Free East of Suez by Howard Engel Page A

my father often said I wasn’t equipped to speak about. To be brief about it, I had never taken the lure of religion. Of any kind. I should have told Billy this; instead I kept nodding as he told me more than I could absorb about the local Hebraic treasures waiting for me to discover.
    O’Mahannay handed Billy back his phone, saying: “Wonderful fellow, that. You’ll meet him, Mr Cooperman.” He repeated his line about the ants crawling over a rotting melon. He didn’t repeat himself much, but I began to think he was overly fond of that particular aphorism. He then picked up the conversation from where it had been interrupted. Both of them were very helpful on practical matters and on recommending the sights to see. From currency and weights and measures, we moved on to food. The priest recommended the fast foods that could be had at street stalls and in the cafés. He pointed vaguely across the street, announcing that the places along there weren’t bad and the prices were reasonable. Then Mr Savitt began telling me about the Foyer Israelite, in the next street. He told me that all the meals were strictly kosher and that I need have no worries on that account. He even offered to walk around with me and introduce me to the owner. I tried to smile warmly to acknowledge my friend’s thoughtfulness. Father O’Mahannay missed none of this.
    “After a meal in our refectory, Mr Cooperman, you might find the Foyer Israelite a boon after all.” He had unmasked my reluctance to tuck in to a kosher meal in these parts. But the real story was that I had gone off my food altogether. Although I had been drinking bottled water and fizzy pop, I had come down with a slight case of what every careless tourist is told to guard against. Even though I had scarcely been in Takot long enough to have caught a bug, I certainly had one. I’d have to blame it on my last attempt to clear out my refrigerator before I left home. It was too soon to have found local water or cooking responsible. It bothered me for the next couple of days, but I’ll try not to let it hold up the story.
    Mr Savitt guided me to the nearest drugstore, where I bought the suggested pills. “We all begin with a siege of the touristas , Mr Cooperman. Don’t know what you call them where you come from, but they are no respecters of rank or position. You’ll be absolutely top hole in the morning. Trust me on that. You’ll see.”
    My stomach had saved me from a tour of the Jewish quarter. From the little I knew of Savitt, I was sure that my escape was temporary. At this juncture, he went off on his own in search of a couple of kosher chickens. He must have had an apartment, not just a hotel room, because two chickens were a lot of meat to preserve without refrigeration. My deductions would be false, of course, if the local birds were smaller than the ones at home. Further, I was no authority on what was or wasn’t permitted in hotel rooms hereabouts.
    I made a short tour of several shops, finding items I hadn’t had the imagination to pack for the trip, something lighter than my tweed jacket, and odds and ends of toiletries. I accomplished all of this within a tether’s reach of the café. I didn’t get lost and I was proud of it. I even managed to find another café that fed me when I smiled nicely at the manager. But he didn’t seem to know what a chopped-egg sandwich was. Neither did the woman from the kitchen, although I tried to make a stepby-step drawing on the margin of a newspaper. I swallowed down a tablet that promised to settle my stomach and churning bowels—with Coca-Cola. A touch of home.
    Father O’Mahannay was still in his place at the café when I went back that way. I could begin to imagine him as a local landmark, like the carved figure of an Indian outside a Toronto cigar store. He waved me to a seat.
    “Ah, my boy, you’re beginning to find your way about. That’s splendid!”
    We sat for some time watching the pedestrian traffic