‘Américaines?’ The immigration official barely glanced at our passports and waved us on. Fezzed porters were swarming the deck, a troop of them fell to haggling over our luggage, in the end each seized a part of our belongings and bumped us down the gang-plank. ‘We’ve got exactly twenty-two minutes to pass the customs and make that train!’ Beatrice warned over her shoulder.
We landed in such a raucous rabble of porters, hotel-scouts, guides, and beggars that we were obliged to fight our way into the building. After rounding up our baggage we hung around in an agonized sweat while the officials made their leisurely examination. With nine minutes left us we tumbled into a lop-sided victoria and simply tore to the station, and as the train pulled out the last of our bags was thrown through the window.
Battered, exhausted, we sank back, too relieved to care much whether or not we had all our luggage. ‘Was your virginity worth it?’ grinned Beatrice, pulling off her beret to mop her brow.
There was plenty of room on the benches, but most of the passengers preferred the aisle. They sat in tight knots, smoking and conversing, – magnificent bronzed creatures swathed all in white; from the stench of oranges and tobacco they must have been there for hours. The occupants of the benches were, for the most part, types less distinctive and striking. Their brilliantly coloured robes opened upon embroidered vests, their headgear was the fez or the turban, and most of them affected Paris garters and Continental shoes. A time was to come when I would be able to tell by the tassel of a man’s fez or the coils of his turban his city as well as his trade or profession; now, however, it was evident only that our bench companions were town Arabs, from which we concluded that the others must be bedouins.
For quite a while we followed the shore-line, making prodigious stops at villages constituted, so far as we could see, of names made up entirely of consonants and of white, block-like stations. Camels in caravan, camels yoked to ploughs, camels pasturing, or turning ancient waterwheels, cactus hedges, olive trees, vineyards, orange orchards, and almond groves. After we left the sea we journeyed for hours over a vast plateau featureless of any growth save cactus and stubble, and enlivened only occasionally by a flock of earth-coloured sheep or a cluster of black tents.
We fell to discussing what our procedure would be upon our arrival. First of all we must locate the cheapest hotel in town. ‘Do you mind bed-bugs?’ said Beatrice. I did, horribly, but I told her I guessed I could get used to them. She laughed and said I’d probably have to. Then we must avoid guides. They would besiege us upon our arrival, but we would have none of them. Guides were stupid and costly; we were not tourists, we were here to work, and we’d see what there was to see during the course of a whole winter.
Just before the train pulls into Kairouan you are given a flash of it, a momentary glimpse of a dead-white city within battlemented ramparts. My heart was pounding as we approached the station. True to her prediction, we hardly set foot off the train when the guides accosted and strove to attach themselves to us, but in the face of every grace and stratagem we stoutly maintained that we had no need of them. Scores of urchins clamoured to carry our luggage, for a few sous we engaged a couple of them, and with the heaviest bags on their heads, we set out to find an hotel.
There was not a wide range of choice. The Hôtel Splendide was naturally out, the small Hôtel de la Gare, which appeared to be a roistering hang-out for soldiers, was crowded, much to my relief; we had no alternative but to register at another hotel. Madame the patronne emerged from her cups to show us our rooms, which were light and spacious enough, if not over clean. Then Beatrice asked the price. Madame, not too drunk to have sized us up for Americans, named one that would have been exorbitant for a whole suite at the Splendide. We had prepared ourselves for the usual contest. This, however, lengthened to a siege. At last Madame, with a gesture of accepting defeat, came down five francs apiece, and left us faced with the appalling fact that our living would cost us each a dollar a day. But since, for the time being anyway, there was nothing to do about it, we started forth to see the town.
