Unlike the average Arab wife that seldom sets foot outside her own threshold, Eltifa had ample opportunities for matchmaking. Her blindness, of course, qualified her to be a musician. (For the life of us, Beatrice and I could see no logic in this statement, and Kalipha was obliged to explain that the sightless women of Kairouan are organized into little bands of minstrels that are hired on occasions of rejoicing in the hareems. It needs no special talent for singing to be an Alimeh, or professional singer. Any woman, so long as she is blind, is eligible, providing she can beg, borrow, or buy a drum and will set herself to learn the traditional songs. The orchestra to which Eltifa belonged was the foremost in Kairouan. They were so popular, indeed, by reason of the variety of their instruments and the extent of their repertory, that in festive seasons they could not fill their engagements and, even in dull times, they performed four nights out of seven.) ‘She did her best, my poor sister,’ Kalipha sighed. ‘But the perfidy of those that have a divorcée on their hands! According to the uncle of –’ he nodded significantly toward the court, ‘she was everything that was practical! With food she was a magician, she would keep the house clean like sand, our raiment she would wash and mend, she was an expert, too, at the loom and would earn for me, over and over again, the price I paid for her. Moreover she had the energy of a tigress and the disposition of an angel!’ He shook his head, laughing ruefully, ‘She is, instead, an infliction of destiny! But what can one do? The fate of every man is inscribed on his forehead; all is written, or, as we others say, mektoub!’
‘It is true,’ Mohammed agreed with a hearty sigh, ‘my father has no luck!’
During the evening the little boy was sent to invite his aunt and uncle to join us. Abdallah came first, bearing a tray of jiggling glasses and a small blue tea-pot. His face had the colour of a coffee bean, his eyes the brightness of jewels. Kalipha addressed him with evident respect and Fatma, after he had seated himself comfortably, set a fresh fire-pot before him. Mohammed returned with his hand on the arm of a large heavy woman, dressed like her sister-in-law, in jersey, vests, and trousers. Even before she reached the threshold she called us by name, greeting us with such heartiness, and laughing so at our exclamations of pleased surprise, that we were prepared to love Eltifa before we laid eyes on her. Her sightless face was fine and strong, full of gentleness and good humour. Still chuckling, she seated herself ponderously by the side of her little brown husband. I remarked upon the cheer and warmth that seemed to come in with her. Kalipha threw out his arms, ‘My sister illumines the room!’ It was easy to see that the whole family doted on her. Even Fatma took a place close beside her and, when we attempted to talk with her through Kalipha, she hid her smiling face in Eltifa’s soft shoulder.
Abdallah’s quiet hands moved among the tea things. Kalipha lit his kif-pipe and passed it to my friend. After a few puffs apiece they relapsed into dreamy silence. Beatrice, stretched full length upon the bed, her head pedestalled upon her hand, was completely relaxed. ‘What do you see?’ My question brought Kalipha back from Baghdad. ‘The walls are magnificent with blue faience. All that,’ he pointed to the crude beams above, ‘is cedarwood carved in scrolls and rosettes, as delicate as lace. The room has enlarged to a vast salon spread with prayer-rugs and silken cushions. Someone unseen is playing the lute.’
The tea was ready. Abdallah was filling the little glasses with the ruby fluid. Then from a paper cone he poured a few roasted chickpeas, or humsah, into each glass and handed it out with a ‘Saha!’ To thy refreshment! ‘Yatikasaha!’ And to thine! We acknowledged the courtesy from a deep content. Eltifa produced her distaff and while she led the yarn from the shining fleece, Mohammed and the women talked together. Abdallah, the calm, took an occasional pinch of snuff from a large coloured handkerchief; now and then, as he listened his face shone with animation and he added a remark that filled the little room with quiet mirth.
