forgot to say that we each need a chair.’
Kalipha had raised his hand like a baton, his mouth opened anticipatively . ‘ Allah akbar! ’ I began, self-consciously. ‘Wait!’ interrupted Kalipha, scowling. ‘Begin again! Louder, more clear! The voice of the muezzin , remember, must carry to the street. There is nothing in this chant, I believe, to make you ashamed! Hold your head up!’
‘Allah akbar! Ashed wullah elehheh ullala, ou ashed weneh Mohammed errusool Allah! Allah akba! Haya alla Salat! Haya alla falah! Al-lah Akbar! ’ I could see by his face that I had done Kalipha credit. Sidi Tahar was positively beaming. The first sibilant note had brought his half-brothers rather dazzled to the door. Kalipha, dull red with pleasure, was a study in righteous piety as their encomiums rained upon him. After that, all our wants were accorded us! We were even emboldened to ask for, and were graciously granted, the two chairs. Our business settled, more coffees were pressed upon us, Tahar gravely expressed through Kalipha, his hope that we would frequently honour his household, and a date was set for our first visit.
Beatrice was determined that we should waste no more than a day in getting settled. But we had yet to learn that nothing is so urgent to an Arab that it cannot be put off until tomorrow. The items we had asked for came piecemeal, with unconscionable waits between. The sheets, when they finally showed up, beautifully folded, bore the clearest evidence of having been slept on for weeks since last they were laundered. Ali, who was something of a dunce, finally admitted that they were pretty dirty, but, he was quick to assure us, they had come from the bed of the patron himself!
We had thought it would be such fun to have our dinner brought to us each evening like a surprise package. Kalipha’s memorable meal had given us a relish for Arab food, or so we thought until we took the covers from two dubious-looking messes. One was a soup with a strong taste of rancid oil, and even Beatrice, who wasn’t at all squeamish about food, baulked at the stew. Kalipha was on hand to see how we fared that first evening. He found us at my table eating oranges, the supper untouched beside us. He tasted each dish and, without a word, he threw them both in the slop-pail, and banged himself out of the room. We heard him raising an awful row in the restaurant below. He returned with Mohammed a few minutes later and laid out for us a full meal subtracted from their own supper. Cous-cous with camel meat, carrots and pumpkin, a cluster of dates which they had bought on the way, and chunks of Eltifa’s crusty brown bread, still warm from the baking. And so, Kalipha appointed himself our chef, as he had already installed himself our ‘cicerone, guide, guard, and historiographic squire’.
The Hôtel de Sfax had still other disadvantages, quite unforeseen. Beatrice’s north light proved an ever-changing dazzle caused by thereflection of the glare against the chalk-white mosque opposite. Also, her room was right on top of the clamour and din of the street. It was like trying to concentrate in a boiler factory, while I almost suffocated at night. Because of the terrace outside my window, Kalipha insisted that I keep my shutters locked until daybreak, it was weeks before he could bestir them to put me behind bars. But there could be no compromise with the broken lock on my door. Kalipha was dynamite till that was fixed. He would tolerate neither excuse nor delay, in a towering rage he threatened to sleep outside my door. The locksmith arrived with unheard of alacrity! In short, without Kalipha, who was our advocate with Sidi Tahar, who bulldozed Ali, who argued, fought, soft-soaped, lied and swore for us, living in the Hôtel de Sfax would not have been possible.
My faith in our friend received a bad jolt, however, the day I discovered a bed-bug. Sanguine specks on the sheets had aroused suspicions which I had allayed by calling to
Kalipha had raised his hand like a baton, his mouth opened anticipatively . ‘ Allah akbar! ’ I began, self-consciously. ‘Wait!’ interrupted Kalipha, scowling. ‘Begin again! Louder, more clear! The voice of the muezzin , remember, must carry to the street. There is nothing in this chant, I believe, to make you ashamed! Hold your head up!’
‘Allah akbar! Ashed wullah elehheh ullala, ou ashed weneh Mohammed errusool Allah! Allah akba! Haya alla Salat! Haya alla falah! Al-lah Akbar! ’ I could see by his face that I had done Kalipha credit. Sidi Tahar was positively beaming. The first sibilant note had brought his half-brothers rather dazzled to the door. Kalipha, dull red with pleasure, was a study in righteous piety as their encomiums rained upon him. After that, all our wants were accorded us! We were even emboldened to ask for, and were graciously granted, the two chairs. Our business settled, more coffees were pressed upon us, Tahar gravely expressed through Kalipha, his hope that we would frequently honour his household, and a date was set for our first visit.
Beatrice was determined that we should waste no more than a day in getting settled. But we had yet to learn that nothing is so urgent to an Arab that it cannot be put off until tomorrow. The items we had asked for came piecemeal, with unconscionable waits between. The sheets, when they finally showed up, beautifully folded, bore the clearest evidence of having been slept on for weeks since last they were laundered. Ali, who was something of a dunce, finally admitted that they were pretty dirty, but, he was quick to assure us, they had come from the bed of the patron himself!
We had thought it would be such fun to have our dinner brought to us each evening like a surprise package. Kalipha’s memorable meal had given us a relish for Arab food, or so we thought until we took the covers from two dubious-looking messes. One was a soup with a strong taste of rancid oil, and even Beatrice, who wasn’t at all squeamish about food, baulked at the stew. Kalipha was on hand to see how we fared that first evening. He found us at my table eating oranges, the supper untouched beside us. He tasted each dish and, without a word, he threw them both in the slop-pail, and banged himself out of the room. We heard him raising an awful row in the restaurant below. He returned with Mohammed a few minutes later and laid out for us a full meal subtracted from their own supper. Cous-cous with camel meat, carrots and pumpkin, a cluster of dates which they had bought on the way, and chunks of Eltifa’s crusty brown bread, still warm from the baking. And so, Kalipha appointed himself our chef, as he had already installed himself our ‘cicerone, guide, guard, and historiographic squire’.
The Hôtel de Sfax had still other disadvantages, quite unforeseen. Beatrice’s north light proved an ever-changing dazzle caused by thereflection of the glare against the chalk-white mosque opposite. Also, her room was right on top of the clamour and din of the street. It was like trying to concentrate in a boiler factory, while I almost suffocated at night. Because of the terrace outside my window, Kalipha insisted that I keep my shutters locked until daybreak, it was weeks before he could bestir them to put me behind bars. But there could be no compromise with the broken lock on my door. Kalipha was dynamite till that was fixed. He would tolerate neither excuse nor delay, in a towering rage he threatened to sleep outside my door. The locksmith arrived with unheard of alacrity! In short, without Kalipha, who was our advocate with Sidi Tahar, who bulldozed Ali, who argued, fought, soft-soaped, lied and swore for us, living in the Hôtel de Sfax would not have been possible.
My faith in our friend received a bad jolt, however, the day I discovered a bed-bug. Sanguine specks on the sheets had aroused suspicions which I had allayed by calling to
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