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The trader drew himself to his full height, width and breadth. ‘That garment belongs to my wife’s grandfather, Hanem! It is absolutely non-saleable!’
‘Now then, now then… what seems to be the matter here?’ A woman peaked her head out from the back of the stall. ‘Fazl, what are you doing? Are you scaring off the customers again?’
‘Scaring off the customers?’ the man demanded, his belly wobbling in outrage. ‘Do you know what this young woman wants, Abda? She wants to buy your grandfather’s thobe!’
‘She does, does she?’ Abda asked, stepping out of the shadows and up beside her husband. Her sharp, intelligent eyes landed on me.
‘Yes. Of course, I told her it’s not for sale.’
Quickly, the wife’s eyes shifted to her husband, narrowing. ‘You did, did you?’
‘Yes, of course. I would never dishonour your family in such a way as to—’
He cut off with a garbled sound. To judge from the movement of Abda’s gown, she had just stepped on his foot, hard.
‘You are interested in buying this thobe, yes?’ she asked me, swiftly taking it down from the peg and spreading it out on the counter. ‘Very fine material, very fine. Of course, a bit used, but it hardly stinks of camel at all. I just washed it this morning.’
I gazed at the white garment and the coloured headdress that seemed to go with it. ‘Yes. It looks quite interesting.’
‘Abda!’ her husband protested. ‘That’s not for sale! How can you—’
‘Don’t listen to the old Moghaffal[22], dear,’ his wife cut in with a charming smile that revealed two rows of white teeth contrasting sharply with her dark skin. With an elbow that was no less sharp than the aforementioned contrast, she shoved her husband aside. ‘Of course it is for sale. That would make twenty piasters, please.’
*~*~**~*~*
When I found Mr Ambrose, he was busy haggling with an Arab merchant over the price of a sack of grain. The poor merchant was already in a pitiable state. Mr Ambrose seemed to have slight difficulties with the concept of ‘haggling’.
‘Five hundred piasters!’ the merchant exclaimed. ‘That is my offer, Effendi! Take it or leave it!’
‘One hundred,’ was all Mr Ambrose said, his face stone-hard.
‘Four hundred and eighty-five! Effendi, you are ruining me! You are robbing me! This is outrageous! I should call the authorities and have you arrested!’
‘Please try. That will be interesting to see.’
‘Four hundred and seventy-five, Effendi! I beg you, consider, I have three wives and seventy-five children…’
‘And overactive loins, I imagine. One hundred.’
‘What?’ The Arab’s eyes almost bugged out of their sockets.
‘You heard me. One hundred piasters.’
‘Effendi, you cannot be serious! Four hundred and sixty!’
‘Perfectly serious. One hundred.’
‘You… you…’ The merchant waved his hands hysterically. ‘Jamalick cil jahash!’
Mr Ambrose remained perfectly calm. ‘I do not have a donkey. And if I did, I certainly would not intend to lick any parts of it.’
‘Four hundred and fifty!’
‘One hundred.’
‘Do you intend to destroy me? Four hundred and twenty-five, and that is my last word!’
‘Then you won’t sell any grain today. One hundred.’
