The Golden One Read Online Free PDF Page B

wore them as diverse as their
insignia: tall rangy Australians and bearded Sikhs, dark-skinned Nubians and pink-cheeked boys fresh from the English countryside.
    It was a depressing sight. These men, now so bright-eyed and cheerful, were destined for the battlefields of Palestine and Europe, from which most would never return.
    The Khan el Khalili at least had not changed – the same narrow lanes, covered with matting and lined with small shops selling every variety of goods from silks to carpets to silver.
Peddlers and sellers of sweetmeats wended their way through the crowds; a waiter, carrying aloft a tray with small cups of Turkish coffee, hastened to the shopkeeper who had ordered it.
    Not far from the mosque of the venerated Saint Hosein is the area given over to the stalls of the booksellers, and it was here I hoped to rid myself of the amiable but inconvenient presence of
my spouse. Somewhat to my surprise he did not put up much of an argument.
    ‘You are calling on Aslimi, I suppose,’ he said.
    ‘And perhaps a few others.’
    ‘Very well.’ Emerson took out his watch. ‘I will give you three hours, Peabody. If you aren’t back by then, I will come looking for you.’
    ‘Anything but that!’ I exclaimed jestingly.
    Emerson grinned. ‘Quite. Enjoy yourself, my love, and don’t buy any fakes.’
    Aslimi did deal in fake antiquities, as had his father, who had met a very ugly death in his own shop some years before. At first I did not recognize him. He had gained an enormous amount of
weight and was almost as fat as his father had been. Seated on the mastaba bench outside his shop, he was importuning passersby in the traditional fashion and in a mixture of languages: ‘Oh,
Howadji, I have beautiful antiquities! Monsieur et madame, écoutez-vous!’ and so on. When he saw me he broke off with a gurgle and began wriggling, trying to stand.
    ‘Good morning, Aslimi,’ I said. ‘Stay where you are.’
    Aslimi swallowed. ‘The Father of Curses – ’
    ‘Is not with me.’
    ‘Ah.’ Aslimi put his hands on the approximate region of his waist and sighed heavily. ‘He gives me pains in the stomach, Sitt Hakim.’
    ‘It is as God wills,’ I said piously. Aslimi shot me a look that indicated he was more inclined to put the blame on Emerson than on Allah, but he rallied enough to go through the
prescribed gestures of hospitality, offering me coffee or tea and a seat on the mastaba. Then we got down to business.
    I left the shop an hour and a half later, with several parcels. Bargaining takes quite a long time, and the subtle interrogation at which I excel takes even longer. Since I had time to spare, I
stopped at a few more stalls, learning little more than I had from Aslimi, but purchasing a number of items that would be needed in our new home: a set of handsome copper cooking vessels, thirty
yards of blue-and-silver Damascus silk, and two elegant carpets, all of which I directed to be sent to the hotel.
    I found Emerson surrounded by loosely bound volumes and piles of manuscripts and several of the more learned booksellers, with whom he was engaged in heated argument. I had begun to suspect that
they enjoyed egging him on, for his views on religion – all varieties of religion – were unorthodox and eloquently expressed. The discussion ended when I appeared, and after an exchange
of compliments all round, I led Emerson away.
    ‘Why do you do that?’ I scolded. ‘It is very rude to criticize another individual’s religious beliefs, and there is not the slightest possibility that you will convert
them.’
    ‘Who wants to convert them?’ Emerson demanded in surprise. ‘Islam is as good a religion as any other. I don’t approve of Christianity or Judaism or Buddhism
either.’
    ‘I am well aware of that, Emerson. I don’t suppose you learned anything of interest?’
    ‘It was very interesting. I raised several unanswerable points . . .’ He noticed my parcels and took them from me.