The French quarter was negligible – pseudo-Moorish buildings on broad streets lined with stuffy palms and eucalyptus trees. Beyond the crenellated walls was the real Kairouan. A gate like a massive key-hole admitted us to the main street. It was broad at first and shaded by pepper trees, the deep fringe of which hung so low that camels in passing bit off garlands to munch along the way. On either side the mysterious life of the shops and coffee-houses flowed on, as ignorant of us as if we had walked invisible. We mingled with the traffic and, like chips in a stream, were carried along we knew not where. Donkey drivers cleared their way with incessant ‘Burra! Burra! Burra!’ from around a curve, or suddenly from behind a camel loomed upon us, loping along with an inexorable tread that stepped aside for neither man nor beast, a pack of shaggy goats scampered, bleating and bolting in and out of doorways, to the frenzy of the goatherd. Majestic Arabs swept by conversing with ringing voices and wide gestures, uncouth bundles of black or white drapery – veiled women, as we lived – brushed us, their bright slippers clip-clapping on the cobbles, and I could have sworn that one of them nudged me. There were women without veils, bedouin women who might have been struck from copper. They moved through the crowd like goddesses, their loose blue robes revealing now and then a breast or a lean thigh. Small girls with large babies on their backs simply flew past, clutching their headshawls and boys with school-bags contrived to walk arms around. A sound from another world – an imperious honk-honk-honk – announced a relic of the goggles-and-duster era packed with hilarious youths who had the air of enjoying that mode of conveyance for the first time in their lives. We had no sooner taken to the road again when a two-wheeled cart, as fantastic as a Czechoslovakian toy, loaded with turnips and pulled by a perfect giant of a camel, drove us once more to the curb. The street swung through the town like an S – at times it was broad, the shops set well in from the street, then it narrowed to a lane, and the very curb served as doorsteps. A sudden turn brought us into the heart of the town. I couldn’t rid myself of the impression that we had come upon it at a time of carnival. The din, the swarm, the shifting colours of robes and turbans made it hard to believe that this was an everyday street scene. Here the shop-fronts were crowded with booths, and on the high counters turbaned vendors sat cross-legged fanning the flies from their wares, their cries jangling with the shouts of pedlars who strode through the streets bearing upon their heads trays of glistening cakes or loaves of bread. The fruit and vegetable stands, too, suggested fair day; it was as if a prize was to be awarded the most conspicuous display, but I couldn’t take my eyes from the hideous little meat-stalls. On hooks above each block hung a frieze of staring sheeps’ skulls. Scraps of gold leaf adorned the meat, the very fat of which was carved in naïve arabesques, and the piles of cloven hoofs and entrails could hardly be seen for the flies. Cats, grown enormous on butchers’ offal, lurked about or slept on the sagging roofs, and the sight of them, combined with the unholy stench and the sickening hum of the flies, made me feel a little faint. The sun beat down upon our bare heads. ‘God, let’s get out of this!’ Beatrice exclaimed. Casting about for an escape we spied an arched portal through which people were passing in and out. We dived through the door into a cool, shadowy arcade. Light sifted through apertures in the beams overhead and open shops occupied niches in the walls. Each cubicle was exactly like the next in its display of saddles, reins, and other accoutrements fashioned of dyed leather heavily embroidered; the stone step, on a level with the floor, was the customer’s seat. Within the dim recesses the shopkeepers lounged at ease over their coffees, or sat on pleated legs busily stitching, conversing the while with competitors across the aisle. The street ended at right-angles to a similar passage, the street of the slipper-makers. The walls of these shops were bright with slippers of cherry red and canary yellow. The workers sat on low stools, noses fastened to their work-blocks, industriously stitching, fitting, pounding, clippng, measuring, a
nd cutting like a bevy of gnomes with hearts set on shoeing the entire populace before sundown. One passage merged with another, crossed by still others, and if the footing had been precarious on the highway it was doubly so in the bazaars, where the passage of a diminutive donkey was a tight squeeze for pedestrians. From the street of the slipper-makers we drifted into the dignified street of the drapers, on through the street of the tailors, the balmy street of the perfumers, the street of the weavers, the dingy street of the smiths, the street of the carpet merchants, where bedlam in the guise of an auction rushed furiously up and down. We were wandering around in a futile attempt to retrace our steps when we hit upon an arcade that ended in sunlight.
