Читать книгу The Collector of Bodies - Diane Glancy - Страница 10

The attaché walked me through the Damascus marketplace to a man—a dyer of cloth—who printed his patterns on cloth by hand—buy one before he dies—the attaché said—before you leave this country for the next. The man’s shop was in an alley off the marketplace—there was an open door—the walls were something like adobe—there was a floor also of hard packed earth—dust—dirt—everywhere his jars, brushes, printing blocks, benches, tables barely standing—everywhere the blue the Syrian’s love—the blue of their glassware—the blue of their desire. He sat wrapped in a tunic like the magician—the maker of patterns on cloth—something was said—he smiled—his discolored hands lifted to me blue and definite as words I could understand.