408
CAIRO TO DAMASCUS
The Mufti's treasurer reappeared in a few minutes, counted
two hundred Syrian liras in crisp new bills into Stefan's hands
and disappeared into the house.
"This," Stefan said disgustedly, pointing to the equivalent of
sixty dollars, "is for the month I spent in the stinking hospital,
for all the Jews I killed."
Shortly after the noon hour, the Mufti himself appeared on
the porch. His treasurer motioned us to come over. I bent
low, and with my hand on my heart, said in Turkish:
"Your Eminence. I have long awaited this honor."
"I understand you are Armenian," the Mufti said.
"I am glad you called me an Armenian," I said, "and not an
American."
"I know the Armenians. I have met with the Dashnags."
"Ahh. Your Eminence has met the best Armenians. I myself am a member of the Dashnag. ... I am also a friend of
Captain Robert Gordon-Canning of London. Do you remember him?"
"Of course I remember the captain, a great friend of the
Arabs."
"Your Eminence, what are your plans now regarding Palestine?"
"Our plans as always are to fight until we have won completely."
"Will King Abdullah's troops in Palestine complicate the
situation?" (The Mufti resented Abdullah's ambitions in Palestine, and his henchmen spoke violently against Abdullah.)
"I do not give interviews," the Mufti observed, smiling, as
his men moved in to press the point.
The Mufti, I noted, was a short man, with a large white
turban wound around his head; a long black cloak covered
him completely to the ankles. His eyes were bluish, and his
skin fair. His beard was graying softly, and was white at the
tip. His ears were conspicuous and protruding. To my surprise, he looked meek, and had a rather gentle though ex-