Pakistan Fisherman

By Clevis O. Laverty

Pakistan, land of snake charmers, belly dancers, and sacred cows, lay steaming under a blistering sun, screened by Oriental mystery. Fantastic funeral processions twisted and wound their way through the dirt-littered streets of Karachi, where untended sacred animals foraged, a menace to traffic.

Shopkeepers stood in uninviting doorways in open competition for the prospective customers who strolled casually down the cracked and uneven sidewalk, a sidewalk that was littered with soiled newspapers, torn paper bags, spittle, dead cats, and ragged little urchins who held out grubby knots of hands for stray coins.

Conspicuously contrasting with these surroundings, two American Air Transport officers appeared; their freshly laundered khaki uniforms reflected the orderliness of the wearers. Their voices were animated and crisp, and their eyes wanted to miss nothin and darted excitedly from shop to sidewalk to street. As if by signal, the shopkeepers came to life and rubbed their hands together in anticipation.

The officers stopped at a shop to peer into the gloomy interior, and the merchant wasted not a moment. He sprang in front of them, grasped an elbow, and gestured toward his shop. He extolled the wares of his establishment with a diarrhea of words that fell here and there and tumbled one over the other.

The officers shook their heads and looked down the street. The shopkeeper grew frantic; his gestures, wilder. He pleaded. He threatened. He begged. Dubiously and reluctantly, the two Americans went into the shop.

When the shopkeeper entered the shop, his frenzy fell from him like a cloak, and he became the host, the businessman, the proprietor. He picked his way among narrow tables and past full shelves of sandalwood figurines, ivory knickknacks, water-buffalo-horn carvings, and bolts of silk cloth distributed in reckless abandon. He beckoned his visitors to follow him, making sure that he led them past all those items that attracted the eye of the tourist.

After traversing the length of the room, the host bade his guests sit down and relax. He clapped his hands, and a short fat, untidy woman appeared out of the darkness in the rear, bearing a tray with an ornate teapot and eggshell teacups. Turkish cigarettes were passed around, and the host made polite conversation about the war, American politics, baseball, and Mahatma Gandhi as the two men sipped their tea and inhaled aromatic tobacco.

As one of the Americans finished his tea, he pointed a piece of silk cloth and inquired for the prices.

Ah..h..h the fat was in the fire. The host became the businessman. He knew what interested his customers: no more shadow boxing. He girded himself as a gladiator for the fray. There would be haggling, but that was part of the game, a game at which he would bow to nobody.

The fish had taken the bait, and a master fisherman was handling the reel.