I understood his explanation perfectly, of course, but I had an unconquerable dread of forgetting it in my sleep.
“Certainly,” cried the obliging clerk, and he dragged forth two sheets of paper and covered both with figures. Reduced to writing, the monetary system of Syria was simplicity itself. One could see through it as easily as through six inches of armor plate.
“Now, in carting this around—” I asked, tucking the sheets of paper away in a pocket, “you don’t hire a porter—”
“Ah,” said the clerk, “you have not the large purse? Our Syrians carry a purse which is very long, which is long like the stocking which it is said are worn by the lady; but if you have not such a long purse and you have not any ladies—” I drew out a large handkerchief and fell to raking the heap of coins into it. “Ah,” he cried, “that does very good, only you do not forget that in Damascus the mejeedieh is worth seven bishleeks and seven metleeks and two coppers and sometimes—” But I had escaped into the silence outside.
I reduced my burden somewhat by spending the heaviest pieces of junk for breakfast and, strolling down to the harbor, sat down on a pier. The bedlam of shrieking stevedores, braying camels, and the rattle of discharging ships drowned for some time all individual sounds. In a sudden lull, I caught faintly a shout in English behind me and turned around. A lean native in European dress and fez was beckoning to me from the opening of one of the narrow streets. I dropped from the pier and turned shoreward. The native ran towards me. “You speak Eengleesh?” he cried, “Yes? No? What countryman you?”
“American.”
“No? Not American?” shrieked the native, dancing up and down, “You not American? Ha! ha! ver’ fine. I American one time, too. I be one time sailor on American warsheep Brooklyn. You know Brooklyn? Ver’ nice sheep, Brooklyn. You write Eengleesh, too, No? Yes? Ver’ fine! You like job? I got letters write in Eengleesh! Come, you!”
He led the way through the swarming bazaar, shouting answers to the questions I put to him. He claimed the name of Abdul Razac Bundak and the profession of “bumboat-man,” one of those familiar figures of Oriental ports, a native who had picked up a fluent use of so-called English, the language of the shipping world, and turned it to practicable account. His activities were varied. He sold supplies to foreign ships, acted as interpreter for officers ashore, led tourists on sight-seeing expeditions, and, in the busy season, ran a sailors’ boarding house.
Some distance back from the harbor, in a shoe shop kept by his uncle, I sat down to write three letters at Bundak’s dictation. By the time we had finished them—and a dozen cigarettes—my familiarity with other languages had leaked out, and I wrote three more, two in French and one in Spanish. With one exception, all six were bids to ship captains accustomed to visit Beirut. The bumboat-man paid me two unknown coins, and “set up” a dinner in a neighboring shop.
