Translation copyright (C) 2008 by James D. Schoonover.
German Novelist Karl May's 1907/1908, Schamah [Wisdom's ForgivingLight]
Travel Tales in the Promised Land (Palestine)
Translator: James D. Schoonover, MA, M.Ed., c. 2008, USA
Schamah, Reiseerzaehlung aus dem Gelobten Lande, von Karl May
c.1907/1908)
http://karlmay.leo.org/kmg/primlit/erzaehl/reise/schamah/index.htm
As soon as they step into my house and see my strange
collection of travel keepsakes, all visitors' eyes are drawn to the
Arabian saddle, which actually deserves credit as the inspiration and
author of this story. It has Oriental-red velvet, richly decorated
with gold embroidery. This Pasha saddle was fit for a tribal Turkish
chieftain, having comfortable stirrups and an accompanying dreadful
bit that could conquer the stubborn resistance of even the mightiest
horse.
My magnificent saddle was a present from Mustafa [Mohammed]
Bustani, a wealthy merchant and friend who worked equally well with
Arabs and Jews. His shop is on the right hand side of the Marketplace
El Bizar, along the way to the third most sacred Islamic mosque,
Harem Esh Sheriff, where the Israelite King Solomon's Temple earlier
stood. Try to understand the nature of Judaraber, these Arabs of the
Holy Land who now live side-by-side with Jews. Little by little, they
have given up their handed down-hatred against Hebrews, for they
share the strict Old Testament views of "God's Chosen People." In
this way, Judaraber are more inclined to think like Semites and less
like those in Christendom.
With these Muslims, it is no more of a disgrace to become a
Christian as to convert to Judaism. Anyway, this unique perspective
only concerns inner opinions; especially regarding personal matters
or simple business transactions, this peculiar outlook has hardly any
influence. So, I was Mustafa Bustanis' friend, in spite of religious
differences, just because we liked each other. When I bought things
in Jerusalem, I purchased solely from him whenever possible. I
preferred to deal with him, not only as a merchant, but much more as
a good human being. He too knew this truth, and he repaid me through
our friendship's deep affection. I felt that I possessed his complete
trust and confidence.
I often stopped by his store, even if I had no particular
reason to buy something. For many hours, we sat beside each other,
reclining against a broad, Persian carpet-covered crate as we
endlessly drank coffee that his African servant Bem prepared for us.
We considered ourselves to be like brothers; thereto, we felt no need
to keep secrets from each other. Every now and then, there were
distinguished customers that he permitted to interrupt us. His
assistant attended to them, even though he himself could have waited
on them. Habakek was the name of Mustafa's helper, an exceptionally
good-natured fellow-a delightful combination of magician, jack-of-
all-trades, and Renaissance man who could accomplish anything that
your eyes could imagine.
Mustafa Bustani was a big fan of fairy tales. He loved to
hear or tell every kind of fairy tale-most of all, one which involved
a belief in miracles or a situation wherein the dead and the living
played a dynamic role. Yet in no way was he superstitious in the
general sense. On the contrary, he was an educated man who spoke
Arabic, Turkish, and Persian; with Westerners, he could reasonably
communicate in French and in English.
Concerning religious faith, he showed commendable tolerance;
however, earlier in life it was the opposite case. He had a brother
who was banished from the family, due to the fact that he had been
baptized as a Christian. Mustafa did not conceal this fact; at the
time, he had totally agreed with his exile.
In contrast to the past, he now seemed to think otherwise
about that banishment. In truth, I learned nothing more than that his
brother had moved to East Jordan; there he had married a Christian
woman. For that reason, all of the banned brother's attempts at
reconciliation had been rejected. Thereafter, he vanished-yet, one
knows all too well that family ties can never be completely ripped
apart.
When my friend spoke of his "harem," he was using the
Semitic culture's exclusive, figurative reference to the soul's most
private and sacred sanctum. Therein, he seemed to be inspired by more
compassionate convictions which he had not yet succeeded in shutting
out. Harem? Yes, be certain that our mutually respectful confidence
in each other had risen so high that we quite often did not avoid
speaking of his or my "harem." Among Muslims, this open interchange
is actually forbidden. Namely, only my wife was permitted to
understand my most private sphere of thoughts, to know my "harem."
I have no children. As for Mustafa's spiritually-reserved
harem, he confided in his wife, his eleven year old son, and in the
family's black female cook. The other household servants were not
included in this private circle of confidants. His son had the short,
yet very meaningful name of Thar, which Bavarians would interpret as
a "dashing fellow." Unlike the stereotypical, mistaken picture of
Middle Eastern children, he was not a somber, moody, overly serious,
nor slow-moving child. From the family's home which lay outside the
inner city, this delightfully mischievous boy often came to his
father's store. Whenever he met me, it seemed that he never tired of
tossing me the most unbelievable heaps of questions about all kinds
of matters concerning my homeland. From him, I learned the latest
news about his father's harem-every broken pot and every captured
mouse. In return for his youthful openness and his high regard for
me, he expected me to report all of my secrets to him. Woe unto me if
he ever believed that I failed to trust him in this relationship.
In the course of this friendly bond among father, son, and
myself, I was invited as a guest and had the opportunity to meet the
mother. I remember this well. I often spent entire evenings in the
home of Mustafa Bustani. When I last said good-bye, I promised to
bring along my wife on my next visit.
