eleven o'clock
This man , Basil Starnworth , was an English nomad who for years had steeped himself in the golden East , who spoke Arabic and innumerable Eastern dialects , who was more at home with Bedouins than with his own brothers , and who was a mine of knowledge about the natives of Syria , of Egypt , and the whole of Northern Africa -- about their passions , their customs , their superstitions , and all their ways of life . Isaacson had cured him of a malarial fever contracted on one of his journeys . That night they dined together , and after dinner Starnworth took Isaacson to see some of the native quarters of the town . It was towards eleven o'clock when Isaacson found himself sitting in a small , rude café that was hidden in the very bowels of Cairo . Through winding alleys they had reached it -- alleys full of painted ladies , alleys gleaming with the lights shed from solitary candles set within entries tinted mauve , and blue , and scarlet , or placed half-way up narrow flights of whitewashed stairs . And in these winding alleys , mingled with human cries , and laughter , and murmured invitations , and barterings , and refusals , there had been music that seemed to wind on and on in ribands of sound -- music that was hoarse and shrill and weary , that was piercing , yet at the same time furtive -- music that was provocative , and yet that was often sad , with a strange sadness of the desert and of desire among the sands . Even now , in the maze around this café , there was another maze of sound , the tripping notes of Eastern dance tunes , the wail of the African hautboy , the twitter of little flutes that set the pace for the pale Circassians , the dull murmur of daraboukkehs .