‘There is a story,’ said Kalipha, tipping the tumbler for the tea-soaked pellets at the bottom, ‘there is a story of humsah that has grown with Kairouan.’ He shook the little glass and failing to dislodge the peas, he broke up the fraternity with a finger, tipped the glass once more and crunched meditatively. We waited patiently, sipping the bitter-sweet infusion for which Abdallah was justly renowned. Kalipha wiped his mouth with his handkerchief, smoothed his moustaches, straightened his shoulders and began, ‘In former times there lived in this City a good man known by the name of Sidi Bohumsah.’ Kalipha’s face and gestures told the story as vividly as his tongue, so that Abdallah and the women who knew the tale, but no word of French, were able to follow it with as much relish as we. Hour after hour we listened, until Mohammed and Fatma slept in their places, and Abdallah and Eltifa finally took themselves off to bed. At one moment Kalipha was the canny wag who carried his whole fortune, a single humsah, under his tongue, the next moment he had puffed himself to a semblance of the sultan, and with equal ease and conviction so help me, he was Yesmeena, the sultan’s daughter!
The night was far gone by the time Bohumsah, on the strength of a mythical fortune, symbolized by the chick-pea, discarded his shabby gown for a robe of honour that glistened with thousands of tiny mirrors, and, having become possessed of vast estates, and ships, and merchandise, he married Yesmeena with whom he lived in joy and prosperity ‘until they were visited by the devastator of palaces and the replenisher of graves’.
CHAPTER 4
Difficulties and Adjustments
KALIPHA BECAME my constant companion in the days that followed. So ravenous was I for experience, and so indefatigable was he, that I had filled my note-books in no time. I read them over now with amusement. They were written in such excitement, voluminous surface accounts of marriage rites, camel battles, divorce courts, dancing dervishes, street and market scenes, fête days and parties! Beatrice seldom shared these experiences. Both Kalipha and I recognized her need to be left alone. It was a really gala occasion when she would join us of an evening.
Kalipha regarded me, therefore, as his especial protégée. We made the tour of his great family, all of whom hailed me as ‘Sherifa’, the name Eltifa had given me after I had become a frequent visitor of the household. I went regularly with the women to the baths, often Eltifa and her sister musicians took me along with them to celebrations in various parts of the town.
When Kalipha’s friends invited me ‘to honour their houses’, he resigned his charge to Mohammed who was still young enough to have access to the hareems. Paying calls was no duty for Mohammed. Our pidgin French had given the little boy a funny dexterity in expressing himself and he was exceedingly proud to fill his father’s shoes as my interpreter. He was a great favourite with the ladies wherever he went, enlivening their confinement like an animated courier on town events. Then, too, such visits, no matter how casual or unexpected, always meant food – sherbet, sweet cakes, or fruit-paste. Often, for want of such delicacies, the evening meal was brought forth in the great wooden bowl or kassar. I was sufficiently instructed in Arab etiquette, by this time, to know that we must never decline anything that is served. I was less sure, however, just how much we were expected to eat, and Mohammed’s appetite used to appal me. ‘Not so much!’ I would murmur as the hole in his side of the bowl enlarged and deepened. For the next few moments he would eat sedately as it were, from the end of his spoon, but the women never failed to route his restraint with such vociferous encouragement that my concern for their husbands’ supper often outweighed my own enjoyment.
Kalipha was not content that I should know only the manners and customs of his people, I must know the religion. My sincere interest in his form of worship led him to undertake my conversion. I had no wish to be a hypocrite. I tried my best to explain that, although I did want to know his Faith, I had no intention of embracing it. ‘Ah, my little one, how can you know this?’ he would expostulate. ‘You are by nature, a Moslem, whether you know it or not. Allah works what He willeth. In your ignorance, you think it a mere accident that you came to
this holy city. It is my belief, it was divinely ordained that you should come to Kairouan; it was ordained that we should meet so that, by my efforts, you can be numbered among the Faithful.’
The first thing he taught me, to this end, was the Call to Prayer, the Adan, that comprises the two grand principles of El-Islam. God is God, and Mohammed is His prophet! With what zeal and persistence he drilled me in that venerable chant! To recite the words was not enough, I had to practise – long after I was weary – until I could match the measure, the timbre, every last lingering cadence of the exhortation. His pride in my performance was inordinate. In the shops of his friends, in the homes of his relations, he would get me to give the Adan. It always evoked a burst of incredulous delight, Kalipha was vigorously commended, I congratulated and godspeeded upon my reformation. With what patience, too, he instructed me in his beliefs about djinns, both good and evil, about paradise, hell-fire, and the angels of death who would cause me to sit up in my fresh grave for the dread examination!
