alive when I mentioned that I was thinking of keeping the fast. My reasons did not interest him. ‘Yes, yes, I know, that is what you say!’ Smiling wisely he tapped his brow. ‘This thing has a thousand explanations – very practical, very wise. As a writer you want the experience, then, because your money has not yet arrived, you are obliged to economize. All this is very well. But Allah, who knows the heart, is not deceived. Ah, ma petite, how often have I said that you are a Moslem? Here is proof! If you were born into the Faith you could do no more’ He laughed joyously. ‘Abdallah, Eltifa – how the whole family will rejoice! The women will raise the zaghareet – Alla-la-een! Alla-la-een! – like that. And the city! If Kairouan honoured you before, how much more will she honour you when it becomes known that you are Sima Ramadan! ’
This lively prophecy rather staggered me. In vain did I argue that my observance would in no wise be religious. Kalipha could not, would not understand. It was futile to pledge him to silence or evento the exact truth. The most solemn vows and adjurations would not hold him from broadcasting his ‘triumph’ and reaping the sweet fruits of public approbation. An alarmed silence fell between us when I declared I would give up the idea. After a time Kalipha said, very seriously : ‘But this is not necessary! Observe Ramadan for whatever reasons you wish; it will be recorded in any case. And if I am asked why you keep the fast I will say, “It is Mademoiselle’s way of showing her respect for me and my religion.” This, surely, is no lie?’ It was, at any rate, far enough from downright falsehood, as well as strict truth, to enable us to compromise.
The day before the beginning of Ramadan is called Leylet er-Rooyeh, The Night of the Observation. Bedouins thronged the streets, the plain between the city walls and the cemeteries was speckled with their tents, which seemed to have sprung up overnight like mushrooms. The coffee-houses – even the meanest cubby distinguished with the name – prospered. The fryshops, those appetizing pockets in the walls, were freshly whitewashed, their copper kettles scoured to the ultimate brightness. During the afternoon, about the time that they close their shutters for the day, the friers were busy making honey-coils and other Ramadan fritters. Gaily painted candy carts we had never seen before were trundled through the streets. The minarets all over the city were hung with tiers of little black cruses that waited only for the dusk to bloom. But quite apart from the visible signs, there was something in the air – something piquant, and tantalizing, soberly festive. ‘ Sidi Ramadan est en route! ’ said Kalipha, who every day during the past week had given us a whimsical account of the good saint’s preparations, his visit to the baths, the packing of his suitcase, and so on. In fancy, I saw a little man, pulled sideways by the weight of a large yellow suitcase, hiking furiously across the plain.
Towards sundown watchers appeared on the balconies of the minarets, the roofs of the baths, all along the city wall scanning the west for the new moon that would proclaim the beginning of Ramadan. Kalipha, Beatrice, and I joined those who were watching from the sand hill outside the city. The sun had set, the muezzins had called the prayer, a strong wind was blowing and the men, their chins buried in their burnouses, sat hunched in quiet groups. A few shaftsof orange were all that remained of colour, the hills below were fast deepening to violet. Above the sombre cloud banks a blue star, the bedouins’ star, Kalipha always called it, glittered, a very prince among the twinkling pin-points. But where was the bright little crescent? The first to spy the herald would run at top speed to the Kadi and the boom of the cannon would officially pronounce it Ramadan. The populace would converge at the Mosque of Sidi Okbah for the service, whose solemnity
This lively prophecy rather staggered me. In vain did I argue that my observance would in no wise be religious. Kalipha could not, would not understand. It was futile to pledge him to silence or evento the exact truth. The most solemn vows and adjurations would not hold him from broadcasting his ‘triumph’ and reaping the sweet fruits of public approbation. An alarmed silence fell between us when I declared I would give up the idea. After a time Kalipha said, very seriously : ‘But this is not necessary! Observe Ramadan for whatever reasons you wish; it will be recorded in any case. And if I am asked why you keep the fast I will say, “It is Mademoiselle’s way of showing her respect for me and my religion.” This, surely, is no lie?’ It was, at any rate, far enough from downright falsehood, as well as strict truth, to enable us to compromise.
The day before the beginning of Ramadan is called Leylet er-Rooyeh, The Night of the Observation. Bedouins thronged the streets, the plain between the city walls and the cemeteries was speckled with their tents, which seemed to have sprung up overnight like mushrooms. The coffee-houses – even the meanest cubby distinguished with the name – prospered. The fryshops, those appetizing pockets in the walls, were freshly whitewashed, their copper kettles scoured to the ultimate brightness. During the afternoon, about the time that they close their shutters for the day, the friers were busy making honey-coils and other Ramadan fritters. Gaily painted candy carts we had never seen before were trundled through the streets. The minarets all over the city were hung with tiers of little black cruses that waited only for the dusk to bloom. But quite apart from the visible signs, there was something in the air – something piquant, and tantalizing, soberly festive. ‘ Sidi Ramadan est en route! ’ said Kalipha, who every day during the past week had given us a whimsical account of the good saint’s preparations, his visit to the baths, the packing of his suitcase, and so on. In fancy, I saw a little man, pulled sideways by the weight of a large yellow suitcase, hiking furiously across the plain.
Towards sundown watchers appeared on the balconies of the minarets, the roofs of the baths, all along the city wall scanning the west for the new moon that would proclaim the beginning of Ramadan. Kalipha, Beatrice, and I joined those who were watching from the sand hill outside the city. The sun had set, the muezzins had called the prayer, a strong wind was blowing and the men, their chins buried in their burnouses, sat hunched in quiet groups. A few shaftsof orange were all that remained of colour, the hills below were fast deepening to violet. Above the sombre cloud banks a blue star, the bedouins’ star, Kalipha always called it, glittered, a very prince among the twinkling pin-points. But where was the bright little crescent? The first to spy the herald would run at top speed to the Kadi and the boom of the cannon would officially pronounce it Ramadan. The populace would converge at the Mosque of Sidi Okbah for the service, whose solemnity
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