Guests of the Sheik: An Ethnography of an Iraqi Village (16 page)

made only one change. “Five chickens would be better than

three,” he said. “After all, it is Haji Hamid who is coming.”

And this is what we had:

Chicken and Noodle Soup

Grilled Kebab Beef in Spiced Tomato Sauce

Lamb cooked with Beans and Onions and Fresh Dill

Whole Roast Chickens (2)

Fried Chickens, American Style (3)

Caucasian Rice (with raisins, almonds, onions,

chicken livers, butter and saffron)

Eggplant in Meat Sauce Sliced Tomato Salad

Yogurt Khubuz (flat wheat bread)

Homemade Western Bread

Butter and Jam

Strawberry Jello Caramel Custard

Spongecake Cookies

Fresh Fruit (Bananas and Oranges)

Tea Coffee

We wanted to provide enough food to honor the sheik in

traditional fashion, yet no more than he might provide for us if

the situation were reversed. I wanted to prove, egotistically

enough, that I could cook. Mohammed simply wanted, I think,

not to be ashamed of us.

So for three days we prepared for the feast. The chickens

and butter were ordered, and Mohammed’s mother offered to

make the
khubuz
and send it over hot, just before lunch.

Mohammed visited four food stalls in the market to find

amber rice. I baked bread, cake, cookies, made the desserts

and the yogurt. Bob picked out the fruit himself, piece by

piece, and Mohammed bargained for it. The night before, all

three of us were in a state of nervous exhaustion.

The day of the lunch I was up at six, for there were many

dishes to cook, and I had only two kerosene burners and the

camp stove on which to work. Mohammed arrived at eight,

and Bob fussed around the kitchen, watching us cut up the

onions and the meat, fry the almonds and raisins and chicken

livers in butter, and pound the spices. He kept going out and

coming back, and made our feverish preparations no better by

telling us that everyone in the settlement was aware that the

sheik was lunching with us that day. “An hour after he leaves,

every house will know exactly what we served them,” he said.

“So it better be good.” I nearly lost my temper at that point,

but Mohammed merely looked around him at the pots boiling

on all the burners, at the cut-up vegetables, the fruit, and the

sweets which lay piled on the kitchen table, and then looked

calmly at Bob. “There is a great deal of food here,” he said.

Bob repented, and offered to make amends by cutting up the

raw chickens, cleaned and plucked the day before by

Mohammed, into American-style pieces. Mohammed thought

this amusing but said it was not a bad idea, since it would

make the chickens easier to eat.

The men were due at one and I felt I must produce the food

fifteen minutes later, no more, no less. At 12 the camp stove

sputtered out of gas; Bob was already at the mudhif, waiting

to accompany the men personally to the house. Mohammed

was making salad, but he dropped everything and ran to the

market for gas.

At 12:45 Mohammed asked me for the tray.

“What tray?” I said.

“The big tray for serving,” he answered, and explained that

he should carry in all the food at once, in order to make the

best possible impression.

“I don’t have a tray like that,” I confessed, panic-stricken.

“Never mind,” said Mohammed, and ran out again,

returning with an enormous tin tray like the one Ali had

brought my first day in the village. “My mother’s cousin’s,”

he explained, and sat down on the floor to scour it. I noticed

he had put on a clean dishdasha while he was at home, and

that his kaffiyeh was freshly pressed.

I heard the gate open, and knew that the guests had arrived.

Bob almost immediately came into the kitchen to check on the

progress of our preparations, and, seeing Mohammed down on

the floor scouring the tray, looked quite cross.

“Why didn’t he do that before?” he asked. “It’s one o’clock.

They’re here. We have to eat.”

I explained. Mohammed, who had not understood what we

had said, must have caught the tone. He suggested that it

would be better if Bob did not leave our esteemed guests alone

in the other room. Bob went.

Then Mohammed and I dished up the food, the chicken, the

kebab, the meat dishes, the vegetables and salad and yogurt.

Abad, his younger brother, appeared at the back door with the

bread, still hot from the family oven. I began to spoon the rice

out onto a platter, but Mohammed said he would do it, and

proceeded to pack the rice down carefully so as to cover the

entire platter with a neat mound, saving a few of the nuts and

raisins and the crisp butter crust from the bottom of the pan to

decorate the top. He looked quite pleased with his handiwork.

We piled the platters, twelve of them, onto the tray.

Mohammed mopped his brow, readjusted his headdress, then

lifted the heavy, steaming tray to his shoulder and set out for

the other room.

I sat down in the kitchen. The first part of my job was over.

I listened carefully for voices from the living room which

might indicate how the whole thing was going. After an

interminable quarter of an hour, Mohammed came back.

“They are eating a lot,” he said. “The rice is all right.”

He looked as relieved as though he had cooked it himself.

He carefully mopped his brow again, before returning to the

living room to stand by in case he was needed. This was the

signal for me to lock the door, change into my brown wool

dress, and put on lipstick and earrings and my Baghdadi gold

bracelet in honor of the guests I was about to meet.

Mohammed knocked, and I opened the door so he could

bring in the tray of leftover food. I looked carefully at the

dishes; the rice had indeed been a success. I had cooked

enough, I thought, for fifteen people, and almost half of it was

gone. The men had also seemed to enjoy the soup, the

chickens (their plates were piled with bones) and the meat

with tomato and spices. The eggplant and bean dishes had not

been so popular.

Now for dessert! The tray of sweets looked quite attractive,

I thought; Mohammed must have thought so too, for he went

out to the garden and brought back a rose to stick into the

spongecake. At that I was impressed. Mohammed shouldered

the tray again, actually smiling as he went out.

Ten minutes passed before dessert was polished off.

