Mustafa Bustani. He had not yet entered, because his son resisted his
doing so. From the ceiling hung a light fixture whose lamp burned
with a bright flame. In the center of the room, we saw the artist.
Before noon, his form and his shirt had been in two colors-now they
appeared to be immersed in four: namely in sky-blue, poisonous green,
sparkling yellow, and in scorching red. Such intensive, screaming-
colors are upsetting to one who is highly sensitive about art. Amid
all of this, it is no wonder the boy was not in a good mood. As we
came still closer to the garden house, we heard Thar's angry voice as
he shouted to his father: "No! You promised me!" Mustafa Bustani
answered: "But as you see, Effendi is here."
"Where?" As the father pulled me to his side and showed me to
his son, I announced myself: "Here." Thar wondered aloud: "Today
already? You were supposed to come tomorrow. Nevertheless, it's good
that you're here now. It's true that I have not yet finished, for you
see that the sharks are still missing; but in due time, I'll put them
in-this will go very quickly. Both of you, please step in and-" His
father interrupted: "And I too?"
"I wish to be kind and also allow you to enter, because both of
the chief guests are present. I'm doing this only because you are
occasionally lenient with me." Mustafa agreed: "Unfortunately so!
Allah knows that I am." So not exactly in a mood of harmony and not
quite used to this feeling, we got ready to enjoy the work of art. I
have to note the plain truth about these circumstances-neither before
nor afterwards did my eyes grasp the painting's depth of
understanding and the height of its elaboration. Its impact made us
feel that we were standing in front of such an enormous, astonishing,
unparalleled achievement. The absolute least I can do is to give a
brief sketch of the situation. Like a painting by Rafael Santi or a
masterpiece by Rembrandt van Rijn, it's absolutely impossible to
describe fully.
According to oriental custom, the garden house entrance was only
open by way of the garden and thereby closed to the outside world.
When we stepped through the open door, there were three walls that
closed off the room-to the left, to the right, and straight ahead. As
mentioned earlier, the walls were once painted ivory-yellow with
gold-lettered claims concerning advice on healthy living. Now, these
no longer existed. The middle wall was masculine-blood-red, or
perhaps more of a scorching reddish hue. Both of the side walls were
painted in a shade of ultimate-manly, juicy green color. Above these
hues of red and green, everything was painted blue. High above on the
ceiling, where the light fixture cord was attached, there sat a large
yellow spot. At first, the blotch was probably round, but this form
no longer held its shape as it ran together with the blue. On the
right-hand wall, in the middle of the green, there stood a white
house; it had two doors, a window, and three chimneys. In the middle
of the green left-hand wall, a black house stood; it had three doors,
no windows at all, and two chimneys. To the left of the mid-field of
vision, where the red butted together with the green, one focused
below on a black human heel that stretched upwards to half of the
leg's calf. Midway and at the bottom portion of the right-hand wall,
where the green jostled against the red, our eyes saw a white human
instep that was connected to half of a shin bone, which appeared to
extend out of the red. Thar had already announced that sharks were
supposed to be added. Even if he put forth all of his effort on the
three walls, I found only a narrow place where a shark would feel at
home.
With a kind of superior look, his eyes glided over us: "All of
you simply stand and marvel! Don't you know what it means? Effendi,
do you know what it is?" Since he so directly referred to me, it was
best for me to blur my judgment of the painting's merit. I was very
diplomatic, mentioning nothing objectionable as to what the picture
was supposed to be. In any case, I wanted to keep the artist's high
esteem. For this reason, I simply answered in general terms, yet with
a practicable enthusiasm for this artwork: "It is the pure Blue-
green-red-yellow Wonder!"
He agreed with me: "Right! You never say something false. It has
cost us a lot of effort and color. Just look this way!" He pointed
down towards the floor, where half to entirely empty paint cans
stood. All sorts of paint brushes lay scattered around, and it was
impossible to count the number of clean-up rags and sponges. "We
fetched these from the white-washer," he continued. "Since the time
was too short and I would not be able to finish the work alone, the
cook had to help me. She just painted the land, which is easy. As for
the rest, I had to do this by myself; she has no talent to do more."
His father was extremely upset. With a great deal of effort, he
suppressed his anger and asked: "Well then, who gave you permission
to paint over these walls and the expensive inscriptions?" His son
answered, "Of course, it was you!"
"I-?" stammered the father. Thar replied: "Yes, you yourself. I
asked you if I could paint two pictures in the garden house, and you
gave me permission to do so."
