Here stood a fountain surrounded by Arabs and negroes drawing water in gourds and jugs; yonder a dozen women sat on the ground, selling bread. Hooded Arab boys romped on the outskirts of the throng, or recited verses from the Koran to a bearded teacher. Lean cats and dogs were everywhere. All kinds of smells filled the air—garlic, burning aloe wood, fish.
I stood one day in an archway six feet wide that stood in the center of four streets and watched the crowd go by. I saw fish-mongers carrying great baskets of sardines, and strings of slimy catfish, against which the crowd brushed, leaving the dirt and smell of the fish on their garments. Girls with boards on their heads filled with dough ready for baking darted in and out among the throng; donkeys, laden with garbage, ambled alongside of donkeys carrying fresh roses. Jews, burdened with muslin and calico, went from door to door, haggling with those who examined their wares through partly-opened doors. Boys sauntered along munching raw carrots and artichokes; girls of eight carried on their backs babies wrapped in dirty rags. The little mothers and their charges seemed never to have seen soap and water, but from hair to anklets they were decked with faded flowers.
Blind people—there were hundreds of them—walked along as boldly as if they had eyesight, leaving it for those who could see to get out of their way.
"Balek (out of the way)!" was the cry of everyone. "Emshi Rooah, ya kelb (clear out, begone, you dog)!" was a cry I had grown accustomed to through hearing it hurled at me countless times, for was not I a member of
"A sect they are taught to hate
And are delighted to decapitate."
The upper stories of the houses projected over the lower, and, because of the narrow street, the houses that stood opposite each other almost met, so that all one could see of the sky in many places was a bright blue chink overhead. The walls were all whitewashed; here and there a beautiful gateway appeared. One could not tell from the exterior of the houses whether rich folk or poor folk dwelt inside the walls, yet beyond many of these dark corridors leading through the walls were beautiful garden courts, with silver fountains playing and an abundance of flowers and trees, while underfoot were tiles of various rich colors.
Of the many mosques I passed I can tell nothing, as Christians are not allowed to enter them. Neither were we allowed to dress in green or white—for these are the colors of the prophet.
My new master, still using me as a beast of burden, took me several times to the house at which he lodged. I was thus able to get a glimpse inside a Mohammedan home of the middle class. We went through a whitewashed tunnel till we came to a gate from which hung a huge brass knocker.
My master did not use the knocker. He began to pound on the door in the Arab fashion. A veiled woman peeped over the terrace wall and screamed a question at him. His reply reassured her, and we were admitted to a little square court that was neatly paved with red tiles, through which ran a path of marble lined with oleanders and fig trees. Rooms, white-washed and blue-washed, opened on this court. The owner of the house, Fatima, was a widow, who lived with her old father, and earned her living by embroidering and weaving. She wore the white silken veil as we entered; but as she gossiped with my master she pulled it aside and showed her brown, dumpling face. She wore an embroidered jacket and silk pantaloons, along with gold trimmings and jewelry—an array that seemed so strange to me that I kept my eyes fastened on the ceiling while I was in her presence. She had rented one of her small rooms to my master, whose parents she knew. Fatima spent much of her time on the roof of her house, looking down on the street over the walls of her terrace. The roofs or terraces were used by women alone and most of the visiting between houses was done by climbing across the walls dividing the houses.