Sometimes he varied his instruction and taught me popular songs. They were love-sick plaints, for the most part, often, I surmise, a little lewd, sung to beautiful minor melodies. I, in turn, taught Kalipha, ‘Lavender’s blue, Dilly-dilly! Lavender’s green! When I’m a king, Dilly-dilly, you shall be queen! Who told you so, Dilly-dilly? Who told you so? ’Twas mine own heart, Dilly-dilly, that told me so!’ I tried out other tunes on him, but for rollicking rhyme and rhythm Dilly-dilly was the song for him! On our walks outside the ramparts in the early darkness he would march along bawling it at the top of his voice until it seemed that bedouins far out upon the plain must hear the noise with wonder.
I was spending very little time these days in the French town, but quite enough to be aware of its disapprobation. It was apparently a civic duty to warn us against the pariah, Kalipha ben Kassem. We ignored the hints and insinuations, but when it was seen that these didn’t take, we were forced to hear the story of Kalipha’s brother over and over again. ‘Perhaps you do not know that this companion of yours is the brother of an assassin?’ ‘Yes, we have heard so, Monsieur.’ This reply was always a surprise, making it somewhat awkward to proceed. When we asked why they would have us condemn the man for something his brother had done, the answer never varied, ‘But he is the brother of an assassin, quoi! It goes without saying that he, himself, is a dangerous character! It looks very bad for you young women to associate with him.’ That we continued to do so, did not ingratiate us with the French who decided that we were obviously no better than we should be.
The hotel, in the meantime, had become intolerable. We were paying far too much, the food was uncleanly, cockroaches came up from the kitchen, Beatrice’s room was overrun with mice that made nightly feasts of her sketches, on top of which she had bedbugs! In all fairness to my friend, inasmuch as it will be remembered that she had prepared me, it must be explained that, ordinarily, she didn’t mind bed-bugs. In fact her scale of living in Europe had more or less accustomed her to them. If it had been only bed-bugs! As it was, every day new disturbances made it more impossible for her to work and on the morning that she discovered her bed was infested, Beatrice took to the warpath.
Madame was horribly affronted, flatly refusing to believe that there were ‘beasts’ in a bed that had never been complained of before. She said she could sooner believe it of mine! To humour us, however, she sent the boy up to ‘look it over’. On several occasions, after particularly hot rows, the mattress disappeared, presumably for renovation. We were never quite clear what happened to it between the time it was carried off on Hadi’s head and sundown, when it was borne back again, but certain it was that, after each outing, the bugs thrived with new vigour. No satisfaction could be got from Madame; constant quarrels and complaints had driven her to drink and when she wasn’t ‘sick’, she was as elusive as a minnow. Beatrice, in angry despair, was on the point of leaving Kairouan.
Kalipha was all for moving us into the Arab town. The poor fellow was about crazy trying to stay my companion until he could find us other lodgings. But an apartment was not the answer. The expense of furnishing it, with even the necessities, would have left us nothing to live on. The alternative was an Arab hotel overlooking the great double gate that led to the market-place. This rheumy little joint, wedged among coffee-houses and open shops, did not exactly strike us as a place to run from vermin. Nevertheless it was, if it were to take Kalipha’s word for it. Bed-bugs, he insisted scornfully, were strictly French. He ‘guaranteed’ that there would be none in the Arab hotel. He had already started negotiations with his friend, Sidi Tahar, the patron who, we were told, had invited us to give his beds several nights’ trial that we might judge for ourselves. The least we could do, after that, was to inspect the place.
Its name, the Hôtel de Sfax, was a naive conceit. Strictly speaking, it was a caravanserai, patronized only by bedouins. Entering the street door, we climbed a narrow flight of stone stairs to a tiled, rather lofty corridor off which were seven whitewashed cells, each complete with an iron bed. Five of them were as dark and small as closets with only a transom for air, the end rooms were bigger and had windows that faced the tumultuous street. The front room was fairly spacious, in fact, and got a north light; the back one, which would be mine if we moved, overlooked a low white terrace, the roof of the coffee-house below.
