for you to get better
so he could ask you to share a room with him."

I took a deep breath. No more lies, I told myself. "Well, to tell you
the honest to god truth" I began, but the words were drying my mouth. I
took another gulp of beer before I forced myself to continue. "I do
like Robert. And yes, in that way. But I like you too, very much, when
I saw you the first time when you were sketching that old woman I just
thought you were...well, beautiful. I guess you could say
I'm..." Say it, say it. "Bisexual" I finished, feeling as
if I had just extracted my own liver.

There they were, the first truthful words I had ever really uttered
about myself to anyone. My soul laid bare for her. I held my breath,
sure she was going to back right off. I wouldn't have blamed her. She
thought for a minute and leaned forward. "As long as you let me watch
sometime," she whispered, winking wickedly, and it was then that I knew
I was in love.

That night Jens was on the night shift at reception, and he let us into
another of the private rooms. Robert was out again somewhere, so I
swore Jens to secrecy, ignored his none-too-subtle winking and giggling
and took Suzanne in there with me. It was a different room to the one
Robert and I had shared, just slightly less grotty. The bedsprings
squeaked and groaned as we sat down. My head was spinning slightly with
the beer. No performance anxiety this time, though I didn't know where
to start. I needn't have worried. Suzanne seized me and pushed me down
on the bed, straddling me as she pulled off my t-shirt. She kissed me
savagely, her hands everywhere. I was entirely at her mercy.

She pulled her dress over her head in one fluid movement and I marvelled
at the beauty of her body, although she looked like she could use a few
good meals. Someone was in the room next door, listening to music. I
willed them to turn it up so they wouldn't hear anything nasty but they
did not heed my psychic messages. All thoughts of being quiet deserted
me when Suzanne's lips started travelling south, enveloping my cock in
her mouth. I squawked when she burrowed her fingers up my arse, never
believing it would feel so amazing. "Think what a big cock would do"
she whispered, her breath hot. "I'd like to strap one on and fuck you
senseless."  She rode me silly, pinched me until I yelped and half an
hour of frantic activity later we lay together naked on the bed,
gasping and sweaty, and completely spent.

*	*	*

When I woke up, daylight was streaming in through the small window.
Suzanne had gone out. I was alone, and my body was glowing.

Glancing at my watch, I swore as I saw the time. Two hours late for
reception duties. Casim was going to kill me. No doubt he was waiting
there at reception, playing the put-upon martyr. Hurriedly, I pulled on
my clothes and rushed out only to stop in my tracks. Robert was there,
looking fresh and well-rested, and explaining to some new arrivals
about the procedure for booking a day-trip to a Palestinian refugee
camp. He saw me and waved.

When he had finished, I went over and sat down. "You must have had a
good night" he remarked, and his voice was cold.

"What do you mean" I asked, though it wasn't really a question. I looked
at my feet and was embarrassed to feel a blush spreading over my body.
I hoped he couldn't smell sex off me.

"You're a piece of shit" he whispered savagely, and I could see he was
close to tears. "Jens told me about you and that... that girl! Why were
you leading me on like that!"

I couldn't think of anything to say. My mouth opened and closed like a
goldfish's: my sex-induced high now was fading fast. People were
milling around and I did not want to have that conversation in public.
"I'll see you when you're finished here" I said, standing up slowly.
"We'll talk then."  My body was starting to ache from the previous
night's exertions and I was dying for a shower. Luckily, some Japanese
guys came into the room, looking to pay and check out. I took my chance
and fled.

The look in his eyes was breaking my heart.

*	*	*	*

I needed some peace, some time to think.

Once I was showered and clean, I rushed out, avoiding Robert's steely
gaze and feeling like an utter bastard. Even the streets of the Old
City could not cheer me up. I wandered aimlessly, feeling the chill in
the late autumn air, glad I was wearing my jeans. My meandering took me
to the entrance to the Dome of the Rock, and on impulse, I decided to
go in. Some girls were standing by the gate, putting on shapeless green
sacks so their legs would be covered. I'd heard they made you do that
to show respect, but the guards let me pass, unsacked. Obviously I
looked decent enough to visit one of Islam's most holy sites, although
I felt anything but decent inside. Confused and shitty yes, decent no.
The mosque stood in  a vast, peaceful square. It felt like I had just
been transported into another world. The vast golden dome glinted in
the patchy sunlight and I was momentarily awe-struck by the serenity of
the place. Of course, I had forgotten my camera. I went over to the
trees and sat on a small wall, taking it all in. This was where
Mohammed was meant to have ascended into heaven, although I felt like I
was about to go to hell. I felt like a little cartoon man with a
raincloud above his head. I took a deep breath and closed my eyes,
wondering what on earth I was going to do.

My ponderings were interrupted by a tap on the shoulder. A guard stood
over me, sternly. " You cannot pray here" he said, shaking his head. He
was cute, but this was hardly the time for that. "I wasn't praying" I
said, but I got up anyway and wandered off. Typical.

How was it possible to feel the same way about two people? Suzanne and I
were officially an "item" thanks to Jens and his big mouth. And I was
happy enough about that. Would I be happy if people thought that about
me and Robert? I knew the answer was no and I was ashamed. Maybe in an
ideal world... But I just hated the idea that I would be labelled in
some way, Alex the poof, the arse burglar, the pilot of the Bourneville
Boulevard. The thought sickened me.

And yet I could not help yearning for him.