When we had unpacked the things necessary for our stay in Acre, we went to the inn’s hammam. And the hammam, I think, must rank with those other great Arabian inventions: arithmetic and its numbers and the abaco for counting. Essentially a hammam is only a room full of steam, generated by throwing water on fire-hot stones. But after we had sat for a time on benches in that room, sweating copiously, half a dozen menservants came in and said, “Health and delight to you, lords, from this bath!” and directed us to lie prostrate on the benches. Then, two men to each of us, their four hands wearing gloves made of coarse hemp, they rubbed us all over, briskly and for a long time. As they rubbed, the accumulated salt and dirt of our voyage was scraped off our skin in long gray rolls. We might have deemed that sufficient for cleanliness, but they kept on rubbing, and more dirt came out of our pores, like thin gray worms.
When we were exuding no more grayness, and were steamed and rubbed to redness, the men offered to depilate us of our body hair. My father declined that treatment, and so did I. I had already that day shaved off what skimpy whiskers I had, and I wished to keep what other hair I possessed. Uncle Mafìo, after a moment’s consideration, told the servants to remove his artichoke escutcheon, but not to tamper with his beard or chest hair. So two of the men, the two youngest and most handsome, hastened to the task. They applied a dun-colored ointment to his crotch area, and the thick thatch of hair there began to disappear like smoke. Almost immediately, he was as bald in that place as was Doris Tagiabue.
“That salve is magical,” he said admiringly, looking down at himself.
“In truth it is, Sheikh Folo,” said one of the young men, smiling so that he leered. “The removal of the hair makes your zab more visible, as prominent and as pretty as a war lance. A veritable torch to guide your lover to you in the night. It is a pity that the Sheikh is not circumcised, so that his zab’s bright plum might be more readily observed and admired and—”
“Enough of that! Tell me, can this ointment be purchased?”
“Certainly. You have but to order me, Sheikh. and I will run to the apothecary for a fresh jar of the mumum. Or many jars.”
My father said, “You see it as a commodity, Mafìo? But there would be scant market for it in Venice. A Venetian treasures every least bloom on the peach.”
“But we are going eastward, Nico. Remember, many of those Eastern peoples regard body hair as a blemish on either sex. If this mumum is not too costly here, we could turn a considerable profit there.” He said to his rubber, “Please stop fondling me, boy, and get on with the bathing.”
So the men washed us all over, using a creamy sort of soap, and washed our hair and beards in fragrant rose water, and dried us with great fleecy, musk-scented towels. When we were dressed again, they gave us cool drinks of sweetened lemon-juice sharbat, to restore our internal moisture, which by then had been depleted by all the heat. I left the hammam feeling cleaner than I had ever felt before, and I was grateful for the Arabs’ invention of that facility. I made frequent use of that one, and others thereafter, and the only complaint I might ever have had was that so many of the Arab people themselves preferred filth and fetor to the cleanness available in the hammam.
The landlord Ishaq had spoken the truth about the khane’s food being good, though of course we were paying enough that he could profitably have fed us on ambrosia and nectar. That first night’s meal was the lamb stuffed with pistachios, also rice and a dish of cucumbers sliced and dripped with lemon juice, and afterwards a confection of sugared pomegranate pulp mixed with grated almonds and delicately perfumed. It was all delicious, but I was most taken by the accompanying beverage. Ishaq told me it is an infusion from ripe berries in hot water, and is called qahwah. That Arabic word means “wine,” which qahwah is not, for the Arabs’ religion forbids them wine. Only in color is the qahwah winelike, a deep garnet-brown, rather resembling a Barolo of the Piedmont, but it does not have Barolo’s strong flavor or its faint aftertaste of violets. Neither is it sweet or sour, like some other wines. Neither does it intoxicate like wine, or make the head to ache the next day. But it does gladden the heart and enliven the senses and—so said Ishaq—a few glasses of qahwah enable a traveler or a warrior to march or fight untiringly for hours on end.
The meal was served upon a cloth around which we sat on the floor, and it was served without any table implements. So we used our belt knives for cutting and slicing, as we would have employed table knives at home, and used the knife points to spear our bits of meat, in place of the little metal skewers we would have had at home. Lacking skewers or spoons, we ate the lamb’s stuffing and the rice and the sweet with our fingers.
“Only the thumb and first two fingers of the right hand,” my father cautioned me in a low voice. “The left hand’s fingers are considered by the Arabs nasty, for they are reserved to the wiping of one’s behind. Also, sit only upon your left haunch, take only small portions of the food with your fingers, chew well each mouthful, and look not at your fellow diners while they eat, lest you embarrass them and make them lose their appetite.”
There is much to be read in an Arab’s use of his hands, as I gradually learned. If, while he is speaking, he strokes his beard, his most precious possession, then he is swearing by his beard that his words are truthful. If he puts his index finger to his eye, it is his sign of assent to your words or consent to your command. If he puts his hand to his head, he is vowing that his head will answer for any disobedience. If, however, he makes any of those gestures with his left hand, he is merely mocking you, and if he touches you with that left hand, it is the direst insult.
3
SOME days later, when we had ascertained that the commander of the Crusaders was in the city’s castle, we went to pay our courtesy call upon him. The forecourt of the castle was full of knights of the various orders, some merely lounging about, others gambling with dice, others chatting or quarreling, still others quite visibly drunk for that early in the day. None seemed to be about to dash out and do battle with the Saracens, or eager to do so, or sorry that he was not doing so. When my father had explained our mission to the two drowsy-looking knights guarding the castle door, they said nothing, but only jerked their heads for us to enter. Inside, my father explained our business to one lackey and squire after another, in one hall after another, until we were ushered into a room hung with battle flags and told to wait. After a time, a lady entered. She was about thirty years of age, not pretty but gracious of demeanor, and wearing a gold coronet. She said, in Castilian-accented French, “I am Princess Eleanor.”
“Nicolò Polo,” said my father, bowing. “And my brother Mafìo and my son Marco.” And for the sixth or seventh time, he told why we were seeking audience.
The lady said, with admiration and a little apprehension, “Going all the way to Cathay? Dear me, I hope my husband will not volunteer to go with you. He does love to travel, and he does abhor this dismal Acre.” The room door opened again, admitting a man of about her age. “Here he is now. Prince Edward. My love, these are—”
“The Polo family,” he said brusquely, with an Anglo accent. “You came in on the supply ship.” He too wore a coronet, and a surcoat emblazoned with the cross of San Zorzi. “What can I do for you?” He stressed the last word as if we were only the latest in a long procession of appellants.
For the seventh or eighth time, my father explained, concluding, “We merely ask Your Royal Highness to introduce us to the chief prelate among your Crusader chaplains. We would ask him for the loan of some of his priests.”