Return to Jerusalem
205
sack loaded with gasoline tins, followed us into the restaurant and decided to stand vigil at our table. The proprietor
was not amused. He came roaring out of the kitchen with a
soup ladle. A waiter rushed up with pot covers and began to
beat them like cymbals in the animal's ear, while the ladle
hammered a drumbeat on its piously bent head. A second
waiter began cursing and tugging at the motionless beast, but
couldn't budge it. It just blinked its eyes and withstood the
combined assault with astonishing aplomb.
"He must be very hungry," Moustafa observed.
"He'd make a good soldier," I said. "Look how calm he is
under fire."
Just then the donkey's owner rushed in. He was an elderly
Bedouin with a straggly beard and was shaking his whip excitedly. I suppose he shouted the equivalent of "How dare
you steal my donkey, you cur!" because the words were no
sooner out of his mouth than the proprietor rushed on him
with the ladle, followed by the first waiter who brandished
the pot covers like shields before him and pounced on the old
Arab. With a magnificent sense of timing the donkey halted
the proceedings by unceremoniously arching its tail and dropping its manure on the spot. While the proprietor and his
waiters looked on speechlessly, the donkey deftly turned
around and made a quick exit, followed by its master, who
leaped on its back as soon as they reached the sidewalk. Off
they trotted in a dust cloud.
"Ma'alesh. Let's eat."
The waiter with the pot covers returned with pan and
broom, and cleaned up, cursing loudly. I went into the
kitchen and ordered by pointing to pots and pans on the stove
containing what I thought I would like. I ordered a plate of
rice with lamb and tomato sauce; another of chickpeas with
lamb, seasoned with paprika. I topped this with yoghourt and
drafts of water.
The sight of two soldiers in khaki passing by outside made
me jump.