150
CAIRO TO DAMASCUS
air. It wasn't offal. This was something more pungent, awesome, sickening, carnal, like a decomposing cat. Now I became aware of what seemed to be a hole, about fifty feet
square, ahead of us. Our path skirted to the left of the sandpit. As we came to it, I took one glance and jerked my head
away. The pit was filled with the rotting flesh of dogs, cats,
horses, cows, and other dead animals. It was an open burial
ground. Part of the carrion still clung to the bones. Other
parts had been eaten away by the neighborhood cats and dogs.
Strands of fur hung to the decomposing flesh. The sun had
bleached white the skulls and skeletons, and the stench that
rose to God's blue sky was the most nauseating in my experience. . . .
"Where is this -------- relative of Mahmoud's?" I yelled uncontrollably.
"On the other side of this held, the first house," Moustafa
said, smiling.
At long last we reached the first house. Instead of veiled
women, we saw women with their faces exposed. Three trollops were sitting on the stoop, their legs wide apart. It required no effort to see that they were shaven—in keeping with
an Arab custom that is said to apply to all classes of women,
and is intended to keep them clean in the hot climate.
"Are these his relatives? An hour's walk across that stench
hole to visit these!." I screamed at Moustafa.
"If you want to learn Arab life, you must know about
Mahmoud's relatives."
Mahmoud looked the girls over, chose one, and went inside
with her. Moustafa and Sabri talked to the other two. Business was slow at this time of day, for the sun overhead was
blazing, and only a frustrated fool like Mahmoud would make
the venture.
"The women have visitors when it's cool, from six o'clock
till midnight."
We waited a half hour . . . three quarters of an hour . . .
one full hour!