Among the Faithful (3 page)

‘We’ll have to do with two francs’ worth!’ laughed Beatrice. The Arab obliged us by making a reply that caused the charmer to smile and pat his chest and say ‘
Merci!
’ Our informant moved away with us. ‘
Il’y a quelques personnes,
’ he pursued, ‘
qui disent que le serpent n’est pas dangereux,
’ and, with that, he told us a little story. A tourist, an American he believed, who stood right here watching this same charmer, announced, through his guide, that it was all
la blague.
The charmer, taking his life in his hands, showed him the venom-tooth, but the tourist carried on so that someone went for a chicken. The performance began all over again and, just as the snake was nosing out of the sack, the chicken was thrown down. The serpent lunged, the chicken teetered, flapped his wings, started to walk away, and fell over, dead.
Monsieur le Tourist
picked up the fowl, parted the plumage, and when he saw that the skin was brown – like chocolate – he gave the charmer five francs.

The pith and the amusing pungency with which the little anecdote was told excited our interest in the teller, and we accepted his invitation to drink coffee. With a halting gait he escorted us to the bench under the pepper trees. He seemed very well known about town. ‘
Hie Baba Courage!
’ several voices hailed him; the basket-weavers, as we passed, looked up from their work to salute him, and the old man in the pink turban laid his hand on his shoulder, addressing him as ‘
Boyh Courage
’.

The face of our companion inspired anything but confidence. The chances are, in fact, that no Barbary pirate ever looked more like one! The swarthy complexion, the glowering thatch of black brow over his little bear eyes, the pendulous lips, and the baleful black moustache waxed at the tips – without scimitar or ear-hoops he was complete! His hooded cloak, which he wore
à la toga,
was dark maroon, the robe beneath it of black and mustard stripes. When he smiled his whole face opened, and what teeth he had were broken black stubs.

We both put him down as a guide, for he spoke French exceedingly well – or so we thought – and the things he told us of ‘
la ville sainte
’ seemed obviously calculated to induce us to engage him. I had an uneasy feeling that Beatrice already regretted that we had accepted his invitation to coffee. And yet it was impossible not to enjoy him. From time to time, as she listened, her eyes lit up at some piquant turn of expression, for his speech had a flavour – altogether racy and droll – that Beatrice, of all persons, could not fail to appreciate. He knew that we were American, he said, the moment he saw us. He seemed to sense, too, that Beatrice was a painter, for he told her of the friends he had made among sojourning artists. He had found them suitable lodgings, had secured models for them, in their purchases had protected them from trickery, had been to them, by his own account, guide, guard, and valet – sometimes even their chef. Here at last was an avowal. But then he went on to say: ‘Artists are not tourists. The painter comes to work. He has no money for guides – even if he needed them. All he asks is a place to work. A piece of bread, a cup of coffee, a cigarette, and so long as he can work, what need has he of more?’ Beatrice’s eyes had narrowed. ‘Then you are not a – a guide?’ I stammered.

‘No,’ he said with solemn emphasis. ‘I am not a guide.’ He clapped his hands for the
cafetier
, ‘but formerly I was a guide, the best in Kairouan,’ and, as if to prove it, he pulled out a handsome Swiss watch engraved with a testimony of appreciation and esteem. ‘“Kalipha ben Kassem” – that’s me.’ I was on the point of asking why it was that he was no longer a guide, but something prevented me.

The sun had long set. Voices that seemed to have come from the sky had called the city to prayer. The market-place was almost empty, shops were shut for the night, and only the doorway of an occasional
coffee-house gleamed through the dark. The
cafetier
shuffled towards us. Beatrice was for paying the bill, but our companion would have none of it. ‘You are both very tired,’ he smiled. ‘
Tawah nimshoo fluti
, which is to say, now we will return to the hotel.’ He made us repeat it after him, again and again, until, by the time he took leave of us on the steps of the hotel, we had mastered our first lesson in Arabic.

