No one laughed too loud.

They seemed, at least on this, my first visit with them, my first tea party, genuinely to like one another and to enjoy their time together.

Our host, for his part, largely sat back, listening, always listening, but rarely adding more than a barbed or gentle word or two here and there. He sipped his tea, and made sure the others were comfortable — asking if anyone would care for another cigarette. He inhabited rather than played at being the attentive, considerate master of modest revels. For his part, he seemed to take pleasure in his guests.

…in contrast to the usual rags he wore on the caravan and trading routes, he was wearing a loose-cut white suit over a white shirt, and he had his hair slicked back, very much the educated, if not quite urbane, European…

As always, he was thin, but in contrast to the usual rags he wore on the caravan and trading routes, he was wearing a loose-cut white suit over a white shirt, and had his hair slicked back, very much the educated, if not quite urbane, European — who could pull off urbane in Harar, who dare try? He kept his face still, and his eyes were shadowed and encircled by heavy, black rings — perhaps he did not sleep well or had recently been ill — but even in their shadows, his eyes seemed to glow — he was thoughtful, always watching and thinking, our host, even if he did not say much.

The tea-drinkers were challenging one another to a bet: what was more likely, war in the north (there was always war in the north, as they well knew) or a beautiful woman stepping through the front door in the next minute? They were quite pleased with themselves and were soon enough swapping stories of the most beautiful women they had ever seen, known, or been with.

Our host looked across at me, lucent-eye’d:

— This shouldn’t take long.

The others, hearing his remark, as he had intended, laughed louder and waved their hands dismissively at him and tried to outdo one another. Within a few minutes, you would have thought they had all slept with Nefertiti and Makeda, the fabled Queen of Sheba and consort to Solomon, and with all (and only) the most beautiful whores from Djibouti to Addis Ababa to Khartoum and back. Officially, of course, none of them had ever visited a whore, since one would not, and since, of course, there were no whores in their fair part of the world.

Like men everywhere, they were never so pleased with themselves than when talking about their cocks and where they had been.

When the others tried to draw him into the round, our patron demurred with a grin:

— Discretion, my friends; there’s a want of discretion in this world.

Oh, yes, oh, yes, they variously cried, to their own delight, there are a lot of wants in this world!