“Not another thought,” Herr Weilbacher declared. “Please, do me this favor,” he pleaded, looking sweetly sad as he added, “It has been so long since my Tessa has been gone from me.”
When I agreed, his face lit up. Chatting cheerily, he led me to a dining room ringed with ferns and orchids where gleaming silver and cut glass on white linen caught the glorious morning light. The waiters all seemed to know Herr Weilbacher, and if they were unenthusiastic about Rosie’s presence in their domain, his good humor—and perhaps a history of genially distributed tips—overcame their dismay.
“Now, what would you enjoy for breakfast?” he asked, rubbing his hands together with anticipatory relish.
“Anything, as long as it’s not oatmeal,” I said and listened, dazed, as he ordered for us while keeping up a steady stream of amiable small talk. Soon a team of waiters delivered large trays bearing tea and coffee, and boiled eggs, and rolls with butter and marmalade, and sausages, and oranges and melon.
I thought it was all delicious, but Herr Weilbacher’s face twisted as he chewed and swallowed a forkful of meat. “This is not so good as our sausages at home,” he told me in a low voice and then explained, “Like serious Jews, Muslims eat no pork and so: there is rarely any sausage worth eating in Egypt, not even in hotels that cater to Europeans. This sausage is fit only for dogs.” His face lit up again. “But we are in luck: here is a dog!” he cried and slipped a tidbit to Rosie.
“Oh, don’t feed her from the table,” I objected.