D
EAD SET AS WE WERE
against guides, we had no intention of cultivating the acquaintance of Kalipha ben Kassem. But we did not reckon upon his perseverance! We could not take a step without him. He seemed actually to lie in wait for us. Sometimes he ‘happened' upon us just as were leaving the hotel, at other times he came hurrying toward us from the French café near the gate, occasionally we had gone some distance up the main street before ‘
Mademoiselles!
Mademoiselles
!
' he would come limping up on his club foot. Once or twice we pretended that we didn't hear him. It was of no use the entire populace were in league with him. ‘Papa Courage is calling you', a dozen informants impeded our escape.

After sundry inquiries about our health, our work, our pleasure in Kairouan, he invariably had ready some irresistible proposal for our entertainment. We were undeniably the richer for these
encounters,
for with the good guide's unerring instinct he knew exactly the things that would interest us most. He took us to inaccessible
coffee-houses
where professional story-tellers held men spell-bound for hours, or where sloe-eyed youths performed the ribald
stomach-dance
to the noisy enthusiasm of their audiences. We walked outside the ramparts – the Holy City glamorous in the moonlight, our low voices trumpeting across the vast stillness of the plain. We visited the Street of the Courtesans, along the whole length of which our friend seemed decidedly well known.

Although Kalipha had the most solemn respect for our working hours, his knack of appearing just when we needed him testified to a constant vigilance. If Beatrice set up her easel in town he would stroll
up as the curious onlookers threatened to block her vision and, without offence to anyone, keep the crowd moving. If he caught her in search of a model he scoured the marketplace until he rounded up dozens of idle bedouins for her to choose from. He was the mediator in our altercations with Madame. For every perplexity and annoyance, in fact, Kalipha had the solution. Kind, courteous, intelligent, infinitely entertaining, the only fault we could possibly find with him was his over-anxiety to be useful. There seemed no way to prevent him from becoming indispensable.

It must be confessed that my friend's sense of honour was more acute than mine. It would never have occurred to me that in accepting Kalipha's hospitality I was incurring an obligation that I could not possibly pay. Her anxiety quickly communicated itself to me, and we strove to make our position quite clear to him, feeling sure he would lose interest when he realized at last that his pursuit was unprofitable. He accepted our hints, explanations, and apologies, however, with a gusty sigh: ‘Ah, yes, my friends, I tell you, the beggar in the shadow of the Great Gate is often better off than the artist.'

Who in God's name was this villainous-looking Arab who had appointed himself our squire? If he
did
know our circumstances, what was his motive in befriending us? How did he earn his
livelihood?
Although he had no visible means of support, Beatrice had to get really angry in order to pay for the coffee; if we stopped to purchase something he always succeeded in beating a franc or two from the price. Why was it that he, a born guide, no longer followed his profession? For over thirty years he had conducted tourists through the ancient City, held sacred by Islam still as One of the Four Gates of Paradise. His work had been his life. ‘In those days,' he would say, taking off his well-worn fez, ‘I wore the head-coils – cloth of gold, such as is brought back by the pilgrims from Mecca. It is not the poor man, you know, who can wear such a turban. As to
gondorrah
,' he fingered his robe, ‘it was of the pure silk, a
different
colour for every day in the week, but always white in summer. I had not one burnous, but four of them. Camel's hair, you
understand,
very rich with embroidery. Oh, I tell you, my friends, when I walked down the street with my gold-headed cane, one might have
mistaken me for the vizir to the Bey!' What had put an end to such affluence?

We were helpless to solve the enigma. Of only one thing we felt sure – he had been deprived of his license, whether justly or unjustly, by the French authorities. It was painfully apparent that he had no friends among them. Within the ramparts, he was surrounded by good will and affection. Men of all walks and stations – expensively dressed merchants, white-turbaned scholars and religious dignitaries,
tradesmen
and
spahis
, the Arab police, paused for the exchange of florid greeting. Wherever we went he was welcome, and as his guests we were bewildered with kindness. ‘You are the friends of
my
friend,' we were constantly being told, ‘therefore, you are, also, my friends.' But outside the walls – what a difference! The general attitude of the Tunisian French toward the subject Arabs scarcely accounted for the lack of respect that he, particularly, was accorded. If he was saluted at all, it was with a kind of cold contempt that used to infuriate me. Not that Kalipha was humbled! He always carried his head high, but when he stumped through the French town it was with a dignity that was downright majestic.

