But the beggar’s skinny hand clutched his arm, enforcing attention. He yawned as he hearkened to the old man’s raving of blood and vengeance. The wild looks and wilder talk of his companion made him fear that he had cast in his lot with a madman. But then Mustafa gripped his arm tighter and looked into his eyes, and laughed, saying, “Aha! that was a good thought of thine. By the Quran, I hold thee dearer than Mansûr—dearer than my own son! Shalt have her, dost understand? Inshallah, thou shalt possess her!” Saïd was reassured on the score of his sanity.
Abu Khalìl, the fat taverner, looking round benignly upon the faces of his guests, marvelled much in his sleepy way to observe those two speak so earnestly together. Mustafa was hatching some beggar’s plot, he supposed; but the dutiful and submissive bearing of the young man towards his sire made a deep impression on his flabby brain. Camr-ud-dìn had that day cursed his father’s religion, which was his own, and Abu Khalìl had been properly indignant. In return he had cursed his son’s creed, as also his father and his mother. He felt that he was not blessed in his offspring, and in a dim, fat way he envied Mustafa.
XX
Between the cellar of Nûr and the tavern of Abu Khalìl the summer days passed lazily for Saïd. The year’s last rain had fallen. Each departing night left a burnished blue canopy over the city, on which the sun crept slowly like a snail of fire. The cry of the water-carriers grew sweet and ever sweeter in the ears of all men; and the street-dogs panted with lolling tongues as they slept.
Every evening drew forth a great multitude to the pleasure-houses studding the gardens by the river bank. Men sat on stools, or cross-legged on the ground, sipping sherbet of almond or tamarind or rose, and chattered with the birds in the respite from a sultry day; while the sky glowed amethyst, then emerald, then beryl, and the earth’s bloom among the trees became a paleness of lilies.
Once at sunset time Saïd went to the coffeehouse of Rashìd, where he had slept that night with Selìm, to make inquiries concerning his former partner. But the landlord was gruff and slow to answer, so that Saïd abstained from further questions and returned thither no more.
Every morning, about daybreak, the old beggar arose. Having broken his fast upon the soured milk and bread prepared for him by Nûr, he took up his staff and set out for some mosque or archway where was both shade and concourse—the two main requisites for a beggar’s seat. Saïd, rising perhaps an hour later, had the livelong day idle upon his hands, after he had brought water for his hostess and helped her to order her dwelling. He stood high in the good graces of the grim old woman: partly, no doubt, because of the little services he was ever willing to render, but chiefly owing to the lover-like attitude he adopted towards her.
He used her reverently yet fondly, as the desire of his soul.
It seemed a humorous thing for a free man to serve an old woman of evil repute; and Saïd, having once grasped the fantastic side of their relation, played his part thoroughly and with all the fervour of a devotee. From constantly cajoling her with flattery and impassioned words he himself came near to forget that a hag’s face underlay her mask of paint; and she, for her part, though alive to the cozenage, grew to dote on him as the apple of her eye.
Sometimes, when the fragrant smoke of a narghileh made a philosopher of him for half-an-hour, he contrasted the lot of this old woman with that of Hasneh and other wives of poor men. Here was one whose name had been a byword for infamy living as a queen in her old age, extending bounty and protection to whom she would, exacting service as her due. The greatest of the city came under cover of the night to beseech her aid in secret business of the heart. Grand ladies of some notable’s harìm, veiled from all peril of recognition, sought her in their way from the bath or the perfumer’s on a like errand. Clandestine lovers made their heaven in her upper room. Each and all, fearing, blessed her and left gold in her hand. “Allah grant me as prosperous an old age!” thought Saïd. And yet Hasneh, the rough-handed and meanly clad, would have deemed herself the better of such an one. It was a strange thing!
Another person who had conceived a warm liking for the fisherman was the fat taverner. As the bright pattern of filial devotion, Saïd was always welcome to meat and drink and a narghileh afterwards in return for occasional help in the service of the coffeehouse. Abu Khalìl loved to ply him with parables and hard sayings, beginning always, “There was once a son,” and ending mostly in an attempt to cuff poor Camr-ud-dìn, the “son” in question. This unfortunate youth inherited his father’s tendency to fall asleep at odd moments. He would have become fat, too, like his father, had he been allowed to remain long enough in one spot. It was his constant chagrin that he could enjoy no rest, between waiting on customers and obeying his sire’s behests; for Abu Khalìl, though always dormant himself, would not let his son indulge in a moment’s lethargy. Camr-ud-dìn carried his grievance plainly written on his dirty brown face. He did everything under protest; and he loathed the sight of Saïd,
