“It lasts for only five months, Sidi; but it is enough for me. I am strong as the lion.”
I gazed at him with an admiration I could not repress. There was, indeed, something of the hero about this simple-minded Saharaman. We were at the edge of the oasis, in a remote place looking towards the quivering mirage which guards dead Okba’s tomb. A tiny earthen house, with a flat terrace ending in the jagged bank of the Oued Biskra, was crouched here in the shade. From it emerged a pleasant scent of coffee. Suddenly Safti’s bare legs began to “give.” I felt it would be cruel to push on farther. We entered the house, seated ourselves luxuriously upon a baked divan of mud, set our slippers on a reed mat, rolled our cigarettes, and commanded our coffee. When a Kabyle boy with a rosebud stuck under his turban had brought it languidly, I said to Safti:
“And now, Safti, tell me how you pass your little holiday.”
Safti smiled gently in his beard. He was glad to have this moment of repose.
“Each day is like its brother, Sidi,” he responded, gazing out through the low doorway to the shimmering Sahara.
“Then tell me how you pass a summer day.”
The coffee nerved him to this stubborn exertion, and he spoke.
“ Sahah Sidi.”
“ Merci.”
We sipped.