The Book of Khalid by Ameen Rihani Read Free Book Online

of sleeping on the floor, they stretch themselves on the counters. The rising tide teachesthem this little wisdom, which keeps the doctor and Izräil away. Their merchandise, however,—their crosses, and scapulars and prayer-beads,—are beyond hope of recovery. For what the rising tide spares, the rascally flyaway peddlers carry away. That is why they themselves shoulder the box and take to the road. And the pious old dames of the suburbs, we are told, receive them with such exclamations of joy and wonder, and almost tear their coats to get from them a sacred token. For you must remember, they are from the Holy Land. Unlike their goods, they at least are genuine. And every Saturday night, after beating the hoof in the country and making such fabulous profits on their false Holy-Land gewgaws, they return to their cellar happy and content.
    “In three years,” writes our Scribe, “Khalid and I acquired what I still consider a handsome fortune. Each of us had a bank account, and a check book which we seldom used.… In spite of which, we continued to shoulder the peddling box and tramp along.… And Khalid would say to me, ‘A peddler is superior to a merchant; we travel and earn money; our compatriots the merchants rust in their cellars and lose it.’ To be sure, peddling in the good old days was most attractive. For the exercise, the gain, the experience—these are rich acquirements.”
    And both Shakib and Khalid, we apprehend, have been hitherto most moderate in their habits. The fact that they seldom use their check books, testifies to this. They have now a peddleress, Im-Hanna by name, who occupies their cellar in their absence, and keeps what little they have in order. And when they return every Saturday night from their peddling trip, they find the old woman as ready to serve them as a mother. She cooks
mojadderah
for them, and sews the bed-linen on the quilts as is done in the mother country.
    “The linen,” says Shakib, “was always as white as a dove’s wing, when Im-Hanna was with us.”
    And in the Khedivial Library Manuscript we find this curious note upon that popular Syrian dish of lentils and olive oil.
    “
Mojadderah
,” writes Khalid, “has a marvellous effect upon my humour and nerves. There are certain dishes, I confess, which give me the blues. Of these, fried eggplants and cabbage boiled with corn-beef on the American system of boiling, that is to say, cooking, I abominate the most. But
mojadderah
has such a soothing effect on the nerves; it conduces to cheerfulness, especially when the raw onion or the leek is taken with it. After a good round pewter platter of this delicious dish and a dozen leeks, I feel as if I could do the work of all mankind. And I am then in such a beatific state of mind that I would share with all mankind my sack of lentils and my pipkin of olive oil. I wonder not at Esau’s extravagance, when he saw a steaming mess of it. For what is a birthright in comparison?”
    That Shakib also shared this beatific mood, the following quaint picture of their Saturday nights in the cellar, will show.
    “A bank account,” he writes, “a good round dish of
mojadderah
, the lute for Khalid, Al-Mutanabbi for me,—neither of us could forego his hobby,—and Im-Hanna, affectionate, devoted as our mothers,—these were the joys of our Saturday nights in our underground diggings. We were absolutely happy. And we never tried to measure our happiness in those days, or gauge it, or flay it to see if it be dead or alive, false or real. Ah, the blessedness of that supreme unconsciousness which wrapped us as a mother would her babe, warming and caressing our hearts. We did not knowthen that happiness was a thing to be sought. We only knew that peddling is a pleasure, that a bank account is a supreme joy, that a dish of
mojadderah
cooked by Im-Hanna is a royal delight, that our dour dark cellar is a palace of its kind, and that happiness, like a bride, issues from all these, and, touching