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,* and halted at Yussuf’s door. [Bazaar]

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!” [Coffe-pot]

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!” [How should I know?]