Cairo: The King's Jungle
53
after feasting at fresh droppings everywhere. Two students now
approached me, selling anti-Jewish stamps in support of a
war fund. By this time I knew the answers.
"I love Cairo, queen of Arab cities. Give me two dollars'
worth."
"Thank you, thank you, Amerikan. We wish you good fortune."
An hour later their good wishes came true, for the two dollars proved the wisest investment I made in Cairo.
After my coffee, I decided to stroll along a main street,
pledging myself to keep out of trouble. But a camera in the
pocket of a photographer burns like idle money in the hands
of a gambler, I looked around carefully, up and down the
block. I whipped out my camera and sighted the window of
an attractive pastry shop. Surely there could be nothing subversive in photographing luscious, syrupy, mouth-drooling
baklawa and katayef—pride and joy of Oriental pastry.
Without warning, someone from behind struck down my
wrist, and clutched my sleeve. A short, stocky, wild-eyed
Egyptian was chattering at me.
"OK, take it easy, take it easy," I said, pocketing my camera.
"Ahaaa! You Amerikan?" He became more excited. Gripping my sleeve in a clutch of steel, he shouted for help. A
dozen passersby rushed over, surrounding me. Off we went
again double time, to the karakol. Luckily, this time it was not
the Abdin Station but another, the Mouski District Police
Station. In the howling mob that followed was a youth who
spoke a few words of English. In his hands were sheets of the
same stamps I had bought a few minutes earlier.
Into the karakof we trooped. This time, Allah was with me.
The sergeant I confronted smiled at the accusations of the
wild-eyed Egyptian who had seized me. When I showed my
anti-Jewish stamps, and proclaimed that the Egyptians were
the elite of all the Arabs, the English-speaking youth championed my cause. His voice could scarcely be heard, because
by this time everyone, including the sergeant, was screaming at