I went to that haunt of the dragomans, the pavement outside the terrace of Shepheard’s hotel, late enough to have allowed for the post-prandial nap. I found one or two hanging about on the chance of some tourist who might be taking Cairo on his way home from yet hotter climates.
They had not seen Mohammed lately and did not know to what part of Cairo he had moved; but one of them knew a relation of his and promised that he should be made to know that I was in Cairo.
That same evening Mohammed was awaiting me in the hall of the hotel.
After the first greetings I remarked on what a swell he had become, and asked him why he should have an English covert-coat over his becoming oriental dress, on so hot an evening as it was. Instead of the old red slippers, he wore European tanned-leather boots, and the turban was replaced by the hideous tarbouch. He had forgotten my dislike for this half-and-half get-up, and he told me it was now quite ‘the thing’ amongst the better-class dragomans.
I was glad, however, to find that the seven seasons during which he had been preying on the tourists had not, apart from these changes in his garments, altered him much for the worse.
‘Well, how is the baby?’ I asked him. ‘Oh, he is getting a big boy now.’ ‘And the wife?’ I ventured this time. A rather crestfallen look prepared me that something was wrong. ‘Which wife, sir, do you mean?’ ‘You must be doing uncommonly well if you can afford two wives,’ I said; ‘most of us who have to earn our living in England find one as much as we can manage; besides, Mohammed, you used to agree with me that it was a very foolish thing for any one to have more than one.’ He certainly seemed to agree with me now, for it was evident that trouble began when number two made her appearance.
‘It came about like this,’ he went on. ‘You remember I told you that my first wife, the mother of our Hassan, was very pretty, and that I loved her very much.’ ‘Yes, I remember she was very pretty, for you know I caught sight of her that day my wife and I dined at your house.’ He smiled, but shook his head, as much as to say that he, a Moslem, ought not to have allowed his wife to be seen unveiled. As I, however, was not a Moslem myself, he tried to console himself that he had not transgressed Mohammedan law.
‘A pretty face, sir, she still has, but her tongue gets worse and worse.’
I asked the foolish young man if he expected to improve her tongue by introducing her to a second wife. ‘I have been a great fool,’ was his mournful reply; and after a pause, ‘I think I shall have to divorce her; but I love her very much in spite of her temper.’
‘Well, now, about number two?’ I asked. ‘It came about like this,’ he began again. ‘You must remember Ahmed Abd-er-Rahman, the old dragoman that used to come here.’ ‘I don’t remember him, but no matter.’ ‘Well, I asked his advice about curing a wife’s temper, but got little encouragement from him. The few remedies he suggested, and which I tried, only made matters worse.