"Somehow, was I supposed to understand that you would
paint them on the walls instead of on paper? Son, we'll talk further
about this!" As if he had a stick in his hand, he gestured and
added: "By the way, I see only one picture-not two." The boy spoke
up: "I've changed my mind; there will be more than two. Here is the
first. Still others will follow. Effendi wants to see what I can do,
so I must show him as much as possible."
"Still more pictures? Like these? Are you crazy? Well then,
which ones?" Thar answered: "Tomorrow, we are painting in the harem-
the trumpets of Jericho and how the city's walls collapsed." Mustafa
sighed: "Allah have pity on us. And the day after tomorrow?" The boy
didn't hesitate: "The day after tomorrow, we are painting the
bedrooms."
In disbelief, Mustafa asked: "But what?" Thar was quick to
answer: "The downfall of Sodom and Gomorrah, complete with smoke and
fire, lightening and thunder. I've already ordered the colors."
Mustafa was dumbfounded: "Already ordered? This too? Lightening and
thunder, smoke and fire in the bedroom? As for your art, it seems
that nothing is impossible. I realize that I must set limits. What
then is portrayed here? There is no train of thought in that!"
With his use of the word "limits," the father had again set
something in motion-just like this morning when he wanted to take
Thar across his knee. In spite of this threat, the boy had to laugh
as he answered: "No thoughts? In there, we find all of the People
of Israel, King Pharaoh, and all of his Egyptian soldiers!"
Incredulous, the father inquired further: "How so? On the contrary, I
see nothing of them!"
"That's because they're in the water! This picture shows the
Children of Israel's passage through the Red Sea. Don't you see the
Red Sea that is right in front of you? And over there is the blue
air; directly above your head is the yellow sun, because the time of
day is exactly noon. Here to the left, the green land, that is Egypt;
and the house, that is the Palace of the Pharaoh. And here to the
right, this green land is Palestine; the King of the Jebusites lives
in the house that stands there. In between there lies the Red Sea.
The Children of Israel were slaves in Egypt. Moses helped them break
away. He fled with them into the Red Sea. Even now, all of them are
stuck in there. With all of his armies, Pharaoh hurried after them.
Look here! The last one of them has just now disappeared. You can
still see his heel which is still above the water. On the other side
over there, the Children of Israel are just now coming out of the
water again. Already you can see the first one's toes which are half-
way out of the water. As soon as all of them are high and dry, I'll
paint in my sharks; then you'll see that Pharaoh and all of his
soldiers will be devoured-not a single one of them will remain. More
or less, aren't those the approximate ideas?"
He stretched himself out in front of his father and watched his
dad's face as he thought about these explanations. Behind us rang out
the reproachful voice of their African cook. She was standing next to
the door with her wind-lantern. She had heard everything: "It was my
hand that produced the entire green land of Egypt and all of
Palestine's greenery. Tomorrow, I'm painting Jericho!" At that
moment, the good Mustafa Bustani could no longer control himself. All
of his temper burst forth. His voice thundered at them: "Tomorrow,
you will learn what you can paint. March! Come away with me into the
house!"
His angry voice shocked the African cook. She let loose of the
lantern which shattered and extinguished-running away as fast as her
feet would carry her. Realizing the impact of his wrath, the merchant
immediately tried to take back its harsh impact. He addressed us in
an apologetic tone: "Forgive me. Such anger is never the right
thing. Please allow me to accompany you."
We understood and gladly embraced him. He led us towards the
gate through which we had come. It still stood open. There, he said
this to us: "We'll keep our plans to travel early tomorrow morning.
I'll pick you up at seven, European time. I don't yet know whether
I'll bring my son along."
My wife then asked about his son whom she had grown so fond of:
"Will you punish him very severely?" Mustafa answered with an
unusually solemn tone: "In this situation, I'll have to think about
who deserves the punishment here. With both of you here, it's as if a
light has come to me. Since this morning, it seems as if I now have
entirely new eyes and ears. How did it happen that you, without any
kind of perceptible reason, came along the same path leading to the
heights of the Mount of Olives-the one which I daily climb-precisely
at the same time?" I gently tossed out this word: "Coincidence!"
"You say that without personally believing it. I know all too
well that you consider the word "coincidence" to be an embarrassing
fabrication. However, for now that's unimportant. Above all else this
evening, I have to think about my son. I would like to be alone this
evening. And without feeling ashamed, I can say to both of you that I
must pray. This thought has come to me: I have placed the soul of my
child upon the wrong path. Allah alone knows the hidden depths of
our hearts. He wants to show me what is correct and what is false.