Nomen et [est] omen- a name may predict one's destiny.
Within living memory of the Family Mustafa Bustanis, it had always
been a custom to have a family member by the name of Thar. This
stemmed from the family's bygone days as nomads. Presently, Mustafa's
boy was the bearer of this namesake, as well as its legacy. Night and
day, he tried as hard as he could to be a credit to his name. The
name "Thar" means vengeance, retaliation, retribution, and a blood
feud. This is the old, dreadful law which calls for the following:
"Blood for blood! An eye for an eye, and a tooth for a tooth!" In
ancient times, among certain primitive folk and also nowadays, some
have felt that there are reasons to retaliate. Under civilized
conditions, it's not only reprehensible and criminal-it's just
ridiculously laughable.
Ever since Thar became aware of his name's notoriety, he
thoroughly came under the influence of his own imagination. Therein,
he always contemplated some kind of recompense-and if none existed,
he thought one up. In everything that he heard or saw, these events
had to serve as a design for payback that stemmed from some past
injury. Unfortunately, he didn't always find the heroic acclaim that
he anticipated. His destiny misunderstood him. Instead of the planned
retribution that was meant to achieve its intended, costly purpose,
there was always a dumb turn of events in the end, which placed the
boy himself in an unfavorable position. At this point, he inevitably
found himself on the receiving end of retribution; thereto, he
himself would be harmed by his own campaign. Even so, this reversal
of roles did not hold him back; he remained true to his name and to
his calling. Always and again, Thar was ready to make a fresh start.
To these preliminary notes, I add the fact that I had
traveled from Sumatra to Egypt; I was supposed to meet my wife in
Jerusalem. I had guided her through the Land of the Pharaohs and
through the Arabian Desert; now, we found ourselves in the Promised
Land. Yesterday, we arrived in Jerusalem by way of the Jaffa Gate. We
wanted to stay a few weeks in order to take some regional side trips
that included a visit to the Dead Sea. Next, we wanted to head
towards Damascus. For travel purposes, we needed two saddles, one for
a man and one for a woman. Automatically and without question, I
contacted my friend Mustafa, for no one else could get everything
that we needed. My wife accompanied me. Given my previous accounts
concerning my spouse, Mustafa and his household seemed to know her
almost as well as they knew me.
Even though he was a noble, Middle Eastern educated man,
Mustafa erred at times in the upbringing of his young son. By way of
comparison, his wife's disposition was exceptionally lively, loving,
and kind. Seeing both parents' character traits come together in
their child, the boy took on his mother's cheerful, joking nature and
his father's very deadpan humor; thus, Thar almost always had the
disposition to tease his dad, his mom, and the whole world.
We went through the Jaffa Gate, towards the Marketplace El
Bizar, and there we found Mustafa. He didn't notice us right away,
because he was involved in playing a trick on a customer who wanted
to buy a new turban. In the middle of the shop, there stood a camel-
which actually was his helper, Habakek. He had positioned himself on
all fours and had adorned his disguise exactly like a camel that you
see in a parade, having head bands jingling with ornaments and
feathered plumes. The forelegs had a string of bells; draped over the
costumed camel's sides was a gaudy, glass-beaded wool netting. To the
rear, there was a kid-leather water bottle which one would need in
the desert. Nearby stood Thar, dressed only in an over-sized, common
blue shirt that sagged loosely from his elbows to his knees. The
boy's face, arms, and legs were painted palm bark-brown.
Just as we entered the shop, the boy called out to their
African servant Bem, who was squatting near the room's coffee-corner:
"I'm the Bedouin Sheik, and I'm feeding my camel!" At that moment, he
scooped up a handful of lettuce leaves which the next door shopkeeper
had previously thrown into the street. He shoved the soiled greens
into the submissively open mouth of the make-believe camel. Habakek
loudly, deliberately, and delightedly chewed the fodder. You would
have thought that this creature was just an ordinary dromedary- a
downright authentic camel. Just by the way he behaved, one could not
tell that this was Habakek. Due to the fact that his face was so
completely painted with colorful crosses and dashes, he seemed to
disappear beneath all that makeup. For that reason, Bem questioned
Thar:
"Why then have you painted him up?"
Thar readily resounded: "Don't you know? This is the hide
that I've painted. As you know, a camel has hairs on its face!"
In addition to this scene, we took note of the richly
decorated donkey that stood in front of the neighboring store. In no
way was this animal's owner a commoner. The donkey's important master
had dismounted and stepped inside to buy something.
For the first time, the African saw me. At the moment, he
was busy grinding coffee beans with a mortar and pestle. He was so
overwhelmingly surprised that he tossed aside the coffee and the
mortar and let out a piercing whoop of joy. Consequently, all of the
others now drew their attention to me. Mustafa Bustani was so
surprised to see me suddenly in front of him, that he stood
completely still and said nothing. So much more in tune to the
situation, Thar happily leaped in the air, let out a triumphant
cheer, pointed to my wife, and asked: "Is this she, the woman whom
you promised to bring to us?"
"Yes, it is she," I answered.
He bowed three times before her and beckoned towards the camel:
"Please sit upon this; it's bejeweled for you!"
