Part 11 (1/2)
CHAPTER XII
ROUND ABOUT CAIRO, WITH AND WITHOUT THE a.s.sISTANCE OF THE DRAGOMAN OR SIMON LEGREE OF THE ORIENT
Mr. Peasley is a secretive student of the guide book.
He reads up beforehand and on the quiet. Then when we come face to face with some ”sight” and are wondering about this or that, Mr.
Peasley opens the floodgate of his newly-acquired knowledge and deluges the whole party. He is seldom correct, and never accurate, but he knows that he is dealing with an ignorance more profound than his own, and that gives him confidence.
For instance, the first afternoon in Cairo we chartered an open conveyance and rode out to the citadel and the mosque of Mohammed Ali, both of which are perched on a high limestone cliff overlooking the city. The mosque is modern and very gorgeous with alabaster columns, a profusion of gay rugs, stained windows, and crystal chandeliers. We were rhapsodising over the interior and were saying it was almost as swell and elegant as the new Claypool Hotel in Indianapolis, when we happened to overhear one of our countrywomen reading aloud from a very entertaining book on Egypt written thirty years ago by Amelia B.
Edwards. Miss Edwards allowed that the mosque of Mohammed Ali was a tawdry and hideous specimen of the most decadent period of the mixed-up architectures imported from Araby and Turkey. When we heard that we made a quick switch and began to find fault with the decorations and told the guide we had enough.
On the way out to the parapet to enjoy the really wonderful view of the city and the Nile Valley, with the pyramids lifting themselves dimly from the old gold haze of the desert, Mr. Peasley wished to repay the lady who had read to us, so he paused, and, making a very indefinite and non-committal gesture, said, ”Near this very spot Mohammed Ali killed more than one hundred and fifty mamelukes in one day.”
Our fair countrywoman looked at Mr. Peasley with a puzzled frown on her brow and then timidly asked, ”What is a mameluke?”
[Ill.u.s.tration: ”_What is a mameluke?_”]
We thought she had him, but not so. He wasn't even feazed. He replied promptly, ”A mameluke is something like a mongoose, only larger.”
That is Mr. Peasley's way. If he doesn't know, at least he will make a stab at it. One evening at dinner we had anchovies as a curtain raiser, and a man sitting next to Mr. Peasley poked at the briny minnows with his fork and asked, ”What are these?”
”Those are anchorites,” replied Mr. Peasley, without the slightest hesitation.
As a rule he gets one syllable right, which is pretty good for him. At present he is much interested in the huge dams of masonry and iron gates that have been thrown across the Nile at a.s.siut and a.s.souan.
Over here they are called ”barrages.” Mr. Peasley insists upon calling them ”garages.” We tried to explain to him that a garage was a place where automobiles were cared for, but he said that automobile and ”dam”
belonged in the same category and often meant practically the same thing, so he continues to speak of the ”garage.”
By the way, when a pious Englishman over here, say a bishop on a vacation, wishes to relieve his feelings without the actual use of profanity he exclaims ”a.s.souan!” If he falls off his donkey, ”a.s.souan!” If his tea is served to him at less than 212 degrees Fahrenheit, ”a.s.souan!”
[Ill.u.s.tration: _a.s.souan!_]
”a.s.souan” means the superlative of all dams, the biggest dam in the world. It takes the place of a whole row of these:-- ---- ------ ---- ------. Mr. Peasley uses the word, when he can think of it. If his memory fails him, he falls back on the American equivalent.
Inasmuch as I reside in Indiana, where it is a social offence to crave a cigarette, a misdemeanor to keep one in the house, and a high crime to smoke one, Cairo during the first day gave me many a shock. Cairo is unquestionably the cigarette headquarters of the universe. If the modern Egyptians followed the ancient method of loading the tomb with supplies for the lately departed they would put in each sarcophagus about ten thousand cigarettes and a few gallons of Turkish coffee. The food wouldn't matter.
In Cairo, men, women, and children smoke. Only the camels and donkeys abstain.
Cigarettes are sold nearly everywhere--not only by tobacconists, but also by milliners, undertakers, real estate agents, etc. Those who do not sell them give them away. A cigarette across the counter is the usual preliminary to driving a bargain.
It surprised us to learn that although the Egyptians have been addicted to this enfeebling vice ever since they first had a chance to cultivate it, they have managed to survive and flourish as a distinct breed of humanity for some seven thousand years, as nearly as I can figure it off hand. By eliminating the cigarette from Indiana the Hoosiers should beat this record. No doubt they will retain their primitive vigour for a longer period, say nine thousand years. If so, the anti-cigarette law will be vindicated.
We certainly had a feeling of guilty pleasure when we sat in front of Shepheard's Hotel and smoked the wicked little things, and knew that the policeman standing a few feet away did not dare to raise his hand against us.
A very clever young American owns a shop near the hotel. He is a student of Egyptology and a dealer in genuine antiquities, including mummies. While I was nosing through his collection of scarabs, idols, coins, and other time-worn trinkets, he suggested that I purchase a mummy.
”Can I get one?” I asked, in surprise.
”I can get you a gross, if you want them,” he replied.
”What would a man do with a gross of mummies?”