158
CAIRO TO DAMASCUS
vegetables and personal belongings. As luck would have it, I
was seated between a basket filled with dried garlic done up in
braids and a basket of reeking scallions. Caught between these
stenches, I stuck my nose in a corner of the window. After
several hours of this, the fresh air made me so hungry—we
hadn't had supper—that I asked Moustafa for some of the
food we carried.
"Sabri has it. But wait, Artour, we'll get food someplace."
Moustafa's neighbor was the Palestinian policeman, wearing the kalpak, black woolen headpiece. Moustafa engaged him
in conversation. As he talked I could see by the movement of
his glowing cigarette tip that the Palestinian was repeatedly
turning in my direction. He was so touched by the richly embellished story of an American travelling 5,500 miles to fight
the Jehad side by side with the Arabs' own Holy Warriors,
that Moustafa turned to rac:
"He wants to see your beautiful face. Give me your flashlight."
By this time, everybody for several layers around had heard
the wondrous talc of the brave and noble American who had
been living with the Arabs and was going to war with them, so
that when Moustafa directed the light on my face, I found
myself the center of attention.
"Allah, Allah." These were sighs of satisfaction.
"But he looks Arab," the Palestinian said. "He must be a
brother Moslem."
"Perhaps we shall make him one soon," Moustafa said suggestively, eying the policeman's basket of food.
"Insh'allah! Insh'allah!"
There was no difficulty after that. My flashlight revealed
four loaves of bread, olives, white cheese, halvah, and oranges.
The woman with the scallions made a generous contribution
to our supper. Raw onions, and scallions in particular, have
always caused me distress. But to refuse food offered by an
Arab is tantamount to an insult, especially when done by an
American. I managed the ordeal somehow, proffering my