Series of houses with grilled windows and doorways of sculptured stone fronted the quiet road, in which a tangle of lanes converged. With an idea of getting back on the main street we threw in our luck with one of them until it ended abruptly against the ramparts. The December sun was lowering when we came out of the honeycomb at the far gate of the city. The throng, pouring through the great arch, had gathered density and noise until, in the market-place just beyond, commotion had its climax. The jutting ramparts formed an amphi theatre that was swarming and buzzing with multitudes of bedouins, through whose midst strode camels in stately procession; sheep and goats were homeward bound from pasture, and for at least every other man there was a donkey; while seated on the ground, in danger of sudden death from every direction, were sand-diviners, beggars, public letter-writers, vendors, as well as bedouins in spirited tête-à-tête. The city wall was faced with rows of miscellaneous shops, booths, and coffee-houses, and separate chains of shops extended the entire length of the common. On the north side, deep within the shade of pepper trees, were the fragrant huts of the basket-weavers. The doorways opposite were festooned with earthenware and green and yellow pottery. We found seats on a bench under the trees, and a grisled old man in a pink turban appeared with a bouquet of long-stemmed tin cups. ‘Kaweh?’ he smiled, making as if to drink out of his fist. We assented rapturously, dying for coffee, never dreaming it could be had so simply.
The trees were alive with birds, the vast place swam in golden light and the white city, its turrets and clustered domes washed in rose, seemed about as palpable as a vision of the celestial city. It was good to be apart like this, quietly drinking our coffees. I realized with some surprise that we had landed only that morning, the boat, the trip, even the hotel, seemed a little as if I had dreamed them. It occurred to me that I was tired, stuffed, surfeited with impressions; even as I sat there watching the movement I wasn’t relaxed. My eyes weren’t big enough, I hadn’t enough ears to take it all in, the things I couldn’t understand tormented me, and while I strained for more, more, I craved a respite from my excited senses. I was about to announce that I was going back to the hotel when the beat of a tom-tom pulled us into the very midst of the market-place, where a circle was rapidly forming. The attraction was apparently contained in a hide sack which the performer, a cross-eyed wight with a head like a snake’s nest, was opening with a killing pretence of caution. As he danced, and he never stopped dancing, his whole body swayed as if it had been simply thrown together. Now and then he would glide over to the bag, give a pluck to the strings, whereupon the little boys in front squirmed closer together. The bag yawned as the string fell away; the audience started chanting. Now the clown redoubled his capers, thrusting out his skirts shrilling ‘Aiyah! Aiyah!’ The snake slithered out in his own good time, erected a yard or two of his neck and raised his hood. ‘Wah! Wah! Wah!’ screamed the charmer retreating, then advancing, diving to scratch the serpent’s chin, always shooing his skirts. The snake, his tongue flicking, wavered like a branch, as fascinated as ourselves in the demented dance of the charmer who suddenly grabbed up a tambourine and gambolled right over to us, shaking it suggestively. We each dropped in a franc, in addition to which four or five sous were tossed into the drum and, the snake having sneaked back into his sack, some of the crowd moved off. We turned to go, but the performer was before us convulsively swaying, exhorting us with eyes and arms upraised. Everybody was grinning. ‘He says,’ the Arab next to us explained in French, ‘that good luck will follow you if you double the amount.’
‘We’ll have to do with two francs’ worth!’ laughed Beatrice. The Arab obliged us by making a reply that caused the charmer to smile and pat his chest and say ‘Merci!’ Our informant moved away with us. ‘Il’y a quelques personnes,’ he pursued, ‘qui disent que le serpent n’est pas dangereux,’ and, with that, he told us a little story. A tourist, an American he believed, who stood right here watching this same charmer, announced, through his guide, that it was all la blague. The charmer, taking his life in his hands, showed him the venom-tooth, but the tourist carried on so that someone went for a chicken. The performance began all over again and, just as the snake was nosing out of the sack, the chicken was thrown down. The serpent lunged, the chicken teetered, flapped his wings, started to walk away, and fell over, dead. Monsieur le Tourist picked up the fowl, parted the plumage, and when he saw that the skin was brown – like chocolate – he gave the charmer five francs.
