The school was upon the outskirts of the town, in a high enclosure. Half of this formed a pretty garden, and the rest a playground, while the building itself was but a row of neglected rooms along one wall. The European style of culture and education supposed to be imparted to the pupils was evidenced by a high horizontal bar, the sign of gymnastic exercises never performed. Over the doors were the signs “Birinji,” “Ekinji,” “Uchinji,” “Durdinji,” and “Baishinji”—first, second, third, fourth, and fifth classes. At the edge of the garden strip was a large tank of clear water, and above it a canopy of boughs had been made, to form what the Kurds call a “chardaq.”

Here upon a high bench sat the Mudir Effendi, a fat little man duly decked with tin stars and strapped trousers, an insignificant Turk of Sivas, who spoke no language but his own, if a few words of French be excepted. A younger man was seated near him in a chair, playing with his sword, and he was introduced to me as the “Ekinji Mu’allim,” or second in command of the school. His linguistic accomplishments included a slight knowledge of Persian and Arabic, and a good knowledge of Kurdish, for he was a native of the Kirkuk district. The mudir received me very graciously, not being able to refrain, however, from the Turkish habit of showing an overwhelming inquisitiveness as to my nationality, reason for coming to Sulaimania, what I was doing, and anything else he could think of to afford a question. Mustafa Beg, however, made capital of his queries, and made them the occasion of an eulogy of my accomplishments, adding as a final and convincing proof, that I had lived several years in London, and had seen Bombay, Constantinople, and Teheran. These qualifications immediately gave me a position, and having readily answered some schoolmaster questions as to the population of London and Paris, and the strength of the British Army, I was admitted to terms of the greatest friendship. The little man had never been nearer to Constantinople than Smyrna, and like all Turks in the uncongenial climate of Kurdistan, lamented his presence there. He was good enough to compliment me upon my knowledge of Kurdish, a tongue he confessed he could never acquire, and besought me to teach him Persian and French. Being a military man, his thought ran upon matters martial, and his questions soon came round to the subject. He could not comprehend how a State like England could possibly hang together without compulsory service, and expressed the greatest surprise that I could have escaped it. What upset him more than anything else was the obvious fact that without military service no man in Turkey could carry his “tezkere,” a document all must have, and without which the subject is liable to suspicion and annoyance, and he failed to see why a British subject, not being liable to service, could possess one. In fact, he lamented the system which only gave a passport to the subject when he travelled in certain foreign lands, and considered such a lack of control over the individual to be a lively cause of anarchy and rebellion. After partaking of tea, and some Regie cigarettes which he produced specially for my benefit, we made our excuses and asked permission “to be excused.” As I was about to leave, a note arrived from Hama, who was at Halabja, and its contents caused me to go down to search for Matti, whom I found in the bazaar.

COMMERCIAL TRANSAC­TIONS

Hama had gone to Halabja soon after I had come to Sulaimania, to receive a large consignment of “run” which I had contracted to buy. The transaction had been one common enough in these parts. Under the guarantee of Mansur the Christian I had advanced to one Makha, a Jew (with the fiercest red head I ever saw on any one), a sum to go out into the highways and byways of Kurdistan and purchase gradually of the Kurds, who had been storing up the precious oil as they prepared it, waiting the advent of such a buyer. So having arrived at Sulaimania I had to send Hama back, for the time was near when the Jew should return, and my man must be there to receive the merchandise and arrange transport. Hama, however, had not liked the idea of going to Halabja empty-handed; like all Kurds who have come in contact with trade and business, he was keen to experiment. So after a consultation with Matti and Habib Badria, the former of whom did not quite like the idea, it was arranged that he should take with him a load of shoes and a few odd things, for sale to the shopkeepers of Halabja. Accordingly, before he left we went to the shoemakers’ bazaar. Here is a long street with wide and deep booths on either side, occupied entirely in the manufacture of shoes. These are of three designs: a red leather shoe turned up to a blunt point, a black one of the same shape, and a female shoe, a slipper with only a toe-cap ornamented with steel beads, and a long high heel—which is added only after the shoe is bought, and which is put on by a man whose trade it is to perform only this part of the shoemaking business.

