kept to himself. He wasn’t going to trumpet his triumphs to his adversary. He called attention to the negative aspects: the delay in payments, the decline in sales, negligence, incompetence.
The lively Alfeu and the merry cherub felt they were on an eternal honeymoon, a romantic and ruinous attitude. Nighttime was not sufficient for their screwing, which they continued well into the morning. Added to that was the baby’s wailing, the changing of diapers, pacifiers. It was impossible to keep a tight schedule. They opened and closed the doors of the establishment when it suited their fancy. Drowsy, they continued their billing and cooing behind the counter without giving proper attention to the seamstresses and housewives who, in exchange for a few small purchases—a thimble, a dozen buttons, hairpins, two yards of ribbon—demanded a little talk and consideration.
Sálua’s clientele, which had been faithful and numerous, had begun to dwindle, leaving for merchants less in love and more solicitous. Nor was the proprietor much help to the store’s progress. The night before in the cabaret, Ibrahim had confessed he had been completely detached from the store during his wife’s life. Sálua had taken care of all obligations and responsibilities and also kept the accounts. He remembered Sálua with moist eyes. Were these easytears a touch of cunning, or the expression of a sincere and sorrowful longing for a good life and a good home?
In spite of its obvious decline, the Bargain Shop, located on a downtown street, a privileged site with plenty of room, looked to Jamil like a gift from China. The recent difficulties had shaken up only slightly the good reputation the firm had enjoyed in the business world during all those previous years. In capable hands the store would be able to recoup its golden years quite quickly, and it had the makings of being transformed, with a little effort, into a well-stocked bazaar where a little of everything would be sold: men’s and women’s clothing, shoes and hats, suspenders, bows, stockings, and neckties. All that called for a strong hand, an aptitude for business, and hard work, proven virtues of Jamil Bichara. The problem lay in the number of daughters and sons-in-law, too many people. If he decided to join the family and the firm, he would have to make a serious study of the clauses in the contract.
They were going over bills and receipts when, from the living quarters in the rear and into the store, came a slender little tootsie, who kissed Jamil’s countryman’s hand—“Your blessing, Father”—and smiled at Jamil as her curious and calculating eyes examined him from top to bottom, as though evaluating his merits as a male. Could she be the ugly one? Impossible. There was nothing ugly about her; quite the contrary.
“My daughter Samira,” Ibrahim explained. “The one who’s married to the telegrapher.”
“Jamil Bichara, at your service.”
“Jamil Bichara? I’ve heard that name before.…”
“He’s a friend of my old chum Raduan.”
“Of Uncle Raduan? Oh, now I remember.” She pointed at Jamil and said mischievously, “The sultan of the cabaret, right?”
Jamil laughed, a bit embarrassed. “Sultan’s what he calls me. He has his little joke.…”
The lively girl kept looking him over, and all of a sudden she burst into a peal of crystalline and mocking laughter,without explaining what had brought it on. Uncle Raduan had bits of gossip for the interest and pleasure of anyone who wished to listen, but he kept his spicy tales of bohemian life for Samira and a few other preferred women, revealing places and episodes forbidden to married ladies. Uncle Raduan was the Devil incarnate, with that velvety voice and the most innocent of looks as he divulged every little tidbit. In order to explain his friend Jamil’s success with the hookers, he’d make reference to one aspect of his anatomy: It was enormous, like a table leg. Judging from his great build,
The lively Alfeu and the merry cherub felt they were on an eternal honeymoon, a romantic and ruinous attitude. Nighttime was not sufficient for their screwing, which they continued well into the morning. Added to that was the baby’s wailing, the changing of diapers, pacifiers. It was impossible to keep a tight schedule. They opened and closed the doors of the establishment when it suited their fancy. Drowsy, they continued their billing and cooing behind the counter without giving proper attention to the seamstresses and housewives who, in exchange for a few small purchases—a thimble, a dozen buttons, hairpins, two yards of ribbon—demanded a little talk and consideration.
Sálua’s clientele, which had been faithful and numerous, had begun to dwindle, leaving for merchants less in love and more solicitous. Nor was the proprietor much help to the store’s progress. The night before in the cabaret, Ibrahim had confessed he had been completely detached from the store during his wife’s life. Sálua had taken care of all obligations and responsibilities and also kept the accounts. He remembered Sálua with moist eyes. Were these easytears a touch of cunning, or the expression of a sincere and sorrowful longing for a good life and a good home?
In spite of its obvious decline, the Bargain Shop, located on a downtown street, a privileged site with plenty of room, looked to Jamil like a gift from China. The recent difficulties had shaken up only slightly the good reputation the firm had enjoyed in the business world during all those previous years. In capable hands the store would be able to recoup its golden years quite quickly, and it had the makings of being transformed, with a little effort, into a well-stocked bazaar where a little of everything would be sold: men’s and women’s clothing, shoes and hats, suspenders, bows, stockings, and neckties. All that called for a strong hand, an aptitude for business, and hard work, proven virtues of Jamil Bichara. The problem lay in the number of daughters and sons-in-law, too many people. If he decided to join the family and the firm, he would have to make a serious study of the clauses in the contract.
They were going over bills and receipts when, from the living quarters in the rear and into the store, came a slender little tootsie, who kissed Jamil’s countryman’s hand—“Your blessing, Father”—and smiled at Jamil as her curious and calculating eyes examined him from top to bottom, as though evaluating his merits as a male. Could she be the ugly one? Impossible. There was nothing ugly about her; quite the contrary.
“My daughter Samira,” Ibrahim explained. “The one who’s married to the telegrapher.”
“Jamil Bichara, at your service.”
“Jamil Bichara? I’ve heard that name before.…”
“He’s a friend of my old chum Raduan.”
“Of Uncle Raduan? Oh, now I remember.” She pointed at Jamil and said mischievously, “The sultan of the cabaret, right?”
Jamil laughed, a bit embarrassed. “Sultan’s what he calls me. He has his little joke.…”
The lively girl kept looking him over, and all of a sudden she burst into a peal of crystalline and mocking laughter,without explaining what had brought it on. Uncle Raduan had bits of gossip for the interest and pleasure of anyone who wished to listen, but he kept his spicy tales of bohemian life for Samira and a few other preferred women, revealing places and episodes forbidden to married ladies. Uncle Raduan was the Devil incarnate, with that velvety voice and the most innocent of looks as he divulged every little tidbit. In order to explain his friend Jamil’s success with the hookers, he’d make reference to one aspect of his anatomy: It was enormous, like a table leg. Judging from his great build,
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