“Not many. I used to, when I first came to Africa, but it’s a poor game. I began to study English when I came to Cairo, a year ago. My first letters must have been bad, for I got no answers. But they make me a living now, and an occasional spree.”
“How much time does your letter writing take?”
“Four hours. I used to write at all times. Then I read of an author who wrote, rain or shine, from nine till one, and I find it a good idea. But to-day I’m going to break the rule and show you where you can talk the pounds out of some rich Americans. Why,” he cried, enthusiastically, “there hasn’t been a real American working the crowd since I’ve been here. We’ll go into partnership. I know all the ropes and you can do the writing and interviewing; and, when we get Cairo pumped out, we’ll go up the Nile! I know every white man from here to Cape Town. I’ve covered Africa from one end to the other—with an American partner, too. But he was a real Pennsylvania Dutchman and had a little accent. You’ll do much better. Africa’s all good; though Cairo’s the best, for there’s no vagrancy law here. We’ll make an easy living together or my name isn’t Otto Pia.”
“Ever think of going to America?”
An Arab gardener on the estate of the American consul of Cairo, for whom I worked two weeks
Otto Pia, the German beggar-letter writer of Cairo
“Never,” he cried, “unless I was drunk. Never again a white man’s country for me! Here, a white wanderer is an isolated case of misfortune, far from his native shore. At home, he is only a common tramp, one among thousands, and the man who would give him pounds here would give him to the police there. That’s why few of die Kunde who come here—if they have brains enough to weave Märchen—ever go back. Do you know the secret of getting the sympathy of the rich? It’s to make them think we’re much worse off here than at home and to keep before them the idea that we cannot find work. For that reason I am a plate-layer in Cairo; for plate-layers are only needed far up the Nile. If I’m up the Nile, I’m a stenographer, or a waiter, or anything else that there is sure to be no work for. No, mein Freund, never your United States for me! And you’ll not go back either, when I’ve showed you how easy it is to pick the roosters here. A tramp, you know, is like a prophet—’er gilt nichts in seinem Vaterlande.’”
“While you’re dressing and thinking up a few good Märchen,” he went on, turning to his writing, “I’ll copy this letter. Then I’ll show you a few of the easiest marks.”