38
PARTISAN REVIEW
room, and pouring the entire pitcher of water into the tin basin,
began to wash the grit from his face and ears. The afterglow was
nearly gone from the sky, and the pinkness in 0bjects was disappear–
ing, almost as he watched. He lit the carbide lamp and winced at
its odor.
After dinner the Professor walked slowly through the streets to
Hassan Ramani's cafe, whose back room hung hazardously out above
the river. The entrance was very low, and he had to bend down
slightly to get in. A man was tending the fire. There was one guest
sipping tea. The caouadji tried to make him take a seat at the other
table in the front room, but the Professor walked airily ahead into the
back room and sat down. The moon was shining through the reed
latticework and there was not a sound outside but the occasional
distant bark of a dog. He changed tables so he could see the river. It
was dry, but there was a pool here and there that reflected the bright
night sky. The caouadji came in and wiped off the table.
"Does this cafe still belong to Hassan Ramani?" he asked him
in the Moghrebi he had taken four years to learn.
The man replied in bad French: "He is deceased."
"Deceased?" repeated the Professor, without noticing the ab-
surdity of the word. "Really? When?"
"I don't know," said the caouadji. "One tea?"
"Yes. But I don't understand ... "
The man was already out of the room, fanning the fire. The
Professor sat still, feeling lonely, and arguing with himself that to do
so was ridiculous. Soon the caouadji returned with the tea. He paid
him and gave him an enormous tip, for which he received a grave
bow.
"Tell me," he said, as the other started away. "Can one still get
those little boxes made from camel udders?"
The man looked angry. "Sometimes the Chaamba bring in
those things. We do not buy them here." Then insolently, in Arabic:
"And why a camel-udder box?"
"Because I like them," retorted the Professor. And then
beca~e
he was feeling a little exalted, he added, "I like them so much I want
to make a collection of them, and I will pay you ten francs for every
one you can get me."
aKhamstache,"
said the caouadji, opening his left hand rapidly
three times in succession.
"Never. Ten."
