"It's the only place on Boylston Street where you can got a frappe," the merchant exclaimed proudly of his store--Cahaly's--whose cluttered window stands warmly at the end of an almost unbroken row on noon-lighted bars, cocktail lounges, and saloons that provide the last refreshment to Boston wayfarers on the long, cold trip over the river to the Arlington wilderness. "And not only frappes," the aproned entrepreneur continued, vigorously chewing the remnants of a nondescript cheroot, "but boneless turkey, Saturday Reviews of Literature, razor blades shoe polish, and back editions of the Wake--all at the right price."

The right price, according to the Cahaly Brothers, was, is, and will be the OPA rate. While that government agency was gasping its dying breath this summer, the shop contained a huge sign proclaiming: "OPA Regulations are still observed in this store--Cahaly." Now, even as Paul porter cleans out his Washington desk and prepares to transfer the bureau to the textbooks, the sign still remains amid the crepe-paper decor of a dusty window display.

The business of finance and economics practiced by the Cahalys is more or less intuitive, and stems from their earlier days in the trade. About forty years ago, the four brothers--Michael, Fred, Ralph, and Jim--doffed their burnooses and left Damascus. They had been operating an export trade there, supplying the Syrian-American population here with rare and costly Oriental delicacies. Arriving in the United States, they merely took up at the Western end of the line and continued doling out Levantine merchandise to New England Near Easterners.

But as the spirit of American nationalism grew, they abandoned their exclusive commercial attachment with the Old Country, and moved into Cambridge, opening up for business on Oxford Street. In 1932 they folded their tents again, and moved over to Boylston Street, transforming a part of Ofgant's stark, cement Chevrolet showroom into a homely little market of a million items.

"Ours is an international clientele," one of the Cahalys announced, nodding cautiously to a representative of the Egyptian government seated at the counter, sipping a frappe and refilling through the morning Times. "We don't have customers, but a clientele, he repeated, and explained the friendly atmosphere that had been built up in the store, especially during the war. "We acted as Navy Store-PN to the servicemen around Harvard, and even got special permission from the Navy to obtain scarce items like soap and cigarettes. As a result, we're still getting postcards from Hawaii and Guam and places all over the world. It's an international reputation we enjoy."

After building up to a monumental state of disorder, Cahalys retains most of the characteristics of an Oriental bazaar, the due rugs and aromatic spices having been replaced by Pepsi-Cola and Kasanoff's Pumpernickel. As in an archaic bookshop, one of the merchants explained, "one of our clients is always finding something valuable. As long as order is maintained, you're always welcome to come in and browse around." Maybe you'll pick yourself up something old and rare-like a bar of soap.