It was a compatriot – the only resident American in Kairouan – who explained away some of the mystery surrounding Kalipha ben Kassem. The year before Beatrice had met Mr. Bemen in Brittany where he spent his summers in order to be among artists. Off and on for the last fifteen years he had lived in Kairouan, where he had invested in land, olive groves, sheep, and camels. He was reputed, among the Arabs at least, to be very wealthy.

We met him on the street one day and he invited us to his villa. It was on the plain just outside the ramparts, a pretty blue cottage
fortified
by a high barbed-wire fence and a notoriously vicious bedouin sheep-dog. It was apparent at a glance that Mr. Bemen's hobby was native beds. The house was smothered with great nuptial bedsteads glittering with gold leaf and embellished in bright paint with all the symbols of fecundity.

After showing us his portfolio of dancing girls, he made an
opportunity
to warn us against our native companion. This was the story he told us. Two years before the president of the bank had been murdered.
Kalipha's brother, Mohammed, and his friend, both porters, were found guilty and condemned to the guillotine. At the last hour their sentence was commuted, and they were dispatched to Devil's Island.

The Arab population, to a man, believed the prisoners innocent. Great numbers of them testified to their presence at an all-night
stag-party
at the time the crime was committed. The feeling against the French had been very strong, not only because of the conviction, but because Kalipha had lost his guide's permit for having steadfastly refused to testify against his brother. Bemen, himself, lightly admitted the probability that the pair had been victimized as scapegoats. But what was done was done. Whether innocent or guilty, the wretches were as good as dead now, and a couple of Arabs more or less, didn't make a whole lot of difference, eh, what? The point was, that Beatrice and I could not expect to curry French favour by associating with Kalipha ben Kassem.

It took me nearly a week to realize that I simply couldn't work. I tried desperately to get back to the story I had started in Cavalaire, but Kairouan had come between us. What with the need to justify my move to Africa in production, and the unsuppressible impulse to abandon myself to the exotic city, the drone of whose voice reached me in my quiet room at the back of the hotel, I was paralyzed. When the folly of the struggle struck me, I bought myself several thick
notebooks
and made for the market-place like a gnat for the light.

I was in the ring around a fantastic old tumbler when Kalipha found me. ‘But, my little one, why are you not at work!' he cried
accusingly.
I felt, unaccountably, as if I had put something over on him. While I was explaining, he guided me to our coffee-house alongside the basket-weavers. ‘But you are right!' he exclaimed, applauding my decision until I was amazed at myself for having wasted a week. ‘The things we will see! For it is not by drinking coffee in the market-place or the souks that one learns the City! First we will visit the homes of my relatives and friends. I assure you, since you are come, my nieces, Kadeja, Fafanie, Zinibe, and the rest, break my head with their reproaches. Only yesterday Eltifa, my sister, demanded, ‘What is your fear, O my brother, that you hide your friends from me? Search the
house. Have I a secret cage where I could fatten them for the fête ‘Here, then, is what I propose. Each afternoon, between the calls to prayer, we will distribute visits among them. That there may be no jealousy, it will be necessary to make the
grande tour.
And when they see you coming into the court, by Allah, it will be like the ascent of the full moon!'