All at once, the camel stood up on its hind legs and used
its hands to wipe the fur from its face: "I have no more time for
this! I need to attend to the store's business!"
As he happily greeted my wife and me, he tossed off the
camel-costume jewelry and devoted his attention to the customer whom
Mustafa had left to his own devices. Mustafa's joy was as great as it
was genuine. He greeted me with the customary bows and pulled me
close to his heart: "What a comfort to see you today! Give thanks to
Allah. Dearest friend, sit down with me; you know that you're always
welcome here!"
Mustafa then bowed three times to my wife; but as he tried
to speak to her, his voice broke down, and tears burst from his eyes.
He placed both hands to his face and softly sobbed. Thar cried too,
gripping the pleat of my wife's white traveling dress. He then wiped
away his tears and rubbed off the Bedouin-brown paint from his face
and arms as he offered her the following explanation: "He weeps
today, because you're here now-yet, she can't see you."
"Why is she unable to see me?" my wife asked, although she
intuitively guessed that he meant his mother.
"She is dead. Didn't you know this?" he answered. We were
both startled. There simply were no adequate words; yet the boy
continued on: "She so much looked forward to seeing you, because your
Effendi [Turkish title for a noble man] whom we all love, had sung
your praises. Unlike other men who talk about their harems and always
complain about the wife, in truth, he never said a mean word about
you. He and my father consistently refrain from that. The sickness
came and closed her eyes. I personally witnessed this. They carried
her away. Whenever he thinks about her, my father continually cries.
As for me, almost all of my days must be filled with devising a new
avenging-quest-which makes my father laugh again. However, he no
longer laughs, nor does he have the will to fight. All of this is so
wrong!"
At the close of his words, he let his eyes wander throughout
the shop. There he focused on the customer who had taken off his
round turban-skullcap, placing it aside as he tried on a tasseled
fez. In the Middle East, such a flat-crowned hat has long been
associated with many speeches and counter arguments. His head was
completely bald, glistening a slippery-bright, as if it were waxed
and shined. It was just forty-five minutes ago that Thar had happily
worn his theatrical makeup. Across his newly-wiped face, there now
streaked a prankish thought which he put into action: "Hold on;
another avenging plot is coming to me. Please don't disrupt me;
simply look over there-where presently I'm not!"
He wriggled towards the store's back corner, where they kept
all kinds of gadgets, including the stove for cooking coffee. Back
there was also the African's space which he had left in order to
fetch a couple of fluffy bales of material, a piece of carpet, and a
divan for my wife. To overcome his grieving, Mustafa Bustani helped
Bem with these tasks; he was not aware that his son had told us about
his difficult mourning. When the divan was ready, we sat down.
Accustomed to our earlier times together, I took my place on the
crate with the Turkish water-pipe nearby. If we hadn't learned
earlier about the death of his wife, our conversation normally would
have begun. The words simply did not want to come forth. Blessedly,
the shop gave rise to somewhat of a stopgap. Unfortunately, Mustafa
Bustani's inventory did not include saddles, so he invited us to
return tomorrow. In the meantime, he planned to fulfill all of our
requests.
At this point, the shopper interrupted us; he was a country
gentleman from Ain Kahrim, the birthplace of John the Baptist. He had
put on his old cap again, along with his headscarf. Then, he pointed
to the new items that he had selected, wanting to know the price of
the fez and a colorful turban-cloth. In the Middle East, such a minor
transaction normally doesn't proceed quickly. However, in order to
send the customer on his way, Mustafa gave him the price so fast that
the buyer paid his money without reservation and hastily exited.
This disruption now had the effect of reclaiming more life
in our conversation. Among ourselves, we sensed that something on
both sides had transpired in that time-something which we had not
seen. In the process, Mustafa had seized every opportunity to bring
Thar back, all in order to praise him. We had not been speaking
softly, so the boy must have been able to hear us. Thar was crouched
down in the corner by Bem, and it seemed that they were undertaking a
change of scenes, which for now was concealed from us. In the way of
materials for transforming a setting, Mustafa's shop lacked nothing;
for almost everything imaginable was available for purchase, old as
well as new. After the boy and Bem had completed their grand scheme,
Thar slowly came striding out of the corner, proudly presenting
himself to us.
He was now dressed as a famous hero, most likely ready to
perform some kind of vendetta gain. Half of a clay water-crock served
as his helmet, one that probably had been dug up and broken in the
process. His breastplate consisted of a tin lamp shade, the kind that
one places upright in front of the light. Onto his bare calves, he
had fastened two gigantic knight's spurs, which possibly dated back
to the medieval days of the Crusades. Into his rope-belt, he stuck
the most outrageous weapons that one can imagine: three knives, two
pairs of scissors, two corkscrews, and four candle-snuffers-all of
which were arranged around his waist. Besides these, he added a
mousetrap, a bow with quiver and arrows, and some left-over items
which he carried in his hand: a corn-cutting sickle, a saber's
sheath, and a shotgun barrel. His war paint consisted of two colors,
precisely creating the exact impression that he intended. The right
arm and the left leg were painted green; the left arm and the right
leg were blue. On both cheeks and for a moustache, this skin too was
blue. His chin had a grass-green hue. We laughed, as did Mustafa
Bustani.
"Well then, who are you?" Mustafa asked the armed figure.
