Rick could see only narrow alleys. If they were the streets Hassan meant, walking was the only possible means of transportation.
In the square where Hassan had halted were dozens of merchants, some with their wares in carts, others carrying them on their backs. A rug merchant approached and Hassan waved him off. "Come. El Mouski over there." He pointed to a narrow alleyway.
The boys followed, eyes taking in the sights, smells, and noises. Merchants hawked their wares with raucous cries, charcoal braziers smoked under assorted foodstuffs, and the air was redolent with the odors of food, people, and the accumulated living of many centuries.
In the alley were shops, closely packed, some little more than a doorway wide and others of quite respectable size. A few even had glass windows with displays. There were textiles, foodstuffs, tinned copper, brass, leather goods, inlaid work, rugs, shoes of strange designs, clothing, and a variety of antiques.
Hassan stopped before a cubicle crowded with interesting brassware and spoke in Arabic to a dark man with tiny spectacles. Rick thought he heard the name of Ali Moustafa. He waited while the merchant replied at length, with much waving of the hands as he outlined the path to the establishment.
"I know now," Hassan informed them. "We go."