Page 61 - WTP Vol.X #8

The shop-owner introduced himself as Abu Musa and he insisted that I sit with him and have some refreshments. We sat on two small backless chairs, leather-covered tripods, while he poured me a glass of mint tea. The table was flat, bronze and circular, perhaps two feet in diameter; it had been carefully beaten and etched. It sat on a tripod with inlaid legs. The shop had a cave-like feel to it, a musty smell, an Arabian Nights patina.
Abu Musa grabbed a sugar cube with tongs and gestured: did I want sugar? I thanked him and nodded. I stirred my tea without making eye contact with him.
“I have had my store here for many years,” Abu Musa said. “Oh, many, many years.” He put in a couple of sugar cubes into his tea and stirred. “In the old days, I used to put just one sugar cube. Now I use two. I think the sugar is not as sweet as it used to be, no?”
That was as close as Abu Musa got to making a political or social comment. I didn’t ask any questions about his attitude toward the Israeli occupation and he didn’t volunteer any. Instead, we chatted about the charm of the Old City and which hummus place I should go to. While we drank tea,
he told me about customers of his, from all over the world. He showed me their photos and the dresses and other handicrafts they’d bought. He was proud of the quality of what he sold and seemed to be in no rush to sell me something.
When we finally got around to the dress, he displayed several. After a few minutes I picked out a blue one inlaid with beads, buttons, coins and tiny mirrors: the right amount of craftsmanship and beauty. The shopkeeper’s initial price was the equivalent of $120. Of course, this was his opening gambit and we both knew what would follow.
Unfortunately, I’m not comfortable with haggling. I always feel I’ve been cheated. I’d much rather be told a fixed price, take it or leave it.
But here I was, in the mecca of haggling, so I’d better get on with it. However, I’d been given a limit of $40 and figured that if it ended up above that, it’d be my responsibility to pay the difference.
We went back and forth. I must have heard “final, last, ultimate price” a dozen times, along with “I’m losing money selling it to you at that price” and all the other usual feints and jabs. He was gentle and
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"These curses can, if addressed to
the thin-skinned, end relationships: they should be used judiciously. Beware of saying them around people who happen to have weapons in their hands, like a cast iron skillet."
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