Exodus - Leon Uris [216]
The fat Arab sensed the presence of customers and awakened from his sleep. He gallantly gestured to the women to enter his domain. He shoved some brassware off two boxes and offered them as seats, then ran outside and called for his oldest son to get some coffee for the honored guests. The coffee arrived. Kitty and Karen sipped it and politely exchanged smiles with the shopkeeper. The son stood by the door, a portrait in stupidity. A half dozen spectators gathered on the outside to observe the proceedings. The attempts to converse soon proved frustrating. There were grunts, gestures, and hand wavings in place of a common language. Whereas Karen spoke Danish, French, German, English, and Hebrew and Kitty spoke English, Spanish, and a smattering of Greek, the Arab was versed only in Arabic. He sent his son out once again to find the flea market interpreter and in another few minutes the intermediary was produced. The interpreter’s English was of a pidgin variety, but he was conscientious and the shopping commenced.
Kitty and Karen browsed around the shop blowing dust off encrusted antiques, some with a hundred years’ coating of dirt and tarnish to testify to their authenticity. After forty tense minutes of womanly thoroughness, every piece in the shop had been handled by one or the other shopper. They settled on a pair of vases, three long-spouted Arab coffeepots of exquisite delicacy, and an enormous Persian plate with thousands of hand-engraved figures depicting an entire legend. Kitty asked the price for the entire lot, cleaned, polished, and delivered to her hotel. The crowd on the outside pressed closer as the interpreter and the proprietor went into a huddle.
The interpreter turned and sighed. “Mr. Akim, him heart broke. These treasures to depart. Plate, he swear by Allah, three hundred years.”
“Just how much is it going to take to mend Mr. Akim’s broken heart?” Kitty asked.
“Because lady, your daughter here, so beautiful, Mr. Akim make special bargain. Take all, sixteen pounds sterling.”
“It’s a steal,” Kitty whispered to Karen.
“You can’t pay him what he asks,” Karen said with exasperation. “Do you want to ruin his day by not bartering?”
“I’m taking it and running,” Kitty whispered. “That plate alone would cost three or four hundred dollars in the States.”
“Kitty! Please!” Karen cried in disgust. She stepped in front of Kitty and the smile disappeared from Akim’s face. “Nine pounds sterling and not a grush more,” Karen announced firmly.
The interpreter reported the counter-offer to Mr. Akim. Mr. Akim was offended. He went into wails of anguish. He had a large family to feed. Again his kind heart was being taken advantage of. The items picked by these sharp-eyed women they knew were antiques ... on his honor, his father’s honor, and by Allah’s beard. Thirteen pounds.
“Twelve and that’s final.”
Akim sobbed that he was being cheated but he was a poor Arab so what could he do. He was putty in the hands of these clever women. Twelve and a half.
It was a deal.
The bartering was over and smiles bloomed within and without the shop. There was an extended handshaking ceremony. Akim blessed Kitty and Karen and all their subsequent offspring. She left the name of her hotel and advised Akim he would be paid when the cleaned and polished goods were delivered. She tipped the interpreter and the stupid son and they left.
They walked through the flea market amazed by the amount that could be jammed into the tiny shops and the degree of filth one street could collect. As they approached the end of the street a man who looked like a sabra stepped up to Karen and exchanged several words in Hebrew and walked away quickly.
“What did he want?”
“He saw by my uniform I was a Jew. He wanted to know if you were English. I told him who you were and he advised us to return to Tel Aviv. There might be trouble.”
Kitty looked down the street but the man was gone.
“He must have been a Maccabee,” Karen said.
“Let’s get out of here.