CHAPTER XXV

THREE WIVES

A Turkish woman, closely veiled and carrying a black umbrella, was walking along the Spladjia, or principal street of Canea. A nondescript urchin, bare-footed, with a tuft of black hair shooting straight up through a rent in his straw hat, followed with a string of red mullets and a sheaf of Italian lettuce. As the mysterious woman passed the little group of men sitting under the awnings, they turned their heads discreetly to one side, not even casting a furtive glance at the dainty, embroidered slippers, that now and then peeped out from under the black robe. Turning down a narrow street, she tiptoed along beneath the projecting upper stories of the houses, with that motion peculiar to women whose slippers are so constructed that they fall off if the toe is not shoved into them at each successive step. Stopping for a moment, she drew a handkerchief from her bosom, and, passing it under her veil, wiped her face.

"Whew!" she said, "it's hot." Then, raising her head, she sniffed the air sharply, eagerly.

"Allah be praised!" she exclaimed. "I believe that Ayesha is roasting coffee."

The thought accelerated her footsteps to such an extent that the rapid sliding of her slippers on the path sounded like the preparatory steps of a jig dancer in the sand box.

"Yes, that's from our court, surely. I do hope it's nearly ready to grind. What's so delicious as a cup of fresh coffee and a glass of cold water when one is hot and thirsty?"

The aroma certainly proceeded from a garden which the Turkish woman was now approaching, and as she arrived at the massive gate in the high adobe wall the sound of a coffee roaster in motion could plainly be heard within. Souleima gave the boy a penny, whereupon he set up such a loud and voluble protest that she was obliged to give him five paradhes more, with a threat to open the gate and let out an imaginary dog of fearful biting powers if he did not instantly depart. The boy out of the way, Souleima knocked upon the gate and cried.

"Ayesha, Ferende! let me in!"

"Go open the gate, it's Souleima," said a voice within.

"Go yourself. When did I become a door opener?"

"Bah! Don't you see I can't leave the coffee? It'll burn."

The sound of a rattling chain, and a woman peeped out, holding a black veil over the lower part of her face. Souleima entered, shutting and locking the gate after her.

"Whew!" she exclaimed, pulling off her veil with the finger and thumb of the hand that now held the sheaf of lettuce.

"It's hot outside. You two ought to be thankful to me, running around in the sun for you, while you sit here in the cool shade."

"Very cool it is here by this fire," retorted Ayesha. "It's Ferende who is the lady these days. Never mind, my girl, when Panayota comes to her senses you will have to work like your betters. You're getting fat, too, and Kostakes is tired of fat women. Isn't she getting fat, my Souleima?"

The lady appealed to made no reply, but, going over to the water faucet that projected from a marble slab built into one side of the wall, hung the string of fish from the iron cock, laid the lettuce in the stone basin beneath, and turned on a thin stream of cold water.

Ayesha and Souleima are about of an age--thirty. They are both fat, dark and greasy, with black eyes and black hair. Their lips are thick and their teeth not too good. Their complexions are muddy and their faces somewhat pimpled. Ferende is a strapping Albanian girl, about Panayota's age, though of coarser build. Like the beautiful Greek who is under lock and key upstairs, she has soft brown hair and brown eyes, set wide apart in her head.

It is easy to see that things are not running smoothly in Kostakes' harem, and the reason is this: Until recently Ferende has been the favorite, and the two elder wives have been little more than her servants. The appearance of Panayota has led them to believe that a new mistress will soon be established in the household, and they are looking forward with great delight to the degradation of Ferende. The latter, fearing her own downfall, has not openly declared war against her two associates, but is racking her brain night and day in search of some method by which to enlist them with her against Panayota.

Ayesha now sits with her bare feet crossed under her, upon a rug spread on the earthen floor of the court. Before her is a charcoal fire, suspended over which on two crotches driven into the ground is a thing like a section of stove pipe, closed at the ends. An iron rod, running lengthwise of this contrivance, rests upon the crotches and is bent at one extremity into a crank.

Souleima removes her outer garments and appears arrayed like her sisters, in baggy breeches drawn tight about the ankle, and a loose fitting shirt. She kicks off her slippers and walks in her stockinged feet to the coffee roaster.

"Is it ready yet, Ayesha?" she asks, opening a little door in one side of the cylinder, and letting out a black cloud of aroma.

"Can I take out enough for one little cup?"

"You might find enough for two while you are about it."

"Yes, even for three. Poor Ferende, she will soon have to grind her own coffee, and Panayota's, too."

Souleima produced a wooden spoon from the drawer of a pine table standing beneath the garden's one mulberry tree, and dipped a quantity of the brown smoking berries into one of those cylindrical brass mills which are sold by wandering gypsies to the housewives of the orient. Sitting on the table's edge, she grasped the mill with her left hand and firmly embedded one end of it in the fat of her corpulent stomach, while she turned the tiny crank with her right.

The ladies of Kostakes' household could converse or carry on their domestic vocations without fear of intruding eyes. The wall was very high, and the one house near enough to overlook it had no windows on that side. A pleasant place was that enclosure, albeit two long, shallow, rectangular tubs leaned against the wall of the house, taking the place of the legendary guitar. They were washtubs, and upon them Ayesha and Souleima from time to time played the stern music of necessity. A huge copper kettle, with a very black bottom, stood near, another adjunct of the home laundry. In the middle of the court was a stone basin, into which water ran through a tiny channel from the hydrant in the wall.

"Na!" said Souleima, unscrewing the top of the mill and looking inside, "that will be enough, I think. We'll have a cup of coffee first, and then some dinner, out here under the tree. Look at those fish. Did you ever see finer _barbounia_? What do you think I paid an _oke_ for them?"

"Ninety _paradhes_," suggested Ayesha.

"Only eighty. I bought them of a Greek. Ferende, clean them, that's a good girl, while I make a cup of coffee."

"Clean them yourself. I shall tell the Effendi of these insults when he comes, and he will make you suffer for them."

"Poor Ferende!" cackled Souleima. "He will take off those silk trousers and put them on Panayota. But you shouldn't complain now that your turn has come. Better people than you have been through the same thing."

"If you ever went through it," snapped Ferende, "it was so long ago you can't remember it," and rising disdainfully, she walked into the house. Souleima raised the coffee mill as though to hurl it after her, and then thinking better of the act, let her hand fall to her side.

"Maybe she'll be able to warm Kostakes over again," she reflected aloud.

"I don't believe it," replied Ayesha. "He's crazy about this Greek. I never saw him like this before."

"Then why does he----"

"I don't know. Perhaps he wants the girl to love him."

"Bah! She'll love him fast enough after he breaks her spirit."

Souleima filled a long-handled brass dipper from the hydrant and put into the water the coffee, ground fine as dust, together with four teaspoonfuls of sugar. Then, screening her face with her left hand, she kneeled in front of the fire and held the dipper in the coals until its contents boiled over. Ayesha lifted the smoking cylinder from the crotches and, shaking it violently for a moment, set it up against the side of the house.

"Shall I bring two cups or three?" she called from the door of the kitchen.

"Only two. Let Ferende make her own coffee."

"Hadn't I better call her?"

"You'll only get insulted if you do. The nasty cat!"