As he rattled all of his weapons, Thar answered in a
battlefield tone: "I'm Gideon, the hero."
"Ever and always, he only takes his heroes from the Old
Testament," his father explained. Turning to his son, he continued:
"What is Gideon planning to do?"
"I have slain Baal's priests in order to destroy the
Midianites!"
Newer and more intense saber rattling! Unfortunately, it was
impossible to learn anything more about his valiant purpose, because
the scene was interrupted by the man from Ain Kahrim. At this moment,
he came running back to the shop. Clearly in an urgent tizzy, this
episode seemed to raise the man's agitation to its highest level. At
first, he spoke so rapidly and indignantly that he could hardly be
understood. We could only discern the words "fez - turban - barber -
head - blue - soap - water - shame and disgrace!"
After we persuaded him to explain everything calmly and
slowly, he did so; thus, we learned that he had been to the barber,
just as he's accustomed whenever he comes to the city. For him, it
was normal to see to the grooming of his beard and head, for this
cleanliness of the head is prescribed by the Prophet Mohammed. This
rite should only be performed by a licensed barber, not by any other
man.
When he bared his head, all those present in the barber shop
roared with laughter; for the hair of this old-timer was no longer
white as usual. Instead, it had turned blue as the sky. As it turned
out, the blue stain came from his headgear, which he had taken off at
the barber's. Secretly, someone had poured blue dye into the hat.
The barber had done his best to wash away the coloring, yet this had
only made matters worse. The addition of water simply dispersed the
heavens-blue pigment, which now more permanently corroded still
deeper into his scalp. As he removed his skullcap and head scarf, he
called out: "Allah have mercy! Here, look at me! Let the culprit step
forward so that I can punish him!"
An entirely hairless skull of glistening heavens-blue hue?
Include the fact that the man was not wearing the new fez; instead,
he had again plopped the soiled cap on his head. One could hardly
resist the giggles that came with the sight of this angry man. My
wife was the first to burst out laughing. She found it impossible toy
Mustafa and I. The hearty peal of laughter had a strange effect;
instead of increasing the anger of this man from Ain Kahrim, it
seemed to subdue him, probably through his own perception of his
ridiculous appearance. Only the boy was not laughing. No train of
thought stirred across his face. He stepped up to the man, loudly and
seriously confessing: "I'm the one!"
"You?" the astonished man asked. "How can a child dare to do
this, to insult the bare head of a Moslem!"
"I didn't uncover it! I did it as a justified payback, all
in order for you to know that my name is Thar."
"Thar?" responded the bewildered man.
"Yes, Thar! Didn't you yourself say that a believer may only
allow a barber to bare his head? Yet you have uncovered it here, and
you even showed it to us! For this offense, I've punished you; I
poured blue-retaliation upon your head's uncovered hull."
With the utmost astonishment, the blue-headed man asked us:
"Is something like this possible? According to this boy, I'm the one
who should be punished-not he! What does his father say about this?"
Mustafa would have answered the question, as best he could,
but the boy spoke first: "If you require a father here, then fetch
your own; for you may not borrow mine! I'm Gideon, the Hero of
Manasseh. Good-bye!" In a dignified way, Thar nodded to the man, then
proudly strode out of the shop. Still clad in his make-shift suit of
armor, he climbed onto the stranger's donkey that was standing
outside. From there, he trotted away on the animal. Everyone knows
this: at a very young age, all Arabic boys regard the back of a
donkey as the best of all playgrounds. It is rare to find a boy who
lacks the courage to ride.
Now, the man from Ain Kahrim really didn't know what he was
supposed to think. His mouth hung open. Without saying a word, he
glanced towards the spot where he last saw the boy. Speaking in
German and still laughing, my wife asked me: "Is this possible?" I
had no time to answer her. The scene had changed.
The owner of the donkey was mostly concerned about the
distance between him and his animal. He had figured out whom the
strangely outfitted boy belonged to; from the neighboring shop, he
now walked over to us. Whether by civil means or through a complaint
to the police, he was determined to come closer to settling matters.
"Who among you is Mustafa Bustani?" he inquired.
As my friend slid off the trunk and bowed low, he answered:
"I."
"Do you know me?"
"Yes. Who wouldn't know you? You are Osman Achyr, the Ferik-
Pasha of our Sovereign. May Allah bless him!"
"Your son has stolen my donkey!"
"He has not stolen the animal-just borrowed it. Thar will
bring it back safe again!"
"Do I run a rent-a-donkey business? If I did, I would
expect a person to ask me first!"
"I ask your pardon, sir!"
By official title, this man's ranking was that of a general.
Even though he chose to wear unassuming, civilian clothes instead of
a uniform, he carried himself like a nobleman. Now that he had to
deal with yet one more infraction, he steadied his voice as he
renewed his dogged determination to assert his authority: "No, I do
not excuse him. The boy has stolen from me, and he has dishonored me.
I demand that he be punished!" The Pasha now drew closer to Mustafa
and asked: "Who are you? In your mind, what did he-?"
When the General saw the blue-skulled man, he halted in mid-
sentence- the Pasha's eyes began to glisten and grow wider. Taking
just the right amount of time to pause, the Blue-one began to narrate
the boy's misdeeds-but he could go no further. Appealing to the stern
General and to us, the heavens-blue man now cracked up, laughing like
we had done earlier. His laughter was so contagious that we could not
help but join him. In the middle of our merriment, the boy came
riding back with a mass of children following him. The adults readily
recognized him, but they were no longer concerned about Thar's
outlandish pranks.
