A small crowd had gathered round one of the booths in the saddlery bazaar, and sounds of controversy echoed down the vaulted ways. I love to follow the tortuous arts of Oriental commerce, and moreover at the end of the dark gallery the February sun was shining upon the steep mound of the citadel; therefore I turned into the saddlers’ street, for I had no other business that afternoon than to find the road back into Asia, back into the familiar enchantment of the East. The group of men round the booth swayed and parted, and out of it shouldered the tall figure of Fattûḥ.
“May God be exalted!” said he, stopping short as he caught sight of me. “It is well that your Excellency should witness the dealings of the saddlers of Aleppo. Without shame are they. Thirty years and more have I lived in Aleppo, and until this day no man has asked me to give two piastres for a hank of string.” He cast a withering glance, charged with concentrated animosity, upon the long-robed figure that stood, string in hand, upon the counter.
“Allah!” said I warily, for I did not wish to parade my ignorance of the market value of string. “Two piastres?”
“It is good string,” said the saddler ingratiatingly, holding out what looked like a tangled bundle of black wool.
“Eh wah!” intervened a friend. “ ’Abdullah sells nought but the best string.”
I took a seat upon a corner of the counter and Fattûḥ came slowly back, shaking his head mournfully, as one who recognizes but cannot amend the shortcomings of mankind. The whole company closed in behind him, anxious to witness the upshot of the important transaction upon which we were engaged. On the outskirts stood one of my muleteers like a man plunged in grief; even the donkey beside him—a recent purchase, though acquired at what cost of eloquence only Fattûḥ can know—drooped its ears. It was plain that we were to be mulcted of a farthing over that hank of string.
Fattûḥ drew a cotton bag out of his capacious trousers.
“Take the mother of eight,” said he, extracting a small coin.
“He gives you the mother of eight,” whispered one of the company encouragingly to the saddler.
“By God and the Prophet, it cost me more! Wallah, it did, oh my uncle!” expostulated the saddler, enforcing his argument with imaginary bonds of kinship.