DURING THAT FIRST DAY we made small preliminary excursions on our camels, grew accustomed to our chairs settling into the sand when we sat down in them, surveyed from the top of our sand dune the Arab village below the plateau, wondered if the dogs barked all night as well as all day—which they did—and that night we gave a party.
Such preparations as were made! A pole with a large gasoline lamp, set up to guide our guests and later on for the entertainment which followed; rugs on the sand beneath it, for the same purpose; an extra cook from Cairo, for were we not to have nine courses at dinner? And food in such quantities as were to show our wealth and importance to our guests, for Assour was arranging the party, and was determined to shine in our reflected glory.
During the day, with the preparations for the feast our establishment began gradually to enlarge itself. Came a woman with two children from somewhere or other, and set to work peeling potatoes; came a patriarchal old gentleman with a beard, who seated himself in the shadow of the cook tent and only moved when our feast was over and the men were about to fall to. Came donkey boys and camel boys with supplies, to tie up their animals and wait until the dinner hour. Came over the sand shortly after noon the galli-galli man, engaged for nine P.M., followed by his piper, also to be in good time for the meal.
And later on, when darkness had fallen and our gasoline lamp shone like a moon over the desert, came our guests on camels each led by a cloaked and turbaned figure which also joined the silent expectant circle just behind the cook tent.
A strange thing it was thus to wait for our guests; to see Abou Taleb, whose religion forbids unnecessary killing, carefully carrying strange huge insects out of the dining tent, where on release they immediately flew back again! To see Assour, busy and efficient, assuring our uninvited guests of our wealth, our hospitality, and the plenteous quantity of the meal they soon would have.
“They are fine peoples,” he said, with a gesture. “They pay for everything. They wish everyone to have plenty.” This in English, for our benefit. Who, after that, could have shown a niggardly spirit? And again:
“I have tell the camel boys that you will pay them, sair,” he said to the Head. “Bakshish, also. Nobody can pay anything tonight, but you and the madams. Is it not so?”
“Indeed, it appears to be so,” said the Head.
A period of waiting. The piper blew on his gourdlike pipe, three notes or so, over and over. There was a faint and somewhat premature odor of Scotch from behind the cook tent, where the wines and liquors were stored, but withal a grave decorum. And then out of the darkness came a distant swinging lamp, and the soft pad of the first camel’s feet.
In they came; brilliant saddle cloths, necklaces and tassels shone in the artificial moonlight. The camels knelt and the guests slid off. It had been an eerie affair, that three-mile ride through the darkness on the great beasts, led by strange unseen and shrouded figures. But now they were here, with their escorts. The officials each had brought a kavass, gorgeous in gold-laced uniform; the tourists had their dragomen. The circle behind the cook tent was still further enlarged, and Assour’s eyes fairly snapped. This was a party. There was plenty for all. I questioned him anxiously, but he smiled, showing his white and perfect teeth.
“Plenty, madams,” he said. “Tonight no one he go hungry. If more come, there is still enough.”
And, I rather fancy, more did come. But the utmost decorum obtained. Not a sound entered the dining tent from outside during that long and elaborate meal, save now and then the piper’s three plaintive notes as he played outside in the sand. Nor even later, when the feast had passed on, was there any confusion. Somewhere, beyond the lamp light, our unseen guests sat about their food, eating it Arab fashion with their hands. And I hope—and believe—that Assour was right, and that that one night no one there went hungry. But until the galli-galli man began his curious cry, they remained dim shadows, ghosts of desert people, eating in the sand.
Who can describe the conjuror? Is it not a part of his mystery that he remains beyond description? How can I convey to you that I saw the American consul throw the Head’s sapphire ring out far into the desert, and that later I took it out of the center of an uncut orange? Who can explain the amazement of that impeccable young Englishman when, as he sat in his chair with his cup of Turkish coffee in his hand, two extremely new chickens suddenly emerged from the neck of his dinner coat? A snake was found where it had no business to be. The galli-galli man ate fire and blew flames out of his mouth. Wonders of all sorts took place to the piper’s music. And slowly out of the darkness came our uninvited guests, picturesque and ragged, to form a circle of delight behind us, and later on, at our invitation, to dance: those odd men’s dances of the desert, where a stick now takes the place of the gun, where each improvises his own stiff-kneed steps as he goes, and yet where some fundamental and to us unknown law of the dance yet rigidly obtains.
Thus our first evening in the desert. The gasoline lamp was still burning when we went to bed, and the dogs in Mena village were still barking.
My last waking words were to the Head, who was propped up in bed doing a cross-word puzzle.
“Well,” I said, “if food will do it we ought to get strong as a lions!”
“I daresay,” he replied absently. “And we’re leaving Mena village in good shape, too. What’s the name of an island in the Lesser Antilles?”