It was Djemal Pasha’s considered judgment that Yussuf cooked the best coffee in Jerusalem. So whenever the despot was in the city he conferred on Yussuf the inestimable privilege of supplying him with coffee at odd moments, under threat of the bastinado if the stuff were not suitably sweet and hot. The only money that ever changed hands in that connection was when the tax-gatherer came down on Yussuf for an extra levy, because of the added trade that conceivably might be expected to accrue through the advertisement obtained by serving such an exalted customer. The tax-gatherer also threatened the bastinado; and as the man who likes that punishment, or who could soften the heart of a Turkish tax assessor, has yet to be discovered, Yussuf invariably paid.
But when Allenby conquered Palestine between bouts of trying to tame his Australians, and Djemal Pasha scooted hot-foot into exile with a two-hundred-woman harem packed in lorries at his rear, Yussuf remembered that old adage about better late than never. He put Djemal’s name on the stone arch of the narrow door near the foot of David Street. He did it partly out of the disrespect that a small dog feels for a big one that is now on chain; but he was not overlooking the business value of it.
The first result was that he did quite a lot of trade with British officers, who came primarily because they were sick of eating sand and bully-beef, and drinking sand and tepid water in the desert. Later they flocked there by way of paying indirect homage to a governor who, whatever his obvious demerits, had at any rate never been answered back or thwarted with impunity. (There was a time, after the capture of Jerusalem, when if the British army could have voted on it, Djemal Pasha would have been brought back and given a free hand.)
But the officers began to discover that Yussuf was charging them four or five times the proper price. The seniors objected promptly, and deserted, to the inexpressible delight of the subalterns; but even the under-paid extravagant youths grew tired of extortion after a month or two, and Yussuf had to look elsewhere for customers.
Yussuf did some thinking behind that genial Turkish mask of his. Competition was keen. There are more coffee shops in Jerusalem than hairs on a hog’s back, and the situation, down near the bottom of that narrow thoroughfare in the shadow of an ancient arch, did not lend itself to drawing crowds.
But there were others in Jerusalem besides the British officers who yearned for Djemal’s rule again; and, unlike the irreverent men in khaki, they did not dare to voice their feelings in public. All the old political grafters, and all the would-be new ones savagely resented a regime under which bribery was not permitted; and, as always happens sooner or later, they began to show a tendency to meet in certain places, where they might talk violence without risk of incurring it.
So Yussuf permitted a rumour to gain ground that he, too, was a malcontent and that the British had deserted his coffee shop for that reason. He gave out that Djemal Pasha’s name over the door stood for reaction and political intrigue. So his place began to be frequented by effendis in tarboosh and semi-European clothes, who could chew the cud of bitterness aloud between walls that the crusaders had built four feet thick. The only entrance was through the narrow front door, where Yussuf inspected every visitor before admitting him.
So Yussuf’s “Cafe Djemal Pasha” was the place to go to for politics, of the red-hot, death-and-dynamite order that would make Lenin and Trotsky sound like small-town sports. But first you had to get by Yussuf at the door.
Suliman led me by the hand down David Street, through the smelly-yelly moil of flies and barter, past the meat and vegetable stalls, beneath the crusader arches from which Jewish women peered through trellised windows, across three transversing lanes of the ancient suku,[18] and halted at Yussuf’s door.
He rapped on it three times. When Yussuf’s wrinkled face appeared at last Suliman demanded to see Staff-Captain Ali Mirza. Yussuf’s blood-shot eyes peered at me for a long time before he asked a question.
“Atrash!—akras!—majnoon!!” Deaf!—Dumb!—Mad!! said Suliman. Describing me as mad seemed to give him particular delight. He never overlooked a chance of doing it.
“Staff-Captain Ali Mirza is not here. What should a Madman want with him?”
“He is not very mad—only stupid. He carries a message for the captain.”
“But the captain is not here. He has not been here.”
“He will come.”
“How should a deaf-and-dumb man deliver a message?”
“It is in writing.”
“Very well. He may leave the writing with me. If the captain comes I will deliver it.”
“No. The message is from Esh-Sham (Damascus). He will give it only into the captain’s own hand.”
“What is your name?”
“Suliman.”
“What is his?”
“God knows! He came with another man by train; and the other man, who is much more mad than this one, gave me five piastres to bring this one to your kahwi!”[19]
Yussuf shut the door, and discussed the proposition with his customers. At the end of two or three minutes his head appeared again.
“You say Staff-Captain Ali Mirza is expected here?”
“So said the man at the station.”
“What do you know of Staff-Captain Ali Mirza?”
“Nothing.”
Once more the door closed and I could hear the murmur of voices inside—but only a confused murmur, for the door was thick. When it opened again two other heads were peering from behind Yussuf’s.
“Has he money?” he asked.
“Kif? Ma indi khabar!”[20]
Yussuf opened the door wide and made a sign for me to enter. He seemed in two minds whether to let Suliman come in with me or not, but finally admitted him with a gruff admonition to keep still in one place and not talk.
The place was fairly full. It was a square room, with one window high in the wall on David Street. Around three sides, including that on which was the front door, ran a wooden seat furnished with thin cushions. Facing the front door was another one leading to a dark hole in the rear, where pots were washed and rice was boiled; beside that door, occupying most of the length of the fourth wall, was a thing like an altar of dressed stone, on which the coffee was prepared in dozens of little copper pots.
The benches being pretty well occupied, I was about to squat down on the floor, but they made room for me close to the front door, so I squatted on the corner of the bench and tucked my legs under me. Suliman dropped down on the floor in front of me with his head about level with my knees.
The other occupants of the room were all Syrian Arabs—not a Bedouin among them. All of them wore more or less European clothing, with the inevitable tarboosh, each set at a different angle. You can guess the mentality of the Syrian by the angle of that red Islamic symbol he wears on his head. The black tassel normally hangs behind, and the steady-going conservatives and all who take their religion seriously, wear the inverted flower-pot-shaped affair as nearly straight up as the cranium permits.
But once let a Syrian take up new politics, join the Young Turk Party, forswear religion, or grow cynical about accepted doctrine, and the angle of his tarboosh shows it, just as surely as the angle of the London Cockney’s “bowler” betrays irreverence and the New York gangster’s “lid” expresses self-contempt disguised as self-esteem.
The head-gears were set at every possible angle in that coffee-shop of Yussuf’s, from the backward tilt of the breezy optimist to the far-forward thrust down over the eye of malignant cynicism, which usually went with folded arms, legs thrust out straight, and heels together on the floor.
Yussuf brought me coffee without waiting to be asked. I paid him a half-piastre for it, which