In the center of the group set three large bowls, one of lentils and another of chopped-up potatoes in oil. The third contained a delicacy made of sour milk—a cross between a soup and a pudding, that is a great favorite among the Arabs. On the floor, beside each member of the family, lay several sheets of bread, half a yard in diameter and as thin as cardboard, each heap bearing a close resemblance to the famous “stack of wheats” of our own land. The head of the house pushed the bowls toward me, ordered a stack of bread to be placed beside my cushion, and motioned to me to eat. I stared helplessly at the bowls, for there was neither knife, fork, nor spoon in sight. The girl, however, knowing the ways of faranchees from years in a mission-school in Beirut, explained my perplexity to her father. He cast upon me such a look as an American society leader might bestow upon an Australian Bushman at her table, begged my pardon, through his daughter, for overriding the dictates of etiquette by partaking of a morsel before his guest had begun, tore a few inches from a bread-sheet, and folding it between his fingers, picked up a pinch of lentils and ate. I lost no time in falling to.
A wonderful invention is this gkebis or Arab bread. If one purchases food in a native bazaar, it is wrapped in a bread-sheet—and a very serviceable wrapper it is, for it requires a good grip and a fair pair of biceps to tear it. A bread-sheet takes the place of many table utensils: arab matrons, ’tis said, never complain of their dishwashing tasks. It makes a splendid cover for pots and pans, it does well as a waiter’s tray. Never have I seen it used to cover roofs, nor as shaving paper—but the Oriental is noted for his inability to make the most of his opportunities. In its primary mission—as an article of food—however, gkebis is not an unqualified success. In taste it is not always unsavory, but ten minutes chewing makes far less impression on it than on a rubber mat. It is rumored, too, that more than one Frank has lost his appetite in striving to pronounce its guttural Arabic name. Very often—as on this occasion—when weeks have passed since its baking, the gkebis grows brittle and is inclined to break when used as a spoon. My host picked up one of my sheets, held it against the glowing stove with the flat of his hand, and returned it. It was as pliable as cloth and much more toothsome than before.
The younger man rolled cigarettes for the three of us. We had settled back to chat—through interpreter—when there came a tap at the door and a few words in Arabic that caused the family to jump hurriedly to their feet. An awe-struck whisper passed from mouth to mouth; “sheik! sheik!” The children were whisked into one corner, the door flung open, and there entered a diminutive man of about sixty. Long, flowing robes enveloped his form, a turban-wound fez perched almost jauntily on his head, and his feet were bare, for he had dropped his slippers at the door. His face, above all, attracted attention. Deep-wrinkled, with a long scar across one cheek, a visage browned and weather-beaten by the wild storms that sometimes rage over the Lebanon, there was about it an expression of frankness; yet from his eyes there flashed shrewd, worldly-wise glances that stamped him as a man vastly different from his simple fellow-townsmen.
The sheik greeted the head of the family, took a seat near me on the divan, salaamed solemnly to each person present, acknowledged the greetings they returned, and with a wave of his hand bade them be seated. The newcomer had, quite plainly, been attracted to the house by the rumor that a faranchee was visiting the family. After a few preliminary remarks, the drift of which I could follow from his expressive gestures and the few words I had picked up, he turned the conversation, with the ease of a diplomat, to the subject of their strange guest. My hosts needed no urging. For a time the sheik listened to their explanations and suppositions with an unruffled mien, puffing the while at a cigarette with as blasé an air as if faranchees were the most ordinary beings to him.
As a climax to his tale the head of the house remarked that I was bound to “Shaam” on foot. The ending was fully as effective as he could have hoped. The sheik fairly bounded into the air, threw his cigarette at the open stove, and burst forth into an excited tirade. The girl interpreted. It was the old story of “impossible,” “can’t be done,” and the rest; but a new element was introduced into a threadbare prediction; for the sheik declared that, as village magistrate, he would not permit me to continue in such a foolhardy undertaking. How many weapons did I carry? None? What? No weapon? Travel to far-off Damascus without being armed? Why, his own villagers never ventured along the highway to the nearest towns without their guns! He would not hear of it; and he was still disclaiming as only an excited Oriental can, when the missionary came to invite me to a second supper.
I took leave of my host early next morning, swung my knapsack over my shoulder, and limped down to the road. But Bhamdoon was not yet done with me. In the center of the highway, in front of the little shop of which he was proprietor, stood the sheik and several fellow townsmen. With great politeness, he invited me to step inside. My feet were still swollen and blistered from the long tramp of the day before, for the cloth slippers of Port Saïd offered no more protection from the sharp stones of the highway than a sheet of paper, and I accepted the invitation. The village head placed a stool for me in the front of the shop, in full sight from up or down the route. It soon became evident that I was on exhibition as a freak of humanity, for the sheik pointed me out with great delight to every passer-by. Apparently, too, he had chosen this opportune moment to collect some village tax. On the floor beside me stood an earthenware pot, and the sheik, as soon as his exhibit had been viewed from all sides, called upon each newcomer to drop into it a bishleek (ten cents). Like true Orientals, they gave smaller pieces, some half bishleeks, some one or two metleeks; but not a man passed without contributing his mite, for the command of the sheik of a Syrian village is law to all its inhabitants.
Some time I had served as a bait for tax-dodgers when a villager I had not yet seen put in an appearance, and addressed me in fluent English. He had gathered a Syrian fortune in Maine and returned, years before, to the rugged slopes of his native Lebanon. He insisted that I visit his house nearby and, once there, fell to tucking bread-sheets, black olives, raisins, and pieces of sugar-cane into any knapsack, shouting incessantly at the same time of his undying affection for America and things American. Out of mere pride for his bleak country, he took care, on the way back to the shop, to point out a narrow path that wound up the steep slope of a neighboring range.
“That,” he said, “leads to the Damascus road. But no man can journey to Damascus on foot.”
The earthenware pot was almost full when I took my seat again on the stool. I turned to my new acquaintance.
“What special taxes is the sheik gathering this morning?” I demanded.