The boy brought the donkey back to the same spot where it
formerly stood. In the same way he had left us, he returned to us
with the same style of majestic dignity and seriousness. This made
such an irresistible impression upon all of us, that our laughter
momentarily turned to silence. Just as suddenly, it broke loose and
doubled its intensity, as if it never wanted to end. Laughing with us
too was the Blue-one. Once he began, he laughed the longest and was
the last to stop.
Thar also recognized the General. Right away, he positioned
himself directly in front of him, smartly stood at attention, then
sharply saluted just like he had seen soldiers whenever they met an
officer. The Pasha then asked him: "Do you know who I am."
"Yes," he answered.
"Then who am I?"
"You are Benaja, the Commander-in-chief of King Solomon's
army!"
The General laughed: "Bravo! You're still playing your role.
What are your weapons for?" The Pasha pointed to the scissors,
corkscrew, and candle-snuffers. However, the boy was not ready to
step out of character. His mouth still contained countless numbers of
stories.
Better than any German boy's knowledge of his home city's
chronicles, Thar knew all the legends and tall tales of Jerusalem's
past. He was even consciously aware of his weapons' symbolism. He
quickly answered, taking no time to reflect: "These are the
'Scorpions' wherewith the King of Judah pinched and pulled the ears
of the people whenever they didn't want to obey him. I'm Gideon, the
hero who hails from my ancestors of Manasseh. I borrowed your
warhorse because I needed your steed to carry out my vendetta against
the Midianites, the sons of Abraham. Your mount is too fat and has no
endurance; so for this reason, I turned around and brought him back
to you. I appreciate your loaning him to me, but he is really of no
use."
Thar repeated his salute. The Pasha laughed so hard that
tears streamed from his eyes. Without question, he seemed to be a
very congenial gentleman. Mustafa hurriedly capitalized on the
Pasha's good mood and seeming willingness to forego punishment of his
son: "For what he has done, please forgive him! He's exceptionally
bright and greatly gifted." Yet his words accomplished just the
opposite of what he had intended. In a flash, the face of the Pasha
became serious again, almost threatening: "No speech of yours can
gain the boy's pardon. Your son has doubly transgressed- against me
and against him over there." The Pasha pointed towards the man from
Ain Kahrim: "For this, he deserves punishment instead of a reward;
and by my own hand, I will personally administer his whipping. Is
there a switch nearby which suits this purpose?"
The African Bem heard this request. From his corner of the
room, he brought out a thin, knobby walking-stick which had been used
for all kinds of educational procedures. When the boy saw this, he
began to talk- instead of prudently staying silent. The General
grabbed the cane and air-lashed it several times as he tested it to
and fro. Satisfied with the reed, the Pasha nodded his head and slyly
squinted his eyes as he looked sideways at the boy: "Of course, you
understand that your offenses will be punished?"
Thar nodded and quickly answered: "Yes."
"Should I then pronounce judgment by using your given name?"
"Yes."
"And also carry out the punishment in your name?"
"Yes."
"So be it. By my own hand, the boy shall receive ten blows:
five for injuries to me and five for you!" The General pointed to the
blue-headed man from Ain Kahrim.
Disappointedly, the man asked: "Isn't that too few?"
The Pasha snapped at him: "Be silent!"
"Who receives this corporal punishment-you or me?" the boy
asked.
"You!"
In deference to the Pasha, Thar turned and said: "Surely you
see that this is neither too little nor too much. Are you serious in
your judgment of only ten lashes?" The General confirmed his
decision: "Yes. For Gideon, this is actually not a great honor to be
beaten with a cane!"
The boy agreed: "I think so too! However, I now have this
misfortune-not merely to retaliate once, but to collect vengeance
again! So I plead with you; at least grant me permission to put aside
my hero's garb." His wish was granted, so he made his exit to the
coffee-corner. He took off his warrior-weaponry, then returned in
order to get on with the improvised administration of justice.
"Hold him!" the Pasha commanded the father. Mustafa obeyed.
In the manner that all readers know full well, the father leaned
forward, stuck out his left knee, and placed the Guardian-of-Blood-
Feuds across his lap, thereby causing the back side of the
Transgressor to be exposed. Without saying a word and without
struggling, Thar allowed all this to happen. The Pasha positioned
himself, took a swing with the cane, and counted the strokes: "One-
two."
He continued no further. The execution could not go forward,
because my wife had sprung from her chair, placed herself squarely
between the competitors, and appealed for mercy. The Pasha asked who
she was. She told him. For a moment, he reflected, then bowed to her
and replied that he would grant her request-but not before the count
of ten which he had dictated. Under all circumstances, he was
obligated to uphold his word; therefore, he was unable to rescind his
order. Admittedly, he could not mitigate the two strokes that he had
already given. In regard to the outstanding eight which she now
wished to administer, and rightly so, the Pasha would grant her
heart's desire.