Here in one of the shops we took seats and waited while the shopman collected from his neighbours’ and his own stock a sufficient number of shoes. In order that dispute might be lessened to a certain extent, a Christian was called in who, being not of our religion, might be assumed to be free from prejudice against, or favour for, any one of us. He tested the shoes and examined them, and through him we conducted all the negotiations. As each pair of shoes had to be bargained for, the process took some time. Custom, too, demanded that a certain formality should be observed. The owner would first mention a fancy price, and to save time the other holders would, instead of arguing, solidly ejaculate the phrase, “Warra la khwaru!” (“Come down!”), repeating it till almost the right price was reached, when the arbitrator would step in, and after a short argument would settle a price about midway between the buyer’s and seller’s figure, and which both were bound to accept. In this way, in the space of five hours, we purchased some fifty pairs of shoes, and having paid the money, Hama carried away all the footgear in a sack. These, with a sample of cigarette papers and a dozen rosaries, made his stock, and he left next morning.

I now had a letter from him, and from Mansur. The former told me of his successes with the shoe-selling, which had, while not great, been satisfactory, and the latter attempted to explain why Makha the Jew had not returned from Juanru with the “run.” Matti was rather inclined to regard my efforts with disfavour, and would, I think, have tried to dissuade me, for he knew that I was not experienced in trading. Habib, on the other hand, was extremely keen that I should open an office in their caravanserai, and in this he was strongly seconded by one Antoine, a merchant of twenty years’ standing in Sulaimania, and two bankruptcies during that time, a feature of Oriental trading which sometimes betokens considerable acumen and astuteness rather than commercial inaptitude. Antoine was a buyer for certain merchants in Bagdad and Mosul, and when I made his acquaintance, was purchasing gum tragacanth. Now I, too, was quite willing to buy tragacanth, but he had become alarmed, and had managed to form a small ring which had little difficulty in shutting me out. I attempted even to make Antoine act as broker for me, and in an interview when Matti was present as witness, forced a promise out of him, but he repudiated it afterwards. Yet he would constantly come along as I sat outside Matti’s shop, and in his queer Persian exhort me to buy skins, or wheat, and affirm that he had made great profit in deals. He had a younger brother who assisted him, a big honest lad, who stood rather in fear of him and his wily ways. For years he had been in close touch with the Musulman merchants, and was considerably disliked by his co-religionists on account of his habit of doing business on Sunday—a day which the Arab and Chaldean Christian observes as strictly as is done in Scotland, and passes in as dull a way.

CHALDEAN ACQUAINT­ANCES

Matti also was assisted by a younger brother, a somewhat surly fellow, but good-hearted enough, and to him fell the task of cooking their food on the verandah outside the office. For these Chaldeans of Mosul live day and night in their rooms, which are office and home combined; and such men as Matti and Antoine had existed thus, in what we should call a small dark cellar full of merchandise, for two decades. In normal times, that is, when business was good, and passage after dark in the streets not dangerous, the Christians divided themselves into messes of five and six, each taking turn to cook; but now, with the general insecurity forbidding intercourse between Matti’s caravanserai, the Khan-i-’Ajam, and the caravanserai where the other merchants lived, and the terrible depression in trade, they had all retrenched, and with the exception of Matti and Habib, who still kept up the habit, each did for himself; and Habib might be seen every other day watching a sizzling pot anxiously while he sold cottons, or leaving a heap of half-prepared stuffed cucumbers to attend to a Kurdish buyer.

As often as they could induce me to stay, I would dine with Matti and Habib, but at first Matti had been very diffident, and had, in order to satisfy himself upon a certain point, ordered some lunch one day when I was present, and invited me to join. I had refused, but he continued to press, and I continued to excuse myself till at last he sighed, and said with signs of a little chagrin:

“I thought you were a liberal-minded Musulman, and would not consider me unclean, but I see that it is true that the Persians are more particular than the Sunni, and will not eat with a Christian.”