Syria 1982 or 1882 ? (3)

2.3 Damascus Syria (1st Night) Part 2

Aymen looked too innocent to be my guide on my devilish endeavour; I thought. Yet, the smile that appeared on his little white face as he closely listened to the instructions from his "boss" made me realize that his childhood purity has been long robbed by the sheer facts of life under penury.
Aymen, acting as a tough man, tapped me on my thigh and said "let us go; you are going to meet Salma."
Following Aymen's lead through the back allies of old Damascus proved to be harder than I imagined. My head swirled as I tried to catch a glimpse of every street seller or traditional workshop. The sound caused by those along with the hundreds of people swarming these dirty allies on foot, bicycles and scooters made me feel like a child who is looking out from the window of a moving high speed train. "Aymen... slow down." I powerlessly protested. Nonetheless, it seemed that Aymen was more anxious than I to reach the whore house.
From a dirty dark alley to another we hurriedly moved passing by street beggars, street sellers, coffee shops and workshops. It seemed that every Soviet, French or Syrian product was sold on those streets.
Fear started to take hold of me as my excitement started to wear off. Spinning out of control, my imagination started to create a bad scenario after another. My heart sank between my ribs and I felt an urgent need to urinate as ideas of entrapment, kidnapping, robbery and murder flooded my young mind. "It’s surely a trap...they will rob me or even kill me..." I thought.
“Hey Mister” Aymen’s voice snapped me out of my amnesia-like status. “Come along....hurry” he firmly commanded as he he enetered a blue gated building that had a hotel sign fixed to its front.
We climbed a staircase after another, we walked through an endless maze of hallways that seemed to connect these old building together. Years of neglect have turned these buildings into a true health hazard. Suddenly, my little guide stopped and proficiently knocked on a green old wooden door. When the door cracked open my heart pounded intensely whilst cold sweat seemed to soak my hair and the back of my neck. The old short hideous lady behind the door fully examined us with a piercing gaze. Instantaneously , she smiled and moved her hand in the taditional Arabic hand gesture; welcoming us in. Yelling, as we passed, “Get ready girls...we have a virgin bird in the house!” To this day I don’t know what sold me out. However, this toothless hag taught me that working girls pass as 1st class psychologists.