The Cafe Paradiso was full of people, for the inhabitants of Alexandria
had dined, and the opera season was over. The seats at every table were
occupied, and the fumes of smoke from a hundred cigars partly hid the
ladies of the orchestra. As the waiters pushed aside the swing-doors
of the buffet and staggered into the salon with whisky, absinthe, and
coffee, the click of billiard-balls was heard. The windows facing the
sea were wide open, for the heat was intense, and the murmur of the
waves mingled with the plaintive voices of the violins.
Seated by a table at the far end of the hall, Gregorio Livadas hummed
softly an accompaniment to Suppe’s “Poete et Paysan,” puffing from time
to time a cloudlet of blue smoke from his mouth. When the music ceased
he joined in the applause, leaning back happily in his chair as the
musicians prepared to repeat the last movement. Meanwhile his eyes
wandered idly over the faces of his neighbors.
When the last chord was struck he saw the women hurry down from the
platform and rush toward the tables where their acquaintances sat. He
heard them demand beer and coffee, and they drank eagerly, for fiddling
in that heat was thirsty work. He watched the weary waiters hastening
from table to table, and he heard the voices around him grow more
animated and the laughter more frequent. One man was fastening a spray
of flowers on the ample bosom of the flautiste, while another sipped
the brown lager from the glass of the big drum, and the old wife of the
conductor left her triangle and cymbals to beg some roses from an Arab
flower-girl. Truly the world was enjoying itself, and Gregorio smiled
dreamily, for the sight of so much gaiety pleased him. He wished one of
the women would come and talk to him; he would have liked to chat with
the fair-haired girl who played the first violin so well. He began to
wonder why she preferred that ugly Englishman with his red face and bald
head. He caught snatches of their conversation. Bah! how uninteresting
it was! for they could barely understand each other. What pleasure did
she find in listening to his bad French? and in her native Hungarian
he could not even say, “I love.” Why had she not come to him, Gregorio
Livadas, who could talk to her well and would not mumble like an idiot
and look red and uncomfortable! Then he saw she was drinking champagne,
and he sighed. Ah, yes, these English were rich, and women only cared
for money; they were unable to give up their luxuries for the sake of a
man.
But at this thought Gregorio blushed a little. After all, there was
one woman--the only woman he ought to think of--who was not afraid of
hardship for the sake of her husband. He tried to excuse himself by
arguing that the music had excited him; but he felt a little ashamed,
and as a sop to his not yet quite murdered conscience got up and left
the cafe.
When he turned into the Place Mehemet Ali he remembered suddenly that
he had wasted his evening. It was ten o’clock, too late to set about
the business he had intended. He was angry with himself now as well as
ashamed. He wandered up and down the square, looking at the statue of
the great khedive, silhouetted against the moonlight, and cursed at his
misfortunes.
Why should he, Gregorio Livadas, be in need of money? He had worked
hard, but without success. He could have borne his ill luck had he alone
been the sufferer, but he must consider his child--and, of course, his
wife too. He was really fond of his wife in a way. But he smiled proudly
as he thought of his son, for whom he schemed out a great future. He and
Xantippe would train the boy so carefully that he would grow up to be
a great man, and, what was more, a rich man. How they would laugh,
all three, as they sat in the splendid cafes over their wine, at the
hardships the father had endured! Still he must not forget the present,
and he sorely needed money. He would go to Amos again. Amos was a rich
man, very rich, and a filthy Jew. Amos could easily spare him some money
and renew the last loan. He was going to be successful now and would
be able to pay good interest. What better investment could Amos have?
Surely none. He was going to set up a cafe with the money at Tanta, or
Zagazig, or even Benhur,--yes, Benhur was the best,--where there were
few competitors. Then he would make a fortune, as other Greeks had done,
and Amos would be paid in full. He was not extravagant, no; he had the
business instincts of his race. Half these rich merchants of Alexandria
had begun as he would begin; he would succeed as they had succeeded. The
future was really hopeful, if he could only borrow a little capital.
With these thoughts surging through his brain Gregorio paced up and down
the pavements. At last he turned into the Rue des Soeurs and started
slowly toward his home.
This street, the sink of Alexandria, was at its gayest. The cafes where
cheap liquor is sold were crowded. Soldiers and sailors, natives and the
riffraff of half a dozen nations, jostled one another. The twanging of
guitars and the tinkling of pianos was heard from every house. Women,
underclothed and overpainted, leaned from the upper windows and made
frequent sallies into the street to capture their prey. Loud voices sang
lusty English choruses and French chansonnettes, and Neapolitan songs
tried to assert themselves whenever the uproar ceased for a moment.
Every one talked his, or her, own tongue, and gesture filled in the gaps
when words were wanting. All seemed determined to degrade themselves as
much as possible, and nearly every one seemed supremely happy.
Occasionally there was a fight, and knives were used with unerring
skill; but the mounted police who patrolled the streets, though
overtaxed, managed to preserve a certain amount of order.
Gregorio took very little notice of the scenes through which he passed.
He knew every inch and corner of the quarter that had been his home for
years, and was familiar with most of its inhabitants. He sighed a little
as he thought of the money being lost and won in the stuffy ill-lighted
rooms at the back of the houses, shut out from view of the authorities.
Like most of his race, he was fond of the excitement of gambling. But
of what use were regrets and sighs? he had no money, and must needs go
home. It was vain to try and borrow or to ask credit for his losses; in
these gambling hells what is lost must be immediately paid, for tempers
are inflamed by drink and knives are worn at each player’s belt.
But he sighed, none the less, at the hard necessity that compelled him
to pass down the street without once entering the doors of a tavern. It
was very hot, and he had smoked many cigarettes. He would have been glad
to call for a drink. The tavern-keepers, though they were his friends,
expected to be paid. One or two women beckoned to him, who would have
willingly offered him wine, but he was proud enough to ignore them.
He became more moody and dejected as he went along, silent and sober
amid so much revelry. When he reached his house he saw a drunken man
lying on the threshold asleep. He stooped to look into his face and
recognised an Englishman, the foreman of some tramp in the harbour. He
kicked the recumbent form testily as he strode over it.
“These English, what beasts they are!” he growled, “and I--I have not a
piastre for a single glass of wine.”