The pith and the amusing pungency with which the little anecdote was told excited our interest in the teller, and we accepted his invitation to drink coffee. With a halting gait he escorted us to the bench under the pepper trees. He seemed very well known about town. ‘Hie Baba Courage!’ several voices hailed him; the basket-weavers, as we passed, looked up from their work to salute him, and the old man in the pink turban laid his hand on his shoulder, addressing him as ‘Boyh Courage’.
The face of our companion inspired anything but confidence. The chances are, in fact, that no Barbary pirate ever looked more like one! The swarthy complexion, the glowering thatch of black brow over his little bear eyes, the pendulous lips, and the baleful black moustache waxed at the tips – without scimitar or ear-hoops he was complete! His hooded cloak, which he wore à la toga, was dark maroon, the robe beneath it of black and mustard stripes. When he smiled his whole face opened, and what teeth he had were broken black stubs.
We both put him down as a guide, for he spoke French exceedingly well – or so we thought – and the things he told us of ‘la ville sainte’ seemed obviously calculated to induce us to engage him. I had an uneasy feeling that Beatrice already regretted that we had accepted his invitation to coffee. And yet it was impossible not to enjoy him. From time to time, as she listened, her eyes lit up at some piquant turn of expression, for his speech had a flavour – altogether racy and droll – that Beatrice, of all persons, could not fail to appreciate. He knew that we were American, he said, the moment he saw us. He seemed to sense, too, that Beatrice was a painter, for he told her of the friends he had made among sojourning artists. He had found them suitable lodgings, had secured models for them, in their purchases had protected them from trickery, had been to them, by his own account, guide, guard, and valet – sometimes even their chef. Here at last was an avowal. But then he went on to say: ‘Artists are not tourists. The painter comes to work. He has no money for guides – even if he needed them. All he asks is a place to work. A piece of bread, a cup of coffee, a cigarette, and so long as he can work, what need has he of more?’ Beatrice’s eyes had narrowed. ‘Then you are not a – a guide?’ I stammered.
‘No,’ he said with solemn emphasis. ‘I am not a guide.’ He clapped his hands for the cafetier, ‘but formerly I was a guide, the best in Kairouan,’ and, as if to prove it, he pulled out a handsome Swiss watch engraved with a testimony of appreciation and esteem. ‘“Kalipha ben Kassem” – that’s me.’ I was on the point of asking why it was that he was no longer a guide, but something prevented me.
The sun had long set. Voices that seemed to have come from the sky had called the city to prayer. The market-place was almost empty, shops were shut for the night, and only the doorway of an occasional coffee-house gleamed through the dark. The cafetier shuffled towards us. Beatrice was for paying the bill, but our c
ompanion would have none of it. ‘You are both very tired,’ he smiled. ‘Tawah nimshoo fluti, which is to say, now we will return to the hotel.’ He made us repeat it after him, again and again, until, by the time he took leave of us on the steps of the hotel, we had mastered our first lesson in Arabic.
CHAPTER 3
Kalipha ben Kassem, Called ‘Courage’
DEAD SET AS WE WERE against guides, we had no intention of cultivating the acquaintance of Kalipha ben Kassem. But we did not reckon upon his perseverance! We could not take a step without him. He seemed actually to lie in wait for us. Sometimes he ‘happened’ upon us just as were leaving the hotel, at other times he came hurrying toward us from the French café near the gate, occasionally we had gone some distance up the main street before ‘Mademoiselles! Mademoiselles!’ he would come limping up on his club foot. Once or twice we pretended that we didn’t hear him. It was of no use the entire populace were in league with him. ‘Papa Courage is calling you’, a dozen informants impeded our escape.
Among the Faithful Page 2
