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night for having none of this. Now I can make it up to you.” He opened a flat metal box filled with what seemed to be some sort of dark brown candy or preserve. The hunchback scooped out a bit with a silver teaspoon and placed it beside Pete’s cup. Puzzled, Peter looked at the lump. “Come, taste it. There is nothing like it.”
    “What is it?”
    “Hasheesh, Mr. Wells, hasheesh. The forbidden fruit, as it were…but the mainstay of the Arab world. Without it they would all go mad, and I am serious. They are forbidden to drink alcohol, but they
can
eat hasheesh, and they do, while drinking cups of hot tea to increase the sensation.”
    “What is it like?”
    Le Mouche clapped his hands and shut his eyes blissfully. “Like flying, like dreaming, only you are conscious all the time and there is no uncomfortable awakening. And of course, to make love when full of hasheesh is like nothing this world can offer. The sensation lasts for what seems to be an eternity, though actually it is only a second or two in actual time.”
    Pete grinned. “Perhaps I should have a girl, to get the full effect.”
    Le Mouche took him seriously. “Certainly. Shall I get you one from the bar? As my guest, of course. You can make love yonder on those prayer rugs in the corner. I am sure the Prophet would not mind.”
    “Oh…well, thanks a lot, but I’ve got a dinner date,” said Pete, realizing how silly he sounded. He was half tempted to accept the invitation.
    “As you please,” said Le Mouche, and he himself took some of the hasheesh and chewed it thoroughly, sipping tea from time to time, a faraway expression in his eyes.
    “This won’t end me like the absinthe did, will it?”
    “Certainly not. I wouldn’t let you take too much; you know that. Just a taste, to commune with angels.”
    Pete ate it carefully. The flavor was like ginger candy, sharp but agreeable. As he chewed the pellet, he drank some of the tea. Almost immediately he began to feel warm and relaxed. It was like alcohol, only there was no distortion.
    Le Mouche smiled benignly. “Good?”
    “Very good. I’ve got to keep track of the time, though. Have to be at Shepheard’s by eight. Important engagement.”
    “I’ll see that you start out in good time.”
    “The way you did the other night?” Pete was more sharp than he had intended to be.
    “I’m afraid, Mr. Wells, that I was hardly responsible for your condition. You insisted on drinking that poison. You were already quite far gone when we met.”
    “Ah…” Pete relaxed; the drug made the room seem cheerful. He found that he liked Le Mouche very much. Yet, even so, there were questions to be answered. First: “How did we happen to meet? I’m a little hazy about that.”
    “I should think so.” The hunchback poured himself more tea. “I was playing American songs. I believe I had just started something called ‘The Memphis Blues’ when you came over and sat down beside me and put your arm around my shoulders and said that that was the one song that always sent you.”
    Even in his warm hasheesh mood, Pete did not like the idea of his arm around those sad, malformed shoulders; yet it had probably been that drunken gesture which had endeared him to the hunchback. “I guess I’m a sucker for that kind of blues. I never thought I’d be hearing it in Cairo.”
    “You’ll hear it only when I play,” said Le Mouche proudly.
    “Where did you learn to play our music?”
    “In New Orleans—the only place.”
    “You’re not American, are you?”
    The little man shook his great head. “No, but I have been to many countries. I’ve done many things. Now I play piano at Le Couteau Rouge.”
    “Do you like it?”
    “Oh, yes. I see a great deal of life—through those two holes,” and his voice was bitter.
    A thought occurred to Pete. To his own surprise, he found himself thinking lucidly despite the drug that ran like an electric current through his veins.
    “What do you know about a woman