mind his vehement ‘guarantee’. Then I found that bug on the counterpane. I impinged it on a needle and showed it reproachfully to Kalipha. He shrugged his shoulders. ‘But you find them everywhere!’ he protested. Even Beatrice, considering her past attitude, was mighty complacent. ‘Why, it stands to reason these beds are alive with bugs,’ she said quite casually. So we let it go at that.
But, for all its shortcomings, we had found our place in Kairouan. Although she never admitted it, Beatrice was accustoming herself to the infernal racket. She found it no longer necessary to forage the crowded streets, she could sketch from her windows, or from the broad terrace that hung just above the heads of the throng.
At 7.30 each morning Salah, the kindly cafetier from across the street, brought us coffee. Beatrice and I seldom saw each other till evening, when she came into my room for dinner. (My room – since I had the table.) Shortly after the muezzins ’ call, the door was knocked and either Kalipha or Mohammed brought in the basket. Those little dinners – piping hot, perfectly prepared, eaten together in the cosy lamplight – are good to remember! We had finished and opened our books when Kalipha would appear with a firepot and the paraphernalia for tea. If we felt like talking, very good, but if we wanted to read, undisturbed, somehow he knew it without being told. He quietly keptthe tea going and, curled up compactly on the bed, he smoked with a serenity that permitted us to forget all about him.
The French town had ceased to exist for us until the morning we received official notice that we were to appear that day before the commissaire de police. We had already submitted our passports, they were on file at the station; we had taken out our cards of identity, consequently we were puzzled by the rather peremptory summons.
In the absence of the Commissaire himself Monsieur S—, his assistant, received us. We knew at once that he had been drinking, and after he had put to us a few pointed questions his purpose, too, was apparent. We were here to be admonished on account of Kalipha.
‘They tell me that you have taken up with this vagabond Courage.’ The nickname which so characterized our friend, and conveyed in the Arab town such affection, had suddenly become insulting, opprobrious.
‘Yes,’ Beatrice replied, after a pause, ‘it is true that we know Sidi Kalipha.’
This reply infuriated our inquisitor. ‘“ Sidi Kalipha”, hein? ’ he mocked her respectful use of the prefix, ‘you call that miscreant “ Sidi” ?’ He began to roar at us. With the violence of his passion, his face, red to begin with, took on the look of raw liver. We sat speechless. I was frightened, but Beatrice’s eyes were blazing, she was gripping the arms of her chair. I started to explain our attitude towards our companion, but I was shouted scurrilously down. Beatrice got to her feet. ‘Come on. Don’t be a fool. You can’t talk to him, he’s drunk.’ With his raucous voice still in our ears we made our way to the street.
We were cooling off in the market-place when Kalipha strolled up. He knew that we had been to the police-station, and he had a fair idea why. The declining sun filtered through the soft streamers of the pepper trees. Abashed, he took a seat beside us. Beatrice ordered him a coffee, and for a few minutes we all smoked in moody silence. ‘Well?’ he said at last, searching our faces. I reached over and found his hand. ‘You look like a bridegroom!’ Beatrice told him, smiling. She adjusted the little bunch of jasmine that hung over his ear, and studied him critically. Then, ‘Can we get to work on that portrait the first thing tomorrow morning?’
CHAPTER 5
A Djinn Party
W E DID NOT LIVE among the Arabs for a month without learning something of djinns, nor without coming to feel a certain respect for phantoms that exert such influence over the learned and ignorant alike. Kalipha, who could
But, for all its shortcomings, we had found our place in Kairouan. Although she never admitted it, Beatrice was accustoming herself to the infernal racket. She found it no longer necessary to forage the crowded streets, she could sketch from her windows, or from the broad terrace that hung just above the heads of the throng.
At 7.30 each morning Salah, the kindly cafetier from across the street, brought us coffee. Beatrice and I seldom saw each other till evening, when she came into my room for dinner. (My room – since I had the table.) Shortly after the muezzins ’ call, the door was knocked and either Kalipha or Mohammed brought in the basket. Those little dinners – piping hot, perfectly prepared, eaten together in the cosy lamplight – are good to remember! We had finished and opened our books when Kalipha would appear with a firepot and the paraphernalia for tea. If we felt like talking, very good, but if we wanted to read, undisturbed, somehow he knew it without being told. He quietly keptthe tea going and, curled up compactly on the bed, he smoked with a serenity that permitted us to forget all about him.
The French town had ceased to exist for us until the morning we received official notice that we were to appear that day before the commissaire de police. We had already submitted our passports, they were on file at the station; we had taken out our cards of identity, consequently we were puzzled by the rather peremptory summons.
In the absence of the Commissaire himself Monsieur S—, his assistant, received us. We knew at once that he had been drinking, and after he had put to us a few pointed questions his purpose, too, was apparent. We were here to be admonished on account of Kalipha.
‘They tell me that you have taken up with this vagabond Courage.’ The nickname which so characterized our friend, and conveyed in the Arab town such affection, had suddenly become insulting, opprobrious.
‘Yes,’ Beatrice replied, after a pause, ‘it is true that we know Sidi Kalipha.’
This reply infuriated our inquisitor. ‘“ Sidi Kalipha”, hein? ’ he mocked her respectful use of the prefix, ‘you call that miscreant “ Sidi” ?’ He began to roar at us. With the violence of his passion, his face, red to begin with, took on the look of raw liver. We sat speechless. I was frightened, but Beatrice’s eyes were blazing, she was gripping the arms of her chair. I started to explain our attitude towards our companion, but I was shouted scurrilously down. Beatrice got to her feet. ‘Come on. Don’t be a fool. You can’t talk to him, he’s drunk.’ With his raucous voice still in our ears we made our way to the street.
We were cooling off in the market-place when Kalipha strolled up. He knew that we had been to the police-station, and he had a fair idea why. The declining sun filtered through the soft streamers of the pepper trees. Abashed, he took a seat beside us. Beatrice ordered him a coffee, and for a few minutes we all smoked in moody silence. ‘Well?’ he said at last, searching our faces. I reached over and found his hand. ‘You look like a bridegroom!’ Beatrice told him, smiling. She adjusted the little bunch of jasmine that hung over his ear, and studied him critically. Then, ‘Can we get to work on that portrait the first thing tomorrow morning?’
CHAPTER 5
A Djinn Party
W E DID NOT LIVE among the Arabs for a month without learning something of djinns, nor without coming to feel a certain respect for phantoms that exert such influence over the learned and ignorant alike. Kalipha, who could
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