Cairo: The Kings Jungle
47
well-aimed flowerpot, of poisoning it in some ingenious manner, but from my window I could not even see my enemy.
Nor did I ever find him—the loudest-braying donkey in Cairo!
My initiation into the rough and tumble of Cairo street
life began as soon as I came down the steps of the hotel terrace. At once I found myself the coveted prize of three nightshirted men fighting the privilege of accosting the newly
arrived foreigner. The winner—the fiercest in manner, voice
and face—won by jabbing the others with his elbow, accompanied by threatening gestures with an ugly black whip he
obviously carried for that purpose. For a full block as I walked,
ignoring him, the dragoman kept at my side, chattering excitedly in English, offering to show me the sights of Cairo,
the Pyramids, the bazaars, the restaurants. I played mute lest
he learn that I was an American, universally considered a
millionaire, or at least a fool with money.
"Allah, Allah. Leave me alone!" I growled finally. "I don't
want anything."
"Ahhhh, you are Amerikan!" He grinned at me like an old
friend. "Welcome. Amerikans I love very much. I have many
Amerikan friends. See, sair, I have letters from Amerikans. . . ." He began producing testimonials to his abilities
as a guide. "Amerikan ladies say how wonderful my servive. . . ." He stuck his card in my hand.
Every morning thereafter, like the braying donkey, for
twenty-nine mornings Abdel Baki Abdel Kerim went through
the same ritual. Nothing I could do made any impression
upon him. The moment he accosted me, grinning his grin of
love and affection, I would yell NO! in a voice loud enough to
shatter windows across the street. Abdel Baki Abdel Kerim
was never discouraged; after trotting along with me for a
block, he would stop, wave his hand in salute, and shout
happily after me: "Tomorrow, sair, please, I see you again
tomorrow."
Uncannily, he always saw me first. After a while I accepted
my fate and took "Dragoman No. 12" for granted, and even