Free The Piano Tuner by Daniel Mason Page B

I
looked up, the boys were running down a broad slope, chasing the goats. Below
them stretched one of the most stunning visions I have ever seen. Indeed, had I
been struck with blindness, rather than deafness, I think I would have been
content. For nothing, not even the pounding surf of Babelmandeb, could match
the scene that stretched out before me, the slope descending, flattening into a
vast desert plain that stretched into a horizon blurred with sandstorms. And
out of the thick dust, whose silence belied the rage known to anyone who has
ever been caught in the terror of one of the storms, marched legions of
caravans, from every point on the compass, long, dark trails of horses and
camels, all emerging from the blur that swept across the valley, and all
converging on a tent encampment that lay at the base of the hill.
    There must have been hundreds of tents already, perhaps thousands if
approaching caravans could be counted. From my perch on top of the mountain, I
gazed out over the tents. A number of the styles I recognized. The peaked white
tents of the Borobodo people, who often came to the ports at which we called to
trade camel skins. The broad flat tents of the Yus, a warrior tribe who haunted
the southern reaches of the Sinai, famous among the Egyptians for raids on
traders, so fierce that ships would often not drop anchor if the tents were
sighted onshore. The Rebez, an Arabian race, who dug holes in the sand before
laying skins as a roof and setting a long pole at the thresholds of their
homes, which serves as a beacon should shifting sands bury a home and its
inhabitants. Beyond these, however, most of the structures were foreign to me,
suggesting perhaps that their people came from deeper in the African
interior.
    I heard a piercing whistle from down the hill. Halfway
between me and the tent city, the older boy was shouting and waving his staff.
I ran and soon I reached the boys, and we descended the remainder of the hill
together. We passed another group of boys playing with rocks and sticks, and my
friends called out to them in greeting. I noticed they held their heads high,
and pointed frequently to me. I was, I imagine, an impressive find.
    We
passed the first tents, where camels were tethered outside. I could see
firelight through their entrances, but no one came out to greet us. Then more
tents, and as I followed my guides to a mysterious end, the paths between tents
began to bustle with more activity. I passed hooded nomads whose faces I
couldn’t discern, dark Africans bedecked with fine furs, veiled women who
stared at me and dropped their eyes quickly when our gazes met. In such a
gathering, I caused little sensation. Twice I passed men I heard speaking
Arabic, but both my shame at my dishevelment and the haste of the boys kept me
from stopping. We passed several campfires, where silhouetted musicians played
songs I did not recognize. The boys stopped briefly at one, and I could hear
the older one whisper the words as they watched the singers. Then we turned and
plunged back into alleyways of tent and sand. At last we reached a large
circular tent with a flat, slightly pointed roof and an open hole in the center
from which wisps of smoke followed the glow of the fire into the darkening sky.
The boys tied the goats to a post outside the tent, next to a pair of camels .
They lifted the tent flap and motioned me inside.
    Before I saw the
people sitting beside the fire, I was struck by the rich smell coming from the
central spit. It was testament to my hunger that I should notice the roasting
flank of meat before I noticed my new hosts. It was a single leg of goat, and
drops of blood swelled on the simmering meat until they dropped to the fire. At
my side the boys spoke rapidly, gesturing at me. They were addressing a
withered old woman, who reclined on a thin camel-skin rug on a raised bed near
the edge of the tent. Her hair was wrapped tightly in a thin, translucent
shawl, lending her head the illusion