At this point, he handed her the cane, stepped back, and
beckoned her to proceed. Since we were all in sympathy with the
Delinquent, we were pleased that she accepted his offer. When she
turned towards the Pasha, she no longer saw him. In the meantime, he
had gone back to the shop next door. Just when the man from Ain
Kahrim prepared to lodge his objection to a lighter sentence, Mustafa
Bustani invited him to come back in one hour and pick out a present
for himself. With just a few more words here and there, the gentleman
left, for the time being.
Meanwhile, the boy whispered so that his father would not
hear him: "He laughed- oh how he laughed! Did you see it? Oh how that
makes me happy!" His good-hearted, loving-eyes lit up. Then he kissed
my wife's hand and said: "I thank you for the 'eight' which you have
given me. They were tender and mild as pepperless home-baked cookies.
For this, I'll never forget you. As you know, I'm a hero. Whenever
you're in need, please call on me to rescue you."
On this note, Thar once again withdrew to the coffee-corner.
With the help of African Bem, he somehow managed to change into a new
outfit. His father once more took his place upon the crate in order
to pick up the conversation where we had left off. Laughingly, he
closed the matter with words about his darling Trickster's capers:
"He was his mother's 'chosen one.' She saw everything in him! Whether
the Pasha wants to believe it or not, he really is greatly gifted." I
wanted to know how the boy had acquired his strange love for colors:
"Was it also present in his childhood?"
Mustafa answered: "No. Understand that my Coffee Helper Bem
and my dark-skinned cook are a married couple. For some time, their
own young son has apprenticed himself to a whitewashing craftsman.
With their help, my son has developed a lively interest in the multi-
faceted kingdom of colors. It seems to me that he was born to be an
artist. At first, we of course saw only the beginnings; but they soon
became so evident that I began to think that my lovely revenue-
earning store must have been seized by alien hands. According to
Islam, the human body should not be illustrated nor copied. Yet for
Thar and his sense of artistry, he sees how life holds such majesty
and beauty- it seems to invite him to become a famous and honored
painter. Among all of my acquaintances, they believe that something
of great consequence has been planted within him. Is it not my duty
to help him become a great man?"
He didn't speak softly, so the boy heard every word. As a
result of this, Thar came out of his corner and said to me:
"Effendi, you need to hear the whole story; my father is not fully
informing you. Namely, it's this way: my Father says that I was
'most favored' by my Mother. In every way, she wanted to take care of
me. She knew that I had talent, so she was confident that one day I
would become a great artist. On the other hand, here is what Mother
always said: 'I'm Father's favorite. In all things, he looks after
me. Still, he has the talents of valiant heroes, and he shall become
a great man.' When I attend school and listen to my teacher, he
constantly says that I'm the 'chosen one' of my Father, of My mother,
and of all my relatives; they follow everything I do. According to
my teacher, I don't have the slightest amount of talent ever to
become a great man-my prospects are surely limited to that of working
in commerce, playing chess, and hatching hoaxes. So now you know,
Effendi."
He said this so seriously. Truly, this was an earnest
matter. Not only that, it was infinitely important. His father had no
idea about the depth of meaning which lay in this child's honest
words. However, my wife perceived the truth in what he said, because
she looked at me and knowingly nodded.
In the meantime, the boy had changed his external
appearance-not only in the way of colors, but even in relation to
their arrangement. That which earlier had been green, now was blue,
and what was once blue became green. The right leg, the left arm, and
both cheeks were now green. His left leg, right arm, upper lip, and
twisted-moustache were blue. Seeing this, I asked myself: "What's
next?"
He answered promptly: "I'm Judas Maccabees, and I have a
vendetta against the Syrians. I'll let that go for the time being,
because I've heard what my Father said about me. I've told you what
he thinks about me, how my Mother once thought of me, and the
teacher's assessment of me. Now, I would also like to know your point
of view, Effendi. First of all, please tell me your opinion about all
this. Who's right? Father, Mother, or the teacher?"
As if to ask forgiveness, he blushed and cast a pleading
glance toward his father when he answered his own question: "I love
my Father and my Mother, but they're both mistaken. I have no
affection for my teacher, but he's right." I was unable to respond-I
could only pull the boy to my side and kiss him on his unpainted
forehead. My heart wanted to overflow, and I also saw how deeply my
wife was moved-her eyes filled with tears. It was nothing short of a
sacred moment. All the while, his father sat next to me. Mustafa
smiled at us, and yet he didn't have the slightest notion about the
depth of innocence, the pure candor, and the spell-binding magic of
the child's soul which had become so palpably open to us. "So, give
me a little time, Thar. When we see each other again, you'll be
different than you were previously. On that date, I'll form my
opinion of you. Before I leave Jerusalem, I'll tell you what I
think."
"Really?" he begged. "Yes, really," I answered. At that
moment, his hand gently and tenderly touched my cheekbone as he
solemnly declared: "Make no mistake; I also love you. This I know for
sure. Do you want to see something that I've created, that I've
actually painted?" I said "Yes."
"When are you coming again?" I responded, "Tomorrow at the
same time." He quickly chimed in: "Well then, before noon. I must
begin my work and finish the pictures this afternoon!" He thought for
a couple of moments. A mischievous snicker quivered across his green
cheeks and over his blue moustache. Then he asked his father: "May I
have your permission to redecorate the garden house today?"
"What do you want to do there?" inquired Mustafa. Thar
answered: "Paint two pictures; tomorrow, I'll show them to Effendi."