I gave way with such spontaneous delight that Kalipha was jubilant and expatiated at great length upon our programme. In the
meanwhile,
I drank my coffee thoughtfully. He paused, at last, to sip his own and I became conscious that he was studying me. After a time he drew a finger across his brow. ‘What is the meaning of that seam upon your forehead? What is it that troubles you,
hein?
' Confused, I did not answer. He hunched forward, ‘I will tell you. To you and Mlle Beatrice I am a riddle: not a guide, but still a guide. A thousand times you ask yourselves: “With what are we to pay him? With the gold from our teeth, perhaps?” Listen,' he went on earnestly, ‘my head is not a dry gourd. I was at the station the day you arrived. I am able to tell you, my friend, that when one has been a guide for half one's life one recognizes people. I knew you at once. Every mendicant that cries
Ya krimtallah!
for his supper is not destitute, nor is every traveller a tourist. This,' he said, picking up my change purse, ‘does not interest me. I swear,' he raised his hand with impressive solemnity, ‘as Mohammed is the Prophet of Allah, I swear that I do not want your money!'

‘But, like us, you are poor,' I protested, ‘we must all live somehow.'

‘It is nearly three years,' he continued bitterly, ‘since they saw fit to deprive me of my livelihood. I was guilty of nothing. Their own records prove the truth of what I am telling you. By Allah, there exists no man in this world – or in the world beyond – that I cannot look in the eye. Yet they condemned me and my family to penury, and but for the grace of Allah, who has blessed me with loyal friends, we should have starved.' He went on to explain that the merchants continued to pay him a commission upon the purchases of tourists that he inveigled into their shops. It was a dangerous practice, he admitted, for the authorized guides, who had long resented his supremacy, were only too ready to report him to the French authorities. By deceit and stealth,
therefore, he contrived to exist, but Allah, the judge of the French as well as the Arabs, does not condemn a man for the sins forced upon him. To the present day, He had extended His merciful protection over Kalipha that he might gain his daily bread.

‘And you permit us to rob you of your time,' I remonstrated, at which he threw back his head with such a roar that I had to laugh with him, in spite of my earnestness. ‘My pockets are full of it! The Basha, himself, I believe, is not so rich as I when it comes to that! Ah, no,
ma petite
, you must not trouble your head. If I show you the things you would not otherwise see, it is because I have a pleasure in the company of artists. While you remain among us you are
musàfir
, which is to say, our guests. He who honours you finds certain favour with Allah, the All-seeing, but Unseen. And the face of him that dishonours you is blackened in His sight. See here! This night you and Mlle Beatrice are to dine with me.' He raised a warning hand against objection. ‘I require it of you. As I myself will prepare the dinner, my son Mohammed will be at the hotel at half-past six to escort you to the house. Once we have shared the same bowl, my friend, there can be no question of money between us.'

‘We will be happy to come,' I assured him from a full heart. I tried to add that it needed no dinner to confirm the friendship I felt for him, but, my French failing me, I gave him my hand. ‘In any case,' I said, ‘from now on, we are friends!' I was never to regret that impulsive gesture.

We supposed that Kalipha's son would be a young man. Promptly at the appointed time we were told that he had come. To our surprise it was quite a small boy who waited upon us. ‘I am Mohammed, the son of Kalipha,' he announced himself, his dark eyes dancing, his broad mouth widened into the most engaging smile. He couldn't have been more than ten, and his chubby face in the peaked white hood of his burnous reminded one of a Rackham elf. Of his age he was not at all sure. Some said he was nine, his father said ten, but maybe he was eleven, even twelve. No, he did not go to school. He was learning to be a basket-weaver from Sidi Hasseen in the market-place. Our efforts to converse further with him were not altogether successful for, although he understood French, his inability to speak much
constrained him to smiling silence as he slapped along in slippers many sizes too big for him.

From the main thoroughfare we turned off into a dark lane. ‘
Rue des Chasseurs à pieds!
' Mohammed announced with quite an air. A short, steep flight of steps led abruptly from the road to a narrow landing. At the fall of the knocker, there was a clack-clack of clogs
descending
stone stairs and the door was opened a crack to admit us. A girl held a lamp above her head. ‘
Asslemma!
' she murmured, smiling and patting her chest. As Mohammed seemed disinclined to introduce us, we asked him if she was his sister. ‘She is Fatma, the wife of my father,' he said, unceremoniously preceding us up the stairs.