Mohammed came back with the partially eaten food. He

would brew the tea now, he said—he knew exactly how the

sheik liked it, with a bit of cardamom seed. I was glad to turn

over this responsibility to him, for I found, as my meeting

with Hamid approached, that I was as nervous as an

adolescent debutante at her coming-out ball. I combed my hair

for the fourth time and adjusted the earrings again. Bob came

into the kitchen, looking quite pleased, saying the food had

been good. “It’s almost time,” he said in a tone usually

reserved for missile firings and atomic-bomb explosions.

Mohammed was carefully placing three spoonfuls, of sugar

in each tiny glass, then he poured the tea—strong enough to

float an egg, I thought, but it did emit a fine odor of

cardamom, “Come on,” said Bob. “Wait two minutes after I

leave, and then bring in the tea.” I did, wondering idiotically,

as I traversed the short mud path from the kitchen to the living

room, whether or not my stocking seams were straight.

I went in, my eyes cast down, less from modesty than from

simple unadulterated stage fright. The men said good

afternoon. I replied nervously, my voice cracking foolishly. I

passed the tea around, somewhat shakily, and set down the

tray. Then Bob introduced me formally and I shook hands

with the three men, drew up a chair into the circle, and looked

directly at my distinguished guests for the first time.

Sheik Hamid Abdul Emir el Hussein, honored with the title

El Haji
because he had made the
hajj
or pilgrimage to Mecca,

returned my gaze. I cannot say exactly what I had expected

this man to be like, whose lineage was one of the oldest and

purest in southern Arabia and whose position had become

synonymous in my world with romance, wanderlust, and

mystery. But I didn’t expect him to be quite so solid and

dignified, exuding an air of middle-aged respectability and

authority.

Sheik Hamid was a big man, portly but erect; his gray

mustache was clipped, and his steel-rimmed glasses sat

squarely on his nose. Superficially he resembled Sheik

Hamza, in his sober well-tailored brown robes, British shoes,

gold signet ring and wrist watch, fingering his string of amber

worry beads. But there the resemblance ended; where Hamza

shambled and goggled, Sheik Hamid was direct and

businesslike. Seated firmly in his chair like a man who is

reasonably successful and content with life, he regarded me in

a forthright fashion, smiled and inquired briskly about my

family. Was my father well? I replied that my father had been

dead for many years. The guests clucked sympathetically, and

the sheik’s brother Abdulla said that it was difficult for a

family when the father died. Was my mother well? Yes, I said,

and turned toward Abdulla, a tall spare man with finely drawn

features and deep-set eyes. He was murmuring condolences

about my father, and as I listened to the mellifluous Arabic

words, rounding and joining in a harmonious pattern, I lost

some of my nervousness in the beauty of the language spoken

so well by this gentleman.

Abdulla asked me if we were comfortable in El Nahra, and

I said yes. Sheik Hamid said we were welcome to stay as long

as we liked, that his house was our house, and his belongings

ours. I knew these were the customary sentiments, uttered to

every guest, but he said them sincerely and I believed him.

Then Nour, his son, said something to his father in an

undertone; I wondered why he had not participated in the

conversation, and then I remembered Bob’s saying that when

a son, whatever his age, was in the presence of his father, he

always deferred to him and did not speak until he was spoken

to.

The sheik listened to Nour’s whisper and then said to me,

“Is there anything you need for your house that we might

provide?”

“No, no,” I protested. “We are grateful for what you have

done already. Thank you very much.”

We spoke of the weather, and Sheik Hamid and Abdulla

and Bob discussed the condition of the crops. I brought in

another tray of tea. Bob passed around cigarettes. Abdulla and

Nour took one, but Sheik Hamid did not.

“You do not smoke?” said Sheik Hamid to me.

“No,” I replied.

“It is better for a woman if she does not smoke,” remarked

Abdulla.

I smiled politely. He was paying me a compliment, I knew,

but since I was not certain how to respond, I kept silent. My

part of the conversation was apparently over and I looked at

Bob, trying to convey that I felt it was time for me to leave; he

understood and nodded.

I rose to collect the empty tea glasses, and asked the men if

they would drink another tea. They refused, as is customary

when food or drink is offered for the first time. Bob pressed

them to have more, which is also customary, and Sheik Hamid

said no, the tea was very good, but he had had enough. Once

more Bob offered it, and they still refused; this was a sign they

really did not want any more tea!

“You must excuse me. I have work in the house,” I said.

Sheik Hamid chuckled, but the chuckle had no edge of

salaciousness about it, as Hamza’s had. It was an extremely

fatherly chuckle.

I bade them farewell, apologizing for not shaking hands, for

I was carrying the tray.

“You must always visit my family,” said Sheik Hamid, and

Abdulla repeated the sentiment.

“Ahlan wusahlan,”
I replied, and Bob held the screen door

open for me as I departed.

When I got to the kitchen, I found I was perspiring from a

combination of nervousness and relief. Mohammed was down

on the floor washing the dishes, for he had gone home during

the tea drinking and changed into his old dishdasha. The clean

kaffiyeh was draped over a chair.

I told Mohammed how good the bread had been which his

mother had sent, and he nodded, saying that his mother always

made good bread. Sometime, he added, he would bring me

khubuz laham
, a special bread in which tiny cubes of cooked

meat and onions and chopped celery leaves were added to the

dough before the bread was baked. I began to put away the

leftover food and tidy the kitchen, and the piles of plates and

greasy pots were diminishing as Mohammed worked steadily.

I felt let down and disappointed. I suppose I had expected

Mohammed to comment enthusiastically on the excellence of

each dish which we had presented for the sheik’s pleasure. He

didn’t. No one ever did such a thing, I found out later. If the