"Good, you may." Thar insisted: "But no one may disturb me.
Unless I so desire, no one will be allowed to come into the garden
house."
"Not even I?" asked Mustafa. "That includes you," said
Thar.
That's certainly interesting. I hope that you will be
successful in showing Effendi something that's really good; so, I
have nothing against your project. "The boy exclaimed: "Thanks be to
Allah! I'll begin right away!" In joyful anticipation, he turned a
somersault and shot out of the shop. After a few minutes of silence,
Mustafa Bustani asked: "Now, what do you say to him? What a good
lad! An artist, right?"
"Wait," I answered. "First, let's see. Such judgments should
be weighed and regarded closely. I've prayed for an extension of
time. Tomorrow will be the next time I see him."
This gave us the occasion to take our leave, so we parted
company. It was close to noon, when the hottest time of day begins
and one best spends time in the coolness of a room. When the heat was
past, we hiked towards the Mount of Olives in order to walk towards
Bethany, and then return back to Jerusalem via the sites of Bethphage
and Kafr et Tur. We took a photograph; my wife almost never travels
without a camera. Due to the fact that carrying photography gear on a
tour requires so much time and trouble, I'm always concerned that
dealing with such things can greatly interfere with my personal and
natural mobility. Yet my wife loves to bring home souvenir-photos
that make her happy when she reminisces later on. So today, she also
took a couple of pictures in Bethany; I've included one of those,
because it shows the remnants of the city's stone wall. We climbed to
the summit of the Mount of Olives, upon which there are places where
you can see not only the mountains of East Jordan, but even a part of
the Dead Sea. As we enjoyed this rich view, we talked about our visit
with Mustafa Bustani. Contrasting his earlier, sad appearance, we
knew that the years would actually pass quickly as he aged. The death
of his wife had very deeply gripped him, which another Muslim might
be capable of handling otherwise.
Add to this a second, almost equally deep sorrow and inner-soul-
excitement which we were yet to discover. Up to this point, our
attention had almost exclusively been directed to the East; we now
turned to the West, to the city that lay before us. There in a
secluded area near a carob bush, we saw a man sitting with his hands
folded as if in prayer-staring motionless at the horizon. This was
some time before the shadows of evening. We were compelled to look at
him. When we came nearer, he stood up. It was our friend Mustafa
Bustani. We mentioned how we had just been talking about him.
However, he seemed to be self-conscious about our coincidental
meeting. It was as if he were feeling caught in the act of doing
something that no one was supposed to know about. His words, which
shut down after our greeting, sounded as though he felt that he had a
duty to apologize.
He told us how this place has been his favorite spot for some
time, one which he visits daily as he looks towards the East.
Instinctively, I had to think about his missing, banished brother who
had disappeared in the East. We sat closely beside him and soon
noticed that he thought it necessary to speak in a peculiar frame of
mind which had an exceptionally soft-hearted undertone, one that gave
the impression of emotional helplessness. In our enormously scene-
gripping, surrounding locale, I didn't pry further. In his psyche, he
himself was used to doing a lot of soul-searching.
I was right, for he very soon directed the conversation to his
previously mentioned favorite subject, to the connection of the
visible and invisible world and to the biblical claim that there are
in fact miracles. Regarding this, he confessed to us that a dream
drove him to this conclusion, a dream that had been so certain and so
clear that it seemed he was awake and not sleeping at all. This
clarity had been so great and so convincing, that he had written down
its exact date: the 15th day of the Month of Adar. Half-way
apologizing and half-way questioning, he added that he would not take
on too much by being preoccupied with his dreams. We assured him that
all of us were greatly interested in everything that concerned him,
especially in matters of his spiritual life.
"Effendi, you know that my brother was cast out because he
had become a Christian, and that we all rejected his attempts to
reconcile, for he had even married a Christian woman. Ever since, no
one has heard from him. Later on, no one could find out where he
went. The events that followed even extended to our family's
inheritance. He had the very same rights as I had. I became the sole
heir; he was poor, poor as a beggar!"
I tried to soften the harshness by noting customary laws
and governing families' rights. He pointed this out to me: "You are a
Christian and therefore think differently when you try to make me
feel better. For a full year, I felt no sense of unfairness about
what we had committed against him. After all, possessions and
religion are different matters, right? As a believer, am I permitted
to change the order of things whenever my wealth changes to poverty?
No! Even for such a little thing as wanting to become a Christian
and not remain a Muslim, one can be pushed out of the family's circle
of inheritance. However, this last thought did not come from me;
rather, it came from my wife. In her heart, there lived a love and a
kind-heartedness which were not present in me. Her graciousness began
a difficult and heavy labor in me-but she succeeded. My hardness
became softer, always more tender; and when the mother of my son
passed away, she died as the victor. I promised her that I would
search for my brother and share with him everything that I own. She
thanked me, blessed me-then closed her eyes and departed.
He covered his face with his hands and became silent for a while
as he tried to master his emotions; then, he continued: "In vain, I
searched and searched. My brother had simply disappeared. Constantly,
I thought about him and even more about my wife, whose death had
taken even more away from me. Effendi, you probably know this
already. This question came to me: 'What if my brother had already
died, and he and my wife had found each other on the other side of
this life, where they now talked and looked below?' I brooded over
such thoughts. I awoke with these ideas, and I fell asleep with
them."
