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Blast, blast, blast! Not again!
It just came so naturally. Mr Ambrose was the kind of man who could make you want to stand at attention just by looking at you.
‘Especially if they are expensive.’
‘Certainly, Sir!’
Mr Ambrose pointed to the sack of grain. ‘Seventy piasters.’
The merchant was nearly in tears by now. ‘No! No, you cannot do this! This is against all tradition! Something like this is not allowed in a bazaar! Here we honestly haggle and cheat each other! We do not simply demand to have something! That is not done!’
‘Sixty-five piasters.’
Covering his face with one hand, the merchant slumped against a barrel of salted fish. ‘This is torture! Inhuman torture! Go!’
‘Can I take the grain?’ Mr Ambrose probed. ‘For sixty-two piasters?’
‘Yes! Anything!’
‘Anything? So I could take it for sixty piasters, too?’
‘Yes!’ Wailing like a wounded wolf, the merchant waved his free hand. ‘Go! Just take the grain and go, you demon in human form! Do not plague me any longer!’
Depositing a number of coins on the counter, while the merchant was busy bewailing this smudge on his beloved commercial tradition, Mr Ambrose grabbed the sack of grain, swung it over his shoulder and marched off as if were no heavier than a feather. He didn’t even bother to glance at me.
Which might not be such a bad idea right now…
Swinging the sack of grain onto the back of a camel, Mr Ambrose signalled to one of his men to come tie it down. Clapping his hands, he turned towards me.
‘Well, I think that was all the grain we need. What about you? Were you successful in your search… for… clothes…?’
He saw me, and his voice slowly trailed off.
‘Well?’ I tried to smile. It didn’t really work.
He made a strangled noise in the back of his throat.
‘What do you think?’ I did my best to make a twirl for him. The folds of my garment flapped in the br
eeze. ‘Isn’t it nice?’
‘What - in - Mammon’s - name - is - that?’ He emphasized every word. Very slowly. Very distinctly.
Oh-oh…
‘Can’t you see what it is?’ I demanded.
‘I think I can. But my logical mind is refusing the evidence of my eyes. Are you or are you not standing there in front of me in the middle of a marketplace wearing nothing but a bathrobe and a towel around your head?’
‘It’s called a headscarf, thank you very much! And the garment you refer to as a bathrobe is called a thobe, I believe. It is not for the purpose of visiting the baths.’
‘No?’
‘No! And this overcoat is called a kibr, and the cloak,’ I proudly held up the article in question, ‘is called a burnous! The Bedouins and many other Arabs wear them all the time, apparently. I know it doesn’t look very practical, but it’s actually very cooling and comfortable.’
And very figure-flattering. You couldn’t even detect a hint of my generously-sized derrière under the swirling folds of the thobe. But I wasn’t going to mention that reason for buying it to him. Not in a million years!
‘You,’ he pointed out, his eyes still wide, his nostrils flaring, ‘are not a Bedouin.’