In a last effort to convince the patronne of our so-called hotel that something had to be done, Beatrice made a collection of bed-bugs. She put all she caught in a saucer and one night she went down to supper ahead of time taking along her exhibit, prepared to have it out with Madame, drunk or sober. After waiting around the lobby for almost an hour – I having arrived in the meantime – she finally went in to eat. We were in the middle of the meal when, glancing towards the door, I was startled to see Madame, blowsy from her long binge, heading straight for our table. Crimson with fury, she trained her guns on Beatrice. We stared at each other, dumbfounded by this volley of noisy abuse. Suddenly the blank astonishment on my friend’s face faded and she resumed her dinner, her shoulders shaking with laughter. She had, unintentionally, left the bed-bugs on the reception desk! Unaware of the incident, I was mystified, as much by her mirth as by this unwarranted harangue. ‘I tell you, Mademoiselle, this woman is méchante.’ I was asked to figure, if I pleased, what arriving guests would have thought to find those beasts on the registry. Fortunately, she had discovered the villainy before the train arrived. But, mon dieu, was an honest woman forced to support such wickedness? No, she assured me, she was not! She would make out our bills in the morning.
‘You can make them out right now,’ said Beatrice with a broad smile. It was days since she had felt so good!
Never was a move accomplished with more expedition, nor with such satisfaction so far as Kalipha was concerned. His delight in Beatrice’s faux pas was shameless. He retailed it right and left. Everybody thought it hilariously funny. (For a joke on the French has a very special kick for the Arabs.) By the murky light of a candle-end our luggage was piled in the hall of the Hôtel de Sfax. ‘Lavender’s blue, Dilly-dilly! Lavender’s green!’ roared Kalipha superintending the proceedings. Ali, the door-keeper, the patron’s younger brother, shuffled about, his big brown face glistening. He was a perfectly huge fellow in a bulbous pink turban. ‘In Allah’s name, be welcome!’ he kept assuring us. There were no sheets to the beds, no towels, washbasins, lamps, not even a nail on which to hang anything, but we had Kalipha’s promise that all our wants would be supplied on the morrow. None of us had a care that night!
Fortunately for our need to celebrate, Eltifa was entertaining her sister musicians, and the double household was ablaze with light and revelry. The insistent beat of the tom-toms, the ululant songs had brought neighbour women running across the roofs, their kerchiefed heads formed a bright frieze all around the parapet. Whenever the music slackened, they encouraged the festivities below with the zaghareet, shrill cries that fluttered off into the night air like the signal summons
of the valkyrie. At 2 A.M. when we left, surfeited with tea, coffee, and fête cakes, worn out with the excitement of the drums, Eltifa’s party had just begun.
The next day we made the acquaintance of our patron. Kalipha had instilled in us a very warm feeling for Sidi Tahar. We didn’t entirely believe that he had been quite so inflamed when Kalipha described for him the filth of the hotel, or that he had vowed, should we consent to be his guests, he would move the Grand Mosque if it would add to our comfort. We were even sceptical as to whether he had really tendered us such flowery respects. Nevertheless, we felt warm towards him.
Besides the Hôtel de Sfax and the little restaurant beneath it, Sidi Tahar was proprietor of a similar hostelry near the entrance to the souks. His headquarters were here. He sat cross-legged upon a high counter in the room at the head of the stairs. Serene, composed, with thin fine features – the face of an aesthete – he looked anything but a man of business. He welcomed us mildly, with a scarcely perceptible smile, and ordered chairs and coffee. Kalipha, in the meantime, seated himself genially upon the counter. The contrast between these two was something of a shock. Sidi Tahar had the bony delicacy of a high priest or an Arab grandee; his white turban was perched on the back of his head, his long hands moved gracefully out from the folds of his immaculate garments. Beside this high-bred canine Kalipha was an alley mutt, and for one moment, it seemed a little wonderful to me that I had so overcome my repulsion as to be only aware of the goodness in that swarthy hirsute visage.
Among the Faithful Page 4
