“Sit down,” said Smaïl, acting the host. He cleared the largest piece of matting of an alarm clock, a sardine can, and an ancient, incredibly greasy pair of overalls. Port sat down and put his elbows on his knees. On the mat next to him lay a chipped enamel bedpan, half filled with a darkish liquid. There were bits of stale bread everywhere. He lit a cigarette without offering one to Smaïl, who returned to stand near the entrance, looking out.
And suddenly she stepped inside—a slim, wild-looking girl with great dark eyes. She was dressed in spotless white, with a white turban—like headdress that pulled her hair tightly backward, accentuating the indigo designs tattooed on her forehead. Once inside the tent, she stood quite still, looking at Port with something of the expression, he thought, the young bull often wears as he takes the first few steps into the glare of the arena. There was bewilderment, fear, and a passive expectancy in her face as she stared quietly at him.
“Ah, here she is!” said Smaïl, still in a hushed voice. “Her name is Marhnia.” He waited a bit. Port rose and stepped forward to take her hand. “She doesn’t speak French,” Smaïl explained. Without smiling, she touched Port’s hand lightly with her own and raised her fingers to her lips. Bowing, she said, in what amounted almost to a whisper: “Ya sidi, la bess aâlik? Eglès, baraka ’laou’fik.” With gracious dignity and a peculiar modesty of movement, she unstuck the lighted candle from the chest, and walked across to the back of the tent, where a blanket stretched from the ceiling formed a partial alcove. Before disappearing behind the blanket, she turned her head to them, and said, gesturing: “Agi! Agi menah!” The two men followed her into the alcove, where an old mattress had been laid on some low boxes in an attempt to make a salon. There was a tiny tea table beside the improvised divan, and a pile of small, lumpy cushions lay on the mat by the table. The girl set the candle down on the bare earth and began to arrange the cushions along the mattress.
“Essmah!” she said to Port, and to Smaïclass="underline" “Tsekellem bellatsi.” Then she went out. He laughed and called after her in a low voice: “Fhemtek!” Port was intrigued by the girl, but the language barrier annoyed him, and he was even more irritated by the fact that Smaïl and she could converse together in his presence. “She’s gone to get fire,” said Smaïl. “Yes, yes,” said Port, “but why do we have to whisper?” Smaïl rolled his eyes toward the tent’s entrance. “The men in the other tent,” he said.
Presently she returned, carrying an earthen pot of bright coals. While she was boiling the water and preparing the tea, Smaïl chatted with her. Her replies were always grave, her voice hushed but pleasantly modulated. It seemed to Port that she was much more like a young nun than a café dancer. At the same time he did not in the least trust her, being content to sit and marvel at the delicate movements of her nimble, henna-stained fingers as she tore the stalks of mint apart and stuffed them into the little teapot.
When she had sampled the tea several times and eventually had found it to her liking, she handed them each a glass, and with a solemn air sat back on her haunches and began to drink hers. “Sit here,” said Port, patting the couch beside him. She indicated that she was quite happy where she was, and thanked him politely. Turning her attention to Smaïl, she proceeded to engage him in a lengthy conversation during which Port sipped his tea and tried to relax. He had an oppressive sensation that daybreak was near at hand—surely not more than an hour or so away, and he felt that all this time was being wasted. He looked anxiously at his watch; it had stopped at five minutes of two. But it was still going. Surely it must be later than that. Marhnia addressed a question to Smaïl which seemed to include Port. “She wants to know if you have heard the story about Outka, Mimouna and Aïcha,” said Smaïl. “No,” said Port. “Goul lou, goul lou,” said Marhnia to Smaïl, urging him.
“There are three girls from the mountains, from a place near Marhnia’s bled, and they are called Outka, Mimouna and Aïcha.” Marhnia was nodding her head slowly in affirmation, her large soft eyes fixed on Port. “They go to seek their fortune in the M’Zab. Most girls from the mountains go to Alger, Tunis, here, to earn money, but these girls want one thing more than everything else. They want to drink tea in the Sahara.” Marhnia continued to nod her head; she was keeping up with the story solely by means of the place-names as Smaïl pronounced them.
“I see,” said Port, who had no idea whether the story was a humorous one or a tragic one; he was determined to be careful, so that he could pretend to savor it as much as she clearly hoped he would. He only wished it might be short.
“In the M’Zab the men are all ugly. The girls dance in the cafés of Ghardaia, but they are always sad; they still want to have tea in the Sahara.” Port glanced again at Marhnia. Her expression was completely serious. He nodded his head again. “So, many months pass, and they are still in the M’Zab, and they are very, very sad, because the men are all so ugly. They are very ugly there, like pigs. And they don’t pay enough money to the poor girls so they can go and have tea in the Sahara.” Each time he said “Sahara,” which he pronounced in the Arabic fashion, with a vehement accent on the first syllable, he stopped for a moment. “One day a Targui comes, he is tall and handsome, on a beautiful mehari; he talks to Outka, Mimouna and Aïcha, he tells them about the desert, down there where he lives, his bled, and they listen, and their eyes are big. Then he says: ‘Dance for me,’ and they dance. Then he makes love with all three, he gives a silver piece to Outka, a silver piece to Mimouna, and a silver piece to Aïcha. At daybreak he gets on his mehari and goes away to the south. After that they are very sad, and the M’Zab look uglier than ever to them, and they only are thinking of the tall Targui who lives in the Sahara.” Port lit a cigarette; then he noticed Marhnia looking expectantly at him, and he passed her the pack. She took one, and with a crude pair of tongs elegantly lifted a live coal to the end of it. It ignited immediately, whereupon she passed it to Port, taking his in exchange. He smiled at her. She bowed almost imperceptibly.
“Many months go by, and still they can’t earn enough money to go to the Sahara. They have kept the silver pieces, because all three are in love with the Targui. And they are always sad. One day they say: ‘We are going to finish like this—always sad, without ever having tea in the Sahara—so now we must go anyway, even without money.’ And they put all their money together, even the three silver pieces, and they buy a teapot and a tray and three glasses, and they buy bus tickets to El Golea. And there they have only a little money left, and they give it all to a bachhamar who is taking his caravan south to the Sahara. So he lets them ride with his caravan. And one night, when the sun is going to go down, they come to the great dunes of sand, and they think: ‘Ah, now we are in the Sahara; we are going to make tea.’ The moon comes up, all the men are asleep except the guard. He is sitting with the camels playing his flute.” Smaïl wriggled his fingers in front of his mouth. “Outka, Mimouna and Aïcha go away from the caravan quietly with their tray and their teapot and their glasses. They are going to look for the highest dune so they can see all the Sahara. Then they are going to make tea. They walk a long time. Outka says: ‘I see a high dune,’ and they go to it and climb up to the top. Then Mimouna says: ‘I see a dune over there. It’s much higher and we can see all the way to In Salah from it.’ So they go to it, and it is much higher. But when they get to the top, Aïcha says: ‘Look! There’s the highest dune of all. We can see to Tamanrasset. That’s where the Targui lives.’ The sun came up and they kept walking. At noon they were very hot. But they came to the dune and they climbed and climbed. When they got to the top they were very tired and they said: ‘We’ll rest a little and then make tea.’ But first they set out the tray and the teapot and the glasses. Then they lay down and slept. And then—” Smaïl paused and looked at Port—“Many days later another caravan was passing and a man saw something on top of the highest dune there. And when they went up to see, they found Outka, Mimouna and Aïcha; they were still there, lying the same way as when they had gone to sleep. And all three of the glasses,” he held up his own little tea glass, “were full of sand. That was how they had their tea in the Sahara.”