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.
There ensued, while we all sipped our coffee, an elaborate interchange of greetings and interminable inquiries concerning their respective households. In Arab business transactions the idea is to avoid brass tacks for as long as possible; we were never quite sure when they got down to them. Beatrice and I sat helplessly by as the leisurely conversation unrolled above us. Kalipha with oily smiles and tempered gestures was doing most of the talking, Tahar’s face taking on not the slightest expression from which we could gauge the driftof the colloquy. Strain as we would for a familiar word, we could make nothing of this impenetrable thicket of gutturals. We were on our second round of coffees when Kalipha shiningly announced to us that the price had been agreed upon. One hundred francs, each, would cover our rooms, as well as our dinner, which was to be sent up from the restaurant each evening in covered casseroles. Room and board for four dollars a month was something like it! But now, what about clean sheets regularly, a table for me, lamps instead of candles, washstands , equipped with bowl and pitcher, a few hooks, and for each of us a towel? ‘Be patient,’ soothed Kalipha, ‘we have not finished.’ The thicket closed again and while the morning wore on Kalipha expounded our case. It seemed as if he must be apologizing for our fastidious requirements. (The regular clients, after all, have need of no more than a bed.) We caught the words Amerique , and bahee yessir , ‘very delicate’. His gestures had become brief, attenuated, as if he were describing a pair of bijoux. But from neither Kalipha’s unctuous affability nor Tahar’s courteous attendance, his occasional bland comment, could we judge how far we had progressed, or if, indeed, we had progressed at all! From the full stops now, during which the two smoked thoughtfully, we sensed a deadlock. Kalipha’s fez, which sometimes served as a sort of index to baffling situations, sat dispirited on the back of his head. Then he was speaking again and my jaded ears pricked up at the familiar sounds Adan, kief-kief bellaraby , ‘exactly like a Moslem’. Tahar was looking at me, his eyes kind with interest, Kalipha like a proud parent about to show off the precocity of an offspring. ‘Come now,’ he chirruped, ‘the Adan , and mind the long pause after Akbar .’ Beatrice revived and regarded me with humour. She had never heard my Adan and I felt very foolish. ‘Go on,’ she encouraged, ‘we
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.
There ensued, while we all sipped our coffee, an elaborate interchange of greetings and interminable inquiries concerning their respective households. In Arab business transactions the idea is to avoid brass tacks for as long as possible; we were never quite sure when they got down to them. Beatrice and I sat helplessly by as the leisurely conversation unrolled above us. Kalipha with oily smiles and tempered gestures was doing most of the talking, Tahar’s face taking on not the slightest expression from which we could gauge the driftof the colloquy. Strain as we would for a familiar word, we could make nothing of this impenetrable thicket of gutturals. We were on our second round of coffees when Kalipha shiningly announced to us that the price had been agreed upon. One hundred francs, each, would cover our rooms, as well as our dinner, which was to be sent up from the restaurant each evening in covered casseroles. Room and board for four dollars a month was something like it! But now, what about clean sheets regularly, a table for me, lamps instead of candles, washstands , equipped with bowl and pitcher, a few hooks, and for each of us a towel? ‘Be patient,’ soothed Kalipha, ‘we have not finished.’ The thicket closed again and while the morning wore on Kalipha expounded our case. It seemed as if he must be apologizing for our fastidious requirements. (The regular clients, after all, have need of no more than a bed.) We caught the words Amerique , and bahee yessir , ‘very delicate’. His gestures had become brief, attenuated, as if he were describing a pair of bijoux. But from neither Kalipha’s unctuous affability nor Tahar’s courteous attendance, his occasional bland comment, could we judge how far we had progressed, or if, indeed, we had progressed at all! From the full stops now, during which the two smoked thoughtfully, we sensed a deadlock. Kalipha’s fez, which sometimes served as a sort of index to baffling situations, sat dispirited on the back of his head. Then he was speaking again and my jaded ears pricked up at the familiar sounds Adan, kief-kief bellaraby , ‘exactly like a Moslem’. Tahar was looking at me, his eyes kind with interest, Kalipha like a proud parent about to show off the precocity of an offspring. ‘Come now,’ he chirruped, ‘the Adan , and mind the long pause after Akbar .’ Beatrice revived and regarded me with humour. She had never heard my Adan and I felt very foolish. ‘Go on,’ she encouraged, ‘we
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