But alack for those interested. Owing to the clamour about him much of the recital was lost: “‘Cheers and tears.... ... Life’s benison.... Honiton lace.... If I live to be forty, it was a moment I shall never forget.... Panic ... congestion.... Police.’”
But it was scarcely needful to peruse the paper, when on the boulevards outside, the festivities were everywhere in full swing. The arrival of the princess for her wedding had brought to Kairoulla unprecedented crowds from all parts of the kingdom, as much eager to see the princess, as to catch a glimpse of the fine pack of beagles, that it was said had been brought over with her, and which had taken an half eerie hold of the public mind. Gilderoy, Beausire, Audrey, many of the dogs’ names were known pleasantly to the crowd already; and anecdotes of Audrey, picture-postcards of Audrey, were sold as rapidly almost as those even of the princess. Indeed mothers among the people had begun to threaten their disobedient offspring with Audrey, whose silky, thickset frame was supported, it appeared, daily on troublesome little boys and tiresome little girls....
“Erri, erri, get on with thy bouquet, oh Lazari Demitraki!” Bachir exclaimed in plaintive tones, addressing a blonde boy with a skin of amber, who was “charming” an earwig with a reed of grass.
“She dance the Boussadilla just like in the street of Halfaouine in Gardaïa my town any Ouled Nail!” he rapturously gurgled.
“Get on with thy work, oh Lazari Demitraki,” Bachir besought him, “and leave the earwigs alone for the clients to find.”
“What with the heat, the smell of the flowers, the noise of you boys, and with filthy earwigs Boussadillaing all over one, I feel I could swoon,” the voice, cracked yet cloying, was Peter Passer’s.
He had come to Kairoulla for the “celebrations,” and also, perhaps, aspiring to advance his fortunes, in ways known best to himself. With Bachir, his connection dated from long ago, when as a Cathedral choir-boy it had been his habit to pin a shoulder, or bosom-blossom to his surplice, destroying it with coquettish, ring-laden fingers in the course of an anthem, and scattering the petals from the choir-loft, leaf by leaf, on to the grey heads of the monsignori below.
“Itchiata wa?” Bachir grumbled, playing his eyes distractedly around the shop. And it might have been better for the numerous orders there were to attend to had he called fewer of his acquaintance to assist him. Sunk in torpor, a cigarette smouldering at his ear, a Levantine Greek known as “Effendi darling” was listening to a dark-cheeked Tunisian engaged at the Count of Tolga’s private Hammam Baths—a young man, who, as he spoke, would make mazy gestures of the hands as though his master’s ribs, or those of some illustrious guest, lay under him. But by no means all of those assembled in the little shop, bore the seal of Islam. An American who had grown too splendid for the copper “Ganymede” or Soda-fountain of a Café bar and had taken to teaching the hectic dance-steps of his native land in the night-halls where Bachir sold, was achieving wonders with some wires and Eucharist lilies, while discussing with a shy-mannered youth the many difficulties that beset the foreigner in Kairoulla.
“Young chaps that come out here, don’t know what they’re coming to,” he sapiently remarked, using his incomparable teeth in place of scissors. “Gosh! Talk of advancement,” he growled.
“There’s few can mix as I can, yet I don’t never get no rise!” the shy youth exclaimed, producing a card that was engraved: Harry Cummings, Salad-Dresser to the King: “I expect I’ve arrived,” he murmured, turning to hide a modest blush towards a pale young man who looked on life through heavy horn glasses.