"On the 15th day of the month of Adar, I dreamed that I was on my
knees, praying in the mosque. Opened before me was the First Kiblah
of the Holy Koran. My brother appeared to me and led me forth,
wanting to help me realize what he wanted to say to me: 'I'm dead,
but I live. You have not pardoned me, but I've forgiven you. I'll
send you my forgiveness. She approaches from the East. Daily, keep a
look-out for her and restore again what you have perpetrated against
me!' His words resounded. Then, he disappeared. The Koran closed
itself, and I awoke from the dream. This vision appeared to be so
clear and so true to me, that I left my store for the entire day in
order to ponder its meaning. Almost daily ever since, I am driven to
come here as I look towards the East to see whether the dream is
being fulfilled."
"Regularly, I sojourn for a short time in Bethany where I visit
the grave of Lazarus. Why? I don't know. For me, it's as if this is
the only place where I shall somehow meet with the messenger of my
brother. Effendi, what do you say about this dream?"
"Listen to what you yourself are saying about your
brother. Truly, your own feelings can lead you better than any
separate perspective that I could give you."
"So, do you think that I should continue to take my daily
walks to this place?" I replied: "Through someone or in some way,
will they forbid you to visit this site?" He answered, "No." So I
assured him, "Well then, there's no real reason for you to stop."
Relieved, Mustafa confided in me: "I thank you. At first, it was
hard for me to tell you and your wife about these matters. Now that
I've told you, I feel that my heart has grown much lighter. So, come!
Twilight is coming, and we must go-otherwise, the darkness will
overtake us on our way back.
He stood up, and we followed his example. He was right; the
evening sank lower, so we hurried towards home. Along the way, he
told us how he had taken care of some business for us. In Hebron, he
had located an expensive, Arabian Pasha-saddle which was for sale. He
would send a messenger to pick it up, then show the saddle to me.
Just then, I remembered: "Oh yes, I personally must go towards
Hebron. I want to show my wife the Grave of Abraham, Abraham's Well,
and the famous Oak of Mamre, where the three angels appeared to the
Patriarch."
He happily called out: "So, if you'll permit me, I'll accompany
you. Since I have many important and pressing things to do there, it
would be best if we could travel tomorrow." I agreed: "Yes, we can do
that. Any time that suits you is OK for us." He seemed pleased:
"Really? Then tomorrow is OK? And may I bring along my son Thar? It
will be a real treat for him to accompany you and me, riding in a
beautiful carriage to see an unknown part of the world. In that
direction, he's never traveled farther than Bethlehem." We were happy
to oblige: "If it's OK with you, we have no objection to Thar coming
with us."
"Good. So it's decided that we'll make the trip; I'll make the
arrangements for a carriage. Since you're now on your way to my home,
please stay awhile longer at my house. I want you to see the joy
which your invitation will bring to my boy." Before we reached our
destination, it became completely dark. Mustafa Bustani knocked on
the inner gate's locked door.
Shuffling foot steps drew near; the African cook opened the door
for us. She had an oriental wind-lantern in her hand. By its light,
we saw that her entire body had been wrapped in a white sheet, which
now was so full of blue, green, red, and yellow smudges, that we
hardly recognized its original surface.
When the master of the house saw her, he cried out: "Maschallah!
Look at you!" As she proudly answered, a most satisfied grin almost
doubled in size as it spread across her face: "This is art!"
Bewildered, Mustafa pressed further: "Art? How so?" Maschallah
replied: "We are painting the Red Sea. We began right after lunch,
and we're still not quite finished."
"You-you're painting too?" he asked. Certain, yet not exactly
cheerful misgivings began to cross his mind. In a tone that seemed to
have greater and greater self-satisfaction, she declared: "Yes, I.
The 'Favored One' is painting only the water, the air, and the sun;
I, however, paint the land green. Thar is not yet finished." Mustafa
quizzed further: "The green land? Well then, what does he paint on?
Hopefully, only on paper." Maschallah surprised him: "Upon paper? Oh
no. That would be much too small. We're painting on the wall."
"Upon the wall? Where then?" She answered: "In the garden
house." Mustafa cried out: "Allah, Allah! On the wall in the garden
house? That is outrageous! What will I see there? I must go there
immediately." He hurried away from the gate where he had been
standing all this time. At this moment, the cook saw my wife and me.
Her face lit up like a search light when she recognized me.
"Effendi!" she called out. "Already here today! The 'Chosen One'
said that you were coming tomorrow. Hurry and follow me. The 'Favored
One' said that you may see it, but his father is still forbidden to
view it. We must quickly send him away. He may not come in!" She
jogged along with her lantern as we followed more slowly. It was not
far-hardly twenty paces. The main residence lay in the middle of the
garden, and the garden house stood along the outer wall. Mustafa
Bustani had not yet caught up with us. He would not have been able to
restrain himself from entering into the room wherein we now set foot
and saw "the art." I remembered its former decor. I had often been
inside of this little house. Its construction was square, with the
doorway facing the garden. Without windows to offer a view to the
outside world, the other three sides were painted ivory-yellow-white
and decorated with gold-lettered maxims regarding cures. Due to its
seclusion, cleanliness, aesthetic stillness, and modesty, this garden
house had always impressed me as soothing. Not so on this night.