"Escape" to the Arabs
297
scraping of a pot against the earth., and the crackling of wood.
But why the lighted candle? Was it a signal? It flickered
wildly as the night currents swept against it, but the stubborn
wick remained lighted. I concluded that the Arab owner had
placed it to help guide someone he expected.
Walking around the wall, I saw an open door, and framed
within it a frail old woman, her hands blackened with smoke,
bent over a large caldron of steaming water. She wheeled
around, startled, and screaming wildly, scooted inside. Disturbing the privacy of a woman may have grave complications in the Moslem world. Patiently, like a man condemned
without trial, I waited for the woman to return with her
spouse, or a gun, or both. Instead she reappeared alone, a
stout cane in her hand, and drove me out of her doorway.
Thank God she was old and her husband was away!
"Sylwan! Wein Sylwan? Where is Sylwan?" I kept asking.
After I had cleared the door, and stood in the middle of the
road, she pointed brusquely to the depths of the valley below.
"Hunak Sylwan. There is Sylwan. Imshi! Imshi! Get out!"
CONTACT WITH THE ARABS
I DEBATED whether to hide somewhere till morning or risk
encountering the Arabs at night. I reconnoitered. I was
hemmed in by fences, walls, vegetation—a perfect setting for
an ambush. I could have my throat slit before I could say
"Hey." I walked swiftly down the zigzag road. Just then I
was challenged!
The voice came somewhere out of the blackness, a thick,
guttural Arabic. I had not the slightest idea what it was saying. I threw down my bag and immediately put up my hands.
"Sadiq el Arab! Armani! Arab friend! Armenian!"
The sentry yelled out again, more threateningly, still in
Arabic.