THE ODDITIES OF CAIRO STREET.
Upon the narrow streets of Stamboul a Turkish pasha may appear a very
exalted personage, and command respect--upon the Midway Plaisance of
the great Chicago World’s Fair he is quite another character, and when
he speaks his little piece in English, he may be placed on a par with
the itinerant coffee vender, or the dark-skinned doctor who sells the
queer muffin bread of the Egyptians in the corner of Cairo Street.
“Let the heathen rage and imagine a vain thing,” laughs Wycherley, as
he glances back over his shoulder to see if Scutari is still shaking a
fist after them. His everlasting good humor is proof against scenes of
this sort--it protects him like a coat of mail.
What he sees causes him a slight spasm of uneasiness. The pasha still
stands there in front of the theater where the Parisian troupe of
dancers holds forth, but he is no longer alone, a man with a red fez
upon his head is at his side, and to this individual the Turk talks in
a voluble manner, pointing in the direction our two acquaintances have
gone, as though he would direct the attention of the other to them.
Craig has his mind full of the recent surprising adventure. Even the
lively attractions around him do not serve to divert his thoughts from
Dorothy Cereal and her unknown mission. Why does she haunt the Midway?
He might imagine many things that perhaps would not be complimentary
to the speculator’s daughter, but when he remembers her face he is
ready to stake his life that no guile rests there. Besides, he has not
forgotten what she said so earnestly to him, as if realizing that it
must shock his sense of propriety to discover a young lady of Chicago’s
Four Hundred wandering, with only a middle-aged duenna, about the
Plaisance, haunting its strange scenes so assiduously. Why, he can even
remember her exact words, and the earnest expression of her lovely face
will always haunt him, as she said:
“God knows it is no idle whim that brings me here, but a sacred
purpose.”
Those were her words--he cannot conceive what their meaning may be, but
is ready to believe in Dorothy.
He has not forgotten the remarkable story which Wycherley poured into
his ears as they climbed higher and higher in the great Ferris wheel,
and it adds to the piquancy of the occasion to remember how Samson
Cereal, the grim old wheat operator, the millionaire, won his bride
over in the land of the Golden Horn, and that Dorothy is the daughter
of the lovely Georgian who had captivated the pasha.
This brings matters to a certain focus. He is led to believe that the
presence of Scutari has something to do with Dorothy’s mission. Does
she haunt the Midway in order to learn from this dark-brown Turkish
dealer in precious stones, the seeming merchant of the gay bazaar, the
secret of her mother? At the thought Aleck feels a shudder pass through
him, an involuntary shudder, such as would rack one’s frame upon
suddenly discovering an innocent child fondling a deadly rattlesnake.
To himself he is muttering:
“Thank God, I have been allowed to enter this singular game--that
Heaven may mean me to be the one who will tear down this infernal
spider web in the Midway; the web in which this keen old Turk sits and
watches for his fair prey; the web that has been spun with the sole
purpose of snaring the daughter of the lovely girl old Samson once
snatched from his grasp.”
While thus pondering upon the singular train of events that have
already taken place, and speculating as to what the near future may
hold in store for him, Aleck feels his companion’s hand on his arm.
“Come, you must arouse yourself, my boy; there I’ve been chattering
away like a monkey for five minutes, and you walk along like a man
in a dream. You need a jolly laugh, and here’s the doctor to bring it
about.”
Looking up Aleck sees the legend:
A STREET IN CAIRO.
He has been there before, several times in fact, and even the
recollection of its boisterous associations causes a smile to cross his
face.
“Oh, I’m with you, Wycherley, on condition--ahem--that you allow me to
pay the fee.”
“Pay nothing. I tell you, my dear fellow, I’ve made it the rule of my
life to deadhead everywhere. There’s nothing I haven’t seen in this
street of nations, the great Midway, and all it cost me was a quarter
I paid to watch a Hindoo juggler do some very clever tricks, and
I’m laying my plans to turn the tables on him. Watch me hoodoo this
door-keeper now.”
