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118 DAYS IN THE SUN
the snakes to his pouch again, the onlookers depart
without making any payment; he does not care.
From the market-place I can view through the horse-
shoe of the city gate the main street in all its length
straight down toward the white beach-walls and a
patch of blue ocean. It reminds you of a river bed
that has run dry, in fact, in the rainy season it really
is a river bed; you can see the marks left by the water
along the wall and in the middle of its course great
bowlders and sandy furrows bear witness to the latest
rain. In all the shops all the way down the street
salesmen sit in immutable postures, like the puppets of
a marionette theater when the play is over. At the
end of the street the ocean has a bluish shimmer. The
houses gleam white on either side; petrified human
forms, their legs crossed under them, lean against the
walls; muscular artisans sleep under their tents, naked
legs sticking out from under the canvas. A Moor in
precious garments is sitting on the naked ground, his
face pressed close to the wall; he is eating grapes, as
silent and dream-lorn as a child.
For a moment there is life in the street. Three
ragged men walk along singing and screaming. They
strike a rattling instrument, causing it to sound, and
wriggle about to the accompaniment of their howling
melody, and there is delirious frenzy in their eyes and
faces. ‘These religious fanatics wander about with
their host of admirers; they go and the street is again
silent.
One hot August afternoon I was strolling in the
market-place. The salesmen had disappeared, so had
the teller of fairy tales, the snake charmer too; well-
dressed Moors were standing in the sunny space, look-
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