Read Online Flora's War by Pamela Rushby - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Pamela Rushby
Tags: Historical fiction, Literature & Fiction, Children's Books, Children's eBooks, Girls & Women, Growing Up & Facts of Life, Friendship; Social Skills & School Life
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permanent twilight and only isolated rays of sunlight found their way to the ground.
We drove through a street filled with beaten copperware, the ting! ting! of workers wielding small hammers rising all around us. The next housed a community of fabric dyers, and yards and yards of dripping, drying fabrics hung around and above us. We passed down a street of spice merchants, and baskets of brilliantly coloured spices filled the air with their fragrance.
We made an awkward turn into another street, too narrow for the motorcar to pass through, and Mr Hussein pulled up.
‘Now we must walk,’ said Mr Khalid.
I got out and looked up. Above me, on every house, were latticed balconies called mashrabiya . Behind them, women would be watching all that went on in the street without being observed themselves. The sun, I thought, would never reach this street.
We walked on and I wondered where we could be going. There couldn’t possibly be a hotel or guesthouse for Europeans in this area!
We’d only been walking for a minute when Mr Khalid stopped before an ancient, massive wooden door. ‘We are here,’ he said, and rang a bell hanging beside the door. There was an iron-grilled window to one side of the door, with copper cups on metal chains dangling from it.
‘What’s that?’ I asked.
‘Water for the poor,’ said Mr Khalid. ‘Just behind the window there is a well, and it is an old tradition that a basin is filled with water from it so all who have need may drink.’
Rattling sounded behind the door and a smaller door, set in the large one, creaked open. A man in a white robe stood there. He bowed deeply to Mr Khalid and Mr Khalid nodded.
‘This is Bilal,’ said Mr Khalid. ‘He is the caretaker.’
‘How do you do, Mr Bilal,’ I greeted him. ‘ Salam alekum .’
‘ Wa alekum es salam ,’ responded Mr Bilal.
He stepped aside for me to go through. I hesitated. I wasn’t sure what I would find in this out-of-the-way, back-alley place.
I stepped through the small door and I found a paradise: a paved courtyard, surrounded by buildings three storeys high. From the street, there was no suggestion that this haven of peace and calm existed. A tiled fountain played into a lily pool and potted palms and flowers lined the walls. A stone staircase led up the outside of one wall to a loggia with high arches and a latticed wooden balustrade. An open sitting room nestled behind, and I could see brass lamps on long chains suspended from its lofty ceiling.
‘There are other rooms further in,’ said Mr Khalid. ‘A bridge leads across the street to the second part of the house.’
‘What is this place?’ I said, awed. ‘It’s – it’s magic.’
‘It was once two houses,’ said Mr Khalid. ‘This section dates back to the 1600s, the other to the 1500s. They were built by two rich men, one a butcher and the other a blacksmith. Many years later the houses were owned by one person, and he built the bridge that connects them.’ He indicated a stone well at the side of the courtyard. ‘Here is the ancient well, the Well of Bats. It is said that a person will see the reflection of an absent sweetheart in the water.’
That was enough for me. I wanted to live here.
‘Can we see more?’ I asked.
‘But of course,’ said Mr Khalid.
The house was a maze of stairs and passageways, corners and crannies, recesses and rooms opening off rooms into other rooms. Mr Bilal led the way, guiding us up and down, backwards and forwards.
From the arched loggia we looked down into the courtyard. Another flight of stairs up and we stood on the roof, on a terrace shaded by latticed wood with a view over a mosque and then over the rooftops of Cairo and its minarets, domes and towers.
We descended a different flight of stairs and crossed over the enclosed bridge linking the houses, passing bedrooms, studies and even, to my surprise and enormous pleasure, a fairly modern bathroom. Then suddenly we came to an interior balcony
We drove through a street filled with beaten copperware, the ting! ting! of workers wielding small hammers rising all around us. The next housed a community of fabric dyers, and yards and yards of dripping, drying fabrics hung around and above us. We passed down a street of spice merchants, and baskets of brilliantly coloured spices filled the air with their fragrance.
We made an awkward turn into another street, too narrow for the motorcar to pass through, and Mr Hussein pulled up.
‘Now we must walk,’ said Mr Khalid.
I got out and looked up. Above me, on every house, were latticed balconies called mashrabiya . Behind them, women would be watching all that went on in the street without being observed themselves. The sun, I thought, would never reach this street.
We walked on and I wondered where we could be going. There couldn’t possibly be a hotel or guesthouse for Europeans in this area!
We’d only been walking for a minute when Mr Khalid stopped before an ancient, massive wooden door. ‘We are here,’ he said, and rang a bell hanging beside the door. There was an iron-grilled window to one side of the door, with copper cups on metal chains dangling from it.
‘What’s that?’ I asked.
‘Water for the poor,’ said Mr Khalid. ‘Just behind the window there is a well, and it is an old tradition that a basin is filled with water from it so all who have need may drink.’
Rattling sounded behind the door and a smaller door, set in the large one, creaked open. A man in a white robe stood there. He bowed deeply to Mr Khalid and Mr Khalid nodded.
‘This is Bilal,’ said Mr Khalid. ‘He is the caretaker.’
‘How do you do, Mr Bilal,’ I greeted him. ‘ Salam alekum .’
‘ Wa alekum es salam ,’ responded Mr Bilal.
He stepped aside for me to go through. I hesitated. I wasn’t sure what I would find in this out-of-the-way, back-alley place.
I stepped through the small door and I found a paradise: a paved courtyard, surrounded by buildings three storeys high. From the street, there was no suggestion that this haven of peace and calm existed. A tiled fountain played into a lily pool and potted palms and flowers lined the walls. A stone staircase led up the outside of one wall to a loggia with high arches and a latticed wooden balustrade. An open sitting room nestled behind, and I could see brass lamps on long chains suspended from its lofty ceiling.
‘There are other rooms further in,’ said Mr Khalid. ‘A bridge leads across the street to the second part of the house.’
‘What is this place?’ I said, awed. ‘It’s – it’s magic.’
‘It was once two houses,’ said Mr Khalid. ‘This section dates back to the 1600s, the other to the 1500s. They were built by two rich men, one a butcher and the other a blacksmith. Many years later the houses were owned by one person, and he built the bridge that connects them.’ He indicated a stone well at the side of the courtyard. ‘Here is the ancient well, the Well of Bats. It is said that a person will see the reflection of an absent sweetheart in the water.’
That was enough for me. I wanted to live here.
‘Can we see more?’ I asked.
‘But of course,’ said Mr Khalid.
The house was a maze of stairs and passageways, corners and crannies, recesses and rooms opening off rooms into other rooms. Mr Bilal led the way, guiding us up and down, backwards and forwards.
From the arched loggia we looked down into the courtyard. Another flight of stairs up and we stood on the roof, on a terrace shaded by latticed wood with a view over a mosque and then over the rooftops of Cairo and its minarets, domes and towers.
We descended a different flight of stairs and crossed over the enclosed bridge linking the houses, passing bedrooms, studies and even, to my surprise and enormous pleasure, a fairly modern bathroom. Then suddenly we came to an interior balcony
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