I had already set up camp in the forest near the city of Cherchell, when, under the threat of a rainstorm, I walked to the city's bustling open market to purchase a broiled chicken and some vegetables for dinner. As is so often the case in the towns I've passed through these last two and one-half weeks, the crumbling concrete row houses and old colonial-styled lamp posts watched over every step I took. Plastered all over them were campaign posters bearing the stern gaze of this socialist country's white-haired "President-for-Life," Chadli. His dark eyes were of the kind that follow you everywhere.

A little further into the market, however, was a very different sort of face studying my approach. Set atop a grimy brown trenchcoat and nearly hidden in the recess of a seedy hotel's doorway, this face had a horrible scar across its left cheek and the coniving gaze of a hungry fox. To my dismay, that face came towards me in a cloud of cigarette smoke and asked me, in French, if I was from France.

It would have been nice to have quickly replied No! and moved on. But such curtness in a setting as rough as Algeria did not strike me as a wise move. Since I am so different looking and since foreigners, especially Americans, are so rare in the areas I travel, I am under constant scrutiny by the hordes of idle men and boys milling about every tea house and cafe. Though they never try to harm me, and they ask nothing of me other than information about America, the fact that there are so many hundreds of their hard eyes staring directly into my own is unnerving beyond description. Where my eyes look, their eyes look--as if my very thoughts are exposed for all to see.

So, I knew I could not allow my fear of the scar-faced stranger show. That might cause me to lose respect in the others' eyes. And, rightly or wrongly, I have always felt it is the respect the other males feel towards me that has been my best amulet against harm. Therefore, I took the time to not only talk to the stranger but to also accept his invitation of a steak dinner inside the hotel, whose manager he seemed to know quite well.

As the dinner's steak was embellished with still another steak and a couple of bottles of locally-grown wine, I allowed myself to relax considerably. I even chose not to let the fact that the man was drinking wine bother me very much, even though drinking alcohol is normally taboo for a Muslim. However, when the man pulled from his trenchcoat a fist-sized lump of dinar bills to pay for our dinner, I did find myself shifting uneasily in my seat. For where did a person as rough as him get such a large sum of money? Still, I allowed myself to fall under the spell of my insatiable curiosity, and I accepted his invitation to accompany him to what he assured me would be a very interesting "private club." Oh if I had only known...

The private club turned out to be a speakeasy at the end of innumerable, dusky, entwining alleyways. Once there, he tapped a code onto the grimy planks of the door, and only then were we allowed to enter. Inside, my nostrils were nearly overpowered by the stench of whisky and tobacco, as well as sweat and intrigue. Lit only by smokey oil lamps that were set on the ends of long wooden tables, the sunken pit-like room had a small army of shouting ruffians whose faces were dark with whiskers and dirt and the grease of broiled chicken. Just behind my rib cage I had a sinking feeling: I belonged in such a place about as much as a mouse does in a den of cobras.

Before I could grow any more disheartened, I was rousted from the doorway by a mob of drunken soldiers. They noisily annointed as their guest-of-honor. Obviously perturbed at the sudden appearance of the soldiers, Scarface angrily pushed his way to the other side of the room and sat gloomily onto the room's only empty chair. Even with all the haze in the room, his bitter gaze was as visible to me as the gold teeth of many of the soldiers who were jostling for my attention.

"Are you with that man?" asked a stern voice to my left. I turned toward the liquored voice and saw that the question had come from a sergeant who was built like a pit bull. The worried look in his bulging eyes left no doubt I was in some kind of exceptional trouble.

I replied that indeed I was with the scar-faced man, and he had treated me to dinner in just the past hour.

The sergeant seemed quite horrified and at once gripped my arm tightly, as his men seemingly formed a wall between me and the rest of the club's occupants.

"He is no good--a very bad person!" the sergeant cautioned. And then, in a lower voice, he added, "We have heard that maybe in the years before he has killed two or three people from other countries with light hair like you. You know--tourists!"

Death flashed before my eyes in the memory of the big wad of money, the jaggedness of the scar on the man's face, his enjoyment of the wine, his friendliness with the hotel staff, the way he always stared at me, the knife he'd used on his steak... So deeply buried in such a strange setting and amongst such different people, what chance did I stand?

The sergeant decided he and his men would help me. To help me escape, he and his men would work their way, in a friendly manner, to the other side of the room and block the killer's view. Once that happened, I was to bolt for the door and quickly dash out into the night.

When the time came, I did as they instructed. At the door I paused just long enough to make sure the killer hadn't been able to see me escape. It apeared he hadn't. I dashed out the door, into a driving rain that tore at me like thousands of unseen icy claws.

I had a feeling the killer would quickly sense what the soldiers were up to. Surely his knife's blade would be at my throat in no time. Soaked and frightened by all the ghostly images leaping at me with each explosion of lightning, I eventually ducked into a cold and dimly-lit tea house. As always, the men inside crowded around my seated figure. Soon after, in the brillance of a lightning flash, I saw the killer's scarred face thrust its furious eyes through the doorway. A sharp crack! rumbled through the heavens, as if some giant's spine had been savegely snapped. I dug my nails into the table, my heart pounded. I was certain he would spy my pale face amongst the bodies of the crowd around me.

Fortunately he didn't. And, eventually, I found inside myself enough courage to push on through the rain and the darkness to my campsite. I fully expected to meet my foe once more. But, of course, I never did.

Thank God.

Steven