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Updated: June 4, 2025
His name was S`lam Ben Haddon Riffi of Bekiona, son of Haddon and of Fettouch Ben Haddon of Bekiona. S`lam's wife was Tahara. He had served for a year in the French army in Algeria, in the 2nd Regiment of Tirailleurs Algériens; and having picked up a little French, we learnt, with a few Arabic words, to understand each other. He and Tahara spoke Shillah to each other.
Tahara slipped into her slippers, and, with the white shrouded figure clinging to me, in the fast-deepening dusk we started. It took fully twenty minutes to walk from Jinan Dolero to the house in the middle of the city where the lady missionaries lived and had a dispensary. Miss Z had had some medical experience, and was a clever woman.
Only lately a boy was shot twice in the thigh, happening to be in the way in a scuffle. S`lam and Tahara were often amusing, if not interesting: never commonplace or "well-meaning." One corner of the roof of Jinan Dolero had been left unwhitewashed, the whitewashers' ladder was still there, and one morning S`lam came to say in his best French, "Deux mesdames. Pour arranger en haut."
As matters stood, Miss Z decided to come out that afternoon to our house, while S`lam should be sent away on an errand, in order that Tahara might be interrogated and the thing ended. Arrived home, I found that S`lam had been dispatched to the city to market, and that Maman had gone with him.
If it was water, why did S`lam keep it wrapped up, and why did Tahara think it was poison? It was half empty. If Tahara had ever seen it full, somebody must have drunk a dose. Of course S`lam's old master had not left a bottle of prussic acid about, and then not missed it.
Miss Z took Tahara upstairs into her bedroom, and I followed, explaining that Tahara did not want any one else to come in. For a moment or two, after we got her up into the room, all her old terror seemed to return; she was unable to speak, and collapsed upon the floor a ghastly colour.
She bound round her head an orange-coloured silk handkerchief; wore, except when at work, an embroidered yellow waistcoat, a pale blue kaftan down to her ankles, a sprigged, white muslin, loose garment, all over that; and a creamy woollen haik, when she went out or was cold, covered everything. S`lam acted as butler, Tahara kept our rooms in order, and they were joint cooks.
Would the city gate still be open when we reached it? Was it not certain to be shut when we wanted to return? Tahara hung on to my arm and hand. There had been rain, and we both slipped about in the dark, and splashed into unseen pools; she took off her pink slippers and carried them in one hand, and paddled along on her bare feet at a Moorish woman's top speed, still shaking with terror.
Several years ago a Japanese named T. Tahara came to Panama as the traveling representative of a newly organized company, the Official Japanese Association of Importers and Exporters for Latin America, and established headquarters in the offices of the Boyd Bros. shipping agency in Panama.
Leading Tahara to the door, we found him on the threshold, with his old mother, whom he must have gone first to fetch Maman, whom R. and I had ever distrusted: feeling that she was after no good the first time she came to the house, we had limited her visits. I told S`lam to stay outside. He did not seem astonished at seeing his wife and myself, asking not a single question of either.
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