With which he steps up. The dark-skinned boy holds out his hand. Then
the vagabond actor proceeds to make a variety of gestures, such as
a deaf and dumb wretch, unacquainted with the mute alphabet of his
fellows, might undertake. Aleck is utterly in the dark as to their
meaning, or whether they have any, but is amazed to see their influence
on the boy. At first he looks disgusted, then grins, and finally throws
up his hands in token of surrender.
“Come,” says Wycherley, and they enter.
“I say, what in the deuce does all that mean?” demands the mystified
Canadian.
“Oh, my boy! I dare not explain. It is soul language. I have been
initiated into the Order of Nomads. I’ve eaten salt with them. That is
as far as I can go. There are the camels. Now to chase the blue devils
away. Nobody can stand here five minutes and fail to laugh.”
And Wycherley is quite right. The uncouth figures of the hump-backed
animals, so strange to Western eyes, their meek, docile aspect,
the ridiculous manner of their rising and squatting are enough in
themselves to arouse interest. Add to this the alarmed shrieks of the
daring women who brave the merriment of the crowd and venture to take
a ride, the clattering of donkeys with pilgrims astride of them whose
legs almost touch the ground, the shouting of donkey boys and camel
drivers, and one can have a faint idea of the sounds of old Cairo
Street.
Several times during the day and evening the wedding procession takes
place; an unique affair, headed by the stout major-domo, with whirling
sword and fierce expression, who is followed by the strangest rabble
American eyes ever gazed upon, from the palanquin to the dancing girls
in the rear, their faces half concealed behind the _yashmak_.
Looking down the singular street from a second story balcony, or an
upper chamber of the Mohammedan mosque, as this procession approaches,
one could easily imagine himself in the old native quarter of Cairo on
the Nile. Aleck speedily forgets his troublesome thoughts in laughing
at the ridiculous sights presented on all sides.
Cairo Street was better than a doctor. No one came out regretting
having entered. There you saw only the jolly side of life, for everyone
laughed and joked. While walking along it was nothing to have a camel
poke his nose over one’s shoulder, or be brushed aside by a donkey boy
on the run, shouting, “Look out for Mary Anderson!” or “Make way for
Lily Langtry!”
“Will you have your fortune told?” asks Wycherley, as, mounting the
steps of the mosque, they look through a grated window into a dimly
lighted room where a black Nubian, with a rather repulsive face,
dressed after the manner of his race, squats upon a rug and manipulates
some sand upon the floor, spreading it out deftly, tracing certain
mystic symbols, and finally in rapid Arabic delivering his prophecy to
the smiling interpreter who translates it in the ear of the mulcted
victim, after which “Next,” and another hard-earned American quarter
has started to roll toward the Nile. This fakir appears to do a
flourishing business--Americans have come to the Fair to be taken in,
and anything connected with the Orient has a peculiar charm for their
Western eyes.
At the question Craig laughs:
“What! have you a pull with this wonderful seer in the turban, this
ebony prophet from the land of the lotus?”
“Well, I’ve been there. If I’d had the capital I might have been his
manager. That’s the way it goes--an opportunity of making myself solid
for life lost because I lacked a few dollars,” and Wycherley chuckles
even while he speaks in such a dismal strain.
“This fellow isn’t the only fortune teller at the Fair,” the Canadian
says.
“By no means. I know of several others right here in the street of
Cairo.”
“Yes; I remember one at the lower end--a woman, I believe. I have seen
no other.”
“Walk with me. There is one here--they call her the Veiled Fortune
Teller of Cairo Street. I don’t know that her predictions are any
nearer the truth than the black’s, but somehow the air of mystery
surrounding her excites a certain amount of curiosity.”
“I would like to see her. I thought I had exhausted the sights of this
street, from the odd barber shop where they lay one down on a bench to
shave him, to the shoe store where their stock in trade is yellow and
red _baboushas_ or slippers. If there is a veiled mystery here I must
see her. You said a woman?”
