By the time I reached Raineh it was as dark as a pocket, and the path over the Jebel was out of the question. The winding highway pursued its leisurely course and led me into Nazareth at an hour when every shop was closed. For some time I could not orientate myself and wandered shivering through the silent bazaars, the cold, dank stones underfoot sending through me a thrill of helplessness such as Anteus must have felt when lifted off the strength-giving earth. Then a familiar corner gave me my bearings, and I hobbled away to the home of Elias.
The village shoemaker, being summoned next morning, appeared with several pairs of Nazarene slippers, heelless and thin as Indian moccasins; again shod, I set out with the teachers for the home of Shukry. It was a simple dwelling of the better class, halfway up the slope of Jebel es Sihk, and from its roof spread out the bowl-shaped village at our feet, Mt. Tabor, and the lesser peaks away in the distance. The recent death of his father had left the youth to rule over the household. In all but years he was a mature man, boasting already a bristling moustache, for humans ripen early in the East.
It was January seventh according to our calendar, or Christmas Day according to the Russian, a time of festival among the Greek churchmen and of ceremonial visits among all Christians. Our shoes off, we were sitting on a divan when the guests began to appear. Each arrival—all men, of course, though Shukry’s mother hovered in the far background—was greeted by the head of the family standing erect in the center of the room. There was no hand-shaking, but a low kow-tow by guest and host and a carelessly mumbled greeting. Then the visitor slid out of his slippers, squatted on the capacious divan, and, when all were firmly seated, the salutation “naharak saeed” was exchanged, this time being clearly enunciated. If the newcomer was a priest, Shukry’s small brother slid forward to kiss his hand and retired again into an obscure corner. These formalities over, the guest, priest or layman, was served cigarettes and a tiny cup of coffee. Frankness is the key to the Arab character. The hypocritical smirks of our own social gatherings are not required of the Nazarene who lays claim to good breeding. If the visitor was a friend or fellow-churchman of his host an animated conversation broke out and, interrupted at brief intervals by new arrivals, raged long and vociferously. Those who professed a different faith—the Greek priests especially—sipped their coffee in absolute silence, puffed at a cigarette, and, with another “naharak saeed,” glided into their slippers and departed.
Later in the day I made, with my host, the round of the Christian families, deafened with questions in Protestant homes, suffered to sit in painful silence in Greek dwellings, and undermining my constitution with every known brand of cigarette. Our course ended at the Kawar home. The former mayor, dressed in latest faranchee garb, with a vast expanse of white vest, sat cross-legged in his white stocking-feet, a fez perched on his head. The conversation soon turned to things American.
“Many years ago,” translated the eldest son, on behalf of his father, “I began to wonder why, by the beard of the prophet, faranchees come from a great, rich country like America to travel in a miserable land like ours.”
A long dissertation on the joys and advantages of globe-trotting drew from the former sheik only an exclamation of “M’abaraf!” (I don’t understand).
“An American who was in Nazareth long ago,” he went on, by mouth of offspring, “told me a strange story. I did not believe him, for it cannot be true. He said that in America people buy dogs!” and the mere suggestion of so ludicrous a transaction sent the assembled group into paroxysms of laughter.
“They do,” I replied.
The pompous ex-mayor fell into such convulsions of merriment that his rotund face grew the color of burnished copper.
“BUY dogs?” roared his sons, in a chorus of several languages. “But what for?”