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‘You… Qad tamut w taefan fi alssahra!’
‘I feel in excellent health. It’s rather unlikely that I will die any time soon to suit your wishes.’
‘Four hundred!’
‘One hundred.’
Giving a tortured groan, the merchant grabbed one of the supports of his stall to hold himself upright. He was swaying under the onslaught of his churning monetary emotions, his tender financial heart obviously pierced through with a poisonous dagger. Mr Ambrose stood like a rock, regarding him with a detached look.
Clearing my throat, I stepped closer to Mr Ambrose and, from behind, whispered into his ear: ‘I think you are having problems bridging a cultural chasm.’
Mr Ambrose didn’t turn to look at me. Which was rather a good idea, considering the way I was dressed. ‘Cultural chasm?’ he enquired coolly. ‘This man for some reason seems to believe that I am willing to deviate in the price I am offering for his wares. That is incredible!’
‘That’s what I’m talking about. He expects you to haggle.’
‘I am. He suggests a price, then I do, then he again, and so on, and so on.’
‘Yes, but you see, I think for haggling to work you have to actually change what you are willing to offer.’
‘There!’ The merchant was suddenly upright again, pointing at me with a shaking finger. ‘There, do you hear? Listen to her! The truth flies out of her mouth on wings!’
‘Change my offer?’ Mr Ambrose directed his gaze at the sack of grain. ‘I see. If it will get this over with more quickly, I’ll oblige you. You go first.’
‘Thank you, Effendi! May shady palm trees turn your garden into an oasis, Effendi! Three hundred and eighty-five piasters!’
Mr Ambrose shook his head. ‘No. Ninety.’
The merchant’s jaw dropped. ‘What?’
‘All right, if you insist,’ Mr Ambrose gave a shrug. ‘Eighty-five.’
‘You…! Yixrib beitak!’
‘I have several houses that God could destroy. Which do you mean? Seventy-five piasters.’
‘Um… ‘ I cleared my throat again. ‘I think you still don’t quite get the principle of haggling. He’s supposed to slowly lower his price, while at the same time you slowly change your offer - and by change I mean raise, not lower.’
‘What?’ Mr Ambrose blinked. ‘You want me to offer him more money?’
‘Yes.’
‘Let us be very clear about this. I am conducting a purchase here. This… individual,’ he gestured to the trader, ‘is wasting my time by throwing ridiculous offers at me, trying to sell me his wares for a price far greater than their real value, and you want me to reward him for that by offering him more money?’
‘Um… well, yes.’ How the heck did he manage to make that sound so unreasonable? ‘A bit more with every offer. That’s how they do it at bazaars.’
There was a pause.
‘At least that’s what I’ve read in a book,’ I quickly added.
‘To your information, my dear…’ He still didn’t turn around. ‘I am not a character in a book.’
‘No, Sir! Of course not, Sir!’
Blast! Why did you say that? You’re still pretending to be his wife! You should call him Dick, not Sir!
‘And I do not have to conform to oriental customs. I am an English gentleman, and do not submit to foreign ways.’
‘Yes, Sir! Of course not, Sir!’