“Yes, and if one can judge of the faint glimpses seen through the
flimsy veil, and by the shapely figure, a beautiful woman, too. Let’s
see the time--yes, this is her last hour for receiving to-day. Come
along, Aleck, my boy.”
The jovial vagabond almost drags him along, and presently they bring
up in front of a stuccoed building. Over a doorway is a sign, so small
Aleck does not wonder he missed it, bearing this scroll:
SAIDEE--THE VEILED FORTUNE TELLER.
25 cents.
An Arab boy holds forth, fez and all.
“One _half-duro_--a quarter each,” he insists, and Aleck is about
to comply when the eccentric actor steps in front and proceeds to
mesmerize the youth.
“Ten cents,” he mutters feebly, but Claude only increases his
mysterious passes, and at length the Arab youth throws up the sponge.
“Great is Allah, and Mohammed is his prophet. Enter _taleb_, I beg,” he
says hastily, as if desirous of being rid of an incubus.
So they pass in, Aleck Craig never dreaming what an influence this
accidental discovery of a new curiosity will have upon his future. A
dozen persons are in the room, and one by one they interview the veiled
woman on the little stage, who looks into the palm and reads both the
past and the future.
“Look!” says Wycherley quickly; “don’t you recognize the man seated
there?”
“Jove! it’s the pasha himself. Do you suppose our being here has
anything to do with his presence?”
“Not at all. He was here when we came, and I know the man well enough
to understand that he has some motive for his visit.”
“Then let’s watch the game.”
“Nothing pleases me better. Notice the fortune teller, Aleck; did I
speak correctly?”
“As near as I can say--yes, I should judge that she is a fine looking
woman, and, like the most of her sex, a coquette.”
“Oh, why not say _all_?” smiles Wycherley, giving him a sly dig in the
ribs.
“You know there are exceptions to every rule, my dear boy. Since we are
under the enchantment of this unknown Circe, let us act as though we
believed in the rubbish and have our fortunes told.”
“Oh, I’ve done that before. She predicted that I would win much gold,
but that it could never stick to my fingers. Think of that. There’s
the cool million to-morrow--perhaps she means that--and I reckon she’s
right about it not sticking, for how can a man hold that which he hath
not.”
“There goes the pasha up.”
“Now keep your eyes open.”
“She does not seem to have noticed him before. See how she starts and
draws back as though a sudden fear had penetrated her heart.”
“Right you are. I believe she has recognized him.”
“And he?”
“His actions indicate that on his part he entertains a suspicion,
which he is bound to verify. Now he speaks to her. I would that I knew
Arabic, that I might translate what he says. My early education was
somewhat neglected in that respect. She replies in a low tone--I swear
her voice trembles with fear. Why should she dread this man? Tell me
that.”
“I cannot say. Wait, and we may learn something that will give us an
insight. I am deeply interested in all he does.”
“Of course,” says Wycherley, chuckling; “because you are concerned
about Dorothy’s fortunes. Now the Turk holds out his hand. She takes
it. See his bold eyes, they are glued upon her face. The gauzy veil
tantalizes Aroun Scutari. I’ve a notion he has come here to-night to
settle some doubt, some uncertainty, that has preyed upon him for a
long time, and he’ll do it in his own impulsive autocratic way. There!
What did I say, Aleck?”
There is a sudden movement on the part of the pasha, a feminine shriek,
and Aroun Scutari stands there with the gauzy veil in his hand, stands
there glaring upon the beautiful face his rude action has unveiled.
Immediately the lights are extinguished, and all is darkness. Confusion
follows.
“Come, let us get out of this!” cries vagabond Claude, and Aleck Craig
allows himself to be led into the street of Cairo.
He is silent and has suffered a terrible shock, for when that veil was
torn away his astounded gaze fall upon a face that has haunted his
dreams these six months, and he could swear he looked upon the features
of Dorothy!