14 Piasters

On warm days, usually on weekends, the goat girls come herding their goats down the street. The goats wreak havoc in the yards, eating everything in sight. The goat girls themselves did not care about people’s gardens, just so that their goats got enough to eat, so they generally ignored their animals that strayed off. Gardeners would come flying out of the gardens do defend their plants and shrubberies from their ravenous goats. There were big ones, little ones black and white ones and at the rear of the herd rode the 3 girls on a single donkey. The younger two got to ride only occasionally. They had the task of “herding” which in their definition of the word consisted of hitting goats with long bamboo sticks over and over while making a GRRRRRRing sound. The older girl while riding, guided the donkey with her bamboo stick. She would hit the side of the donkey’s neck in the direction she wanted to go. She rode the donkey with a nonchalant grace acting as if she was the queen of all she surveyed.
All the girls wore their transparent black Tarhas draped on their head and shoulders . On their heads, under the Tarha were satiny bright floral scarves that tied up their hair and seemed to raise the tarha away from their neck. The scarves competed in brightness with the girls hot pink and neon yellow fustans (dresses) and pants that they wore under them. I would run out to watch the goat progression every time they passed by. I loved the goats and their silly antics. One of the goats in the herd caught my eye, and I looked for it every time they passed my house. It was tiny, like a runt and it was always limping. Today it walked along at the back of the herd bleating constantly (as if looking for its mother) and as it fell behind the girls would beat it with a stick. It bleated pathetically.

I ran out of the garden gate, wrapped my arms around the goat and shielded him from the bamboo sticks that were raised to hit him. The girls look at me like I was mad. The older one got off her donkey and started yelling at me. I put my hands in my pockets fearing that she might hit them with her stick. I felt the 14 piasters I had in my pocket…change left over from the Groppi ice-cream man. In a split second I thought I had the solution to the little goats problem (and my desire to have the little goat).
“I want to by the goat” I said in Arabic. The girls exchanged looks and then laughed at me. For a second I doubted myself thinking that I had asked the question wrong. The girls continued to laugh at me. The oldest one said, “How much?”
I replied “arbaЗtasher ersh” (14 piasters). The girls howled with laughter and spoke rapidly in arabic amongst themselves. I was the joke of the century it would seem.

The goats by this time had pushed their way through the hedges on our side of the street and had begun munching on the flowers.
I picked up the baby goat and held out my hand with the money in it. The girls stopped laughing.
The older girl approached me, and I handed her the 14 piasters placing it firmly into her palm.
She took my money and pocketed it, said something to her sisters. They grabbed the goat from me. For a second we fought over the goat. Its bleating got louder as it became the center of a tug of war. The girls began screaming at me and I screamed back at them.

“This is the goat of my father! You cannot have it” she yelled in Arabic at me as she tried to wrenched the goat out of my arms.

“You were going to beat it to death anyway” I yelled back, turning slightly so that the goat was shielded by my body.

Salem suddenly came out with stick and began to shoo the goats out of the yard. The goat girl seeing him began howling complaints at him in a long stream of Arabic.

Salem listened to her patiently. He gently took the goat from my arms and handed it back to the girl. She beamed triumphantly at me. Salem took the halter of the donkey and looked sternly at the girl. “If I ever see you at this place again I will tell your father of this, and that you are a thief”
“I am no thief” the girl said loudly and indignantly.
“You are a thief. You took 14 piasters from the mazmazelle freely making her believe that you sold it and then you took the goat back.”

The girl dug into her pockets and handed Salem my fourteen piasters. She jumped onto the donkey sidesaddle, and rode off down the street; the other girls made loud GRRRRRRing noises, began hitting the hedges to get the stragglers out and left only when all the goats were accounted for. All was quiet.

“Mazmazelle” Salem said after a moment of quiet, “you have a good heart, but you cannot buy a goat for 14 piasters.”
I wept. Salem held me in his arms for a long time. I could smell the cut grass, deep earth and sweat.
When I looked up he asked me “May I have your 14 piasters?” and without asking why I handed it to him. He smiled at me. “Go back inside” he said and left.

A couple of hours later, Salem knocked on our door. In a cardboard box were 3 baby chicks. They peeped and peeped. He took me to a shady place in the garden under the lemon tree and I saw that he made a small enclosure for them.
“You must be careful of cats” he said. He placed the chicks in the enclosure with little dishes of grain and water. “You must bring them inside at night” he continued. I picked one up. It was fluffy, very warm and it chirped in my hands. Gently I put the chick down.
“Thank you Salem” I said as I gave him a big hug.

Days passed. Only one chick survived….he became my mighty rooster!