Please, do not concern yourselves about the boy. He won't receive
punishment which he doesn't deserve. Good night." Extending our
hands to him, we also said "Good night." We were eager to see how
tomorrow's affairs would develop.
II. Towards Hebron!
Oh what memories are connected to the name of this old and
famous city of kings and descendants of Levi! Located just twenty
miles south of Jerusalem, Hebron may be the oldest city in the
Promised Land. It existed three thousand years before the birth of
Christ. According to the traditional teachings of the Middle Ages, it
is in this vicinity where God created Adam.
Seventeen miles southwest of Jerusalem, there's the city
of Kirjath-arba, where mythical giants once lived. Later, Hebron was
the capitol city of the Hittites, whose princes resided there. After
the Children of Israel's conquest of Canaan, the city fell to the
Family of Caleb. Later, King David spent the first seven years of his
reign here. At the city gates, David's General Joab murdered Abner,
the Commander-in-Chief of King Saul's army. Upon David's orders, it
was here that the men who assassinated Saul's son Ishbosheth were
hung. From Hebron, Absalom launched the rebellion against his father,
King David. During the Israelites' captivity in Babylon, the city
fell into the hands of the Edomites, Esau's people-which Judas
Maccabaeus drove out. The Romans destroyed the city and sold its
inhabitants into slavery. The Crusaders made Hebron their Bishop-
City. It has also become ever more holy to Muslims, because it was
the dwelling place of the Patriarchs. In the past, Abraham lived
there, and Jacob's caravan to Egypt began at Hebron. The Muslims call
Abraham the friend of merciful compassion; from this title, Hebron
received its current Arabic name, El Chalil.
So, Hebron is highly revered-but unfortunately, the city is not
friendly toward strangers, particularly Christians. In the entire
land, Hebron's population is the most bigoted. There are
approximately nine thousand Muslims and five hundred Jews, who in
fact want to earn as much money as possible from a Christian-yet they
consider him to be inferior and even an unclean enemy whose mere
touch can make them dirty. Through Hebron's lanes, a Christian
pedestrian gets along OK if he tries very hard to avoid looking into
the eyes of "the true believers." Otherwise, trouble can easily
happen. At the least, youth who follow him will not just shout out
curse words-they will also throw solid objects. The most pronounced
expression of this hostile relationship is evident in the fact that
Hebron's inns are not open to Christians-even though the city's well-
traveled roadway connects to Jerusalem. Today, it may be different;
it was in the year 1900 when I last visited Hebron.
In light of Christians' common veneration of the patriarch
Abraham, Europeans visit this city of historical names-in spite of
its unfriendly population. When his wife Sarah died, Abraham
purchased the double burial cave called Machpela; the Hittite Ephron
sold him this grave site. Thus in a burial chamber, she was
transformed. Some say that the following famous six are entombed
here: Abraham. Isaac, Jacob, Sarah, Rebecca, and Leah. Among the
Greek-speaking Jews, some say that the Byzantine Emperor Justinian
lies here. Above this spot, a church was once established-which the
Muslims converted into a mosque; unfortunately, Christians are not
allowed to visit this site. Christians are only permitted to come
near the outer perimeter of this shrine. In order to go beyond that
limit, one must be a high-level, princely person-especially one that
holds a firman, a royal decree from the Ottoman Empire. In this same
region, upon Der el Arba'in, one finds the grave of Jesse, King
David's father. A half hour from the city stands Abraham's Well,
where some claim that this is the scene where once the Oaks of Mamre
stood. [ Mamre was the Amorite chief who gave his name to the plain
where Abraham dwelt, Genesis 23: 19.] Almost every place in the
surrounding area is intertwined with some memory of the patriarchs.
So for this reason, it was also a desire of mine to visit Hebron as
often as I was in Jerusalem. So it is now. (Photo, 148 KB-Jpg. The
Apostles' fountain: on the road between Jerusalem and Bethany, which
tradition says is the place where Jesus rested with his disciples.)
At exactly 7 o'clock the next morning, a comfortable, fully
covered four-passenger carriage arrived at our door. Therein, sat
Mustafa Bustani and Thar. When my wife saw them, she said: "So, he's
allowed to come after all." I too was pleased about this. The boy
sprang out of the carriage. He was festively dressed: golden shoes,
white stockings, white pants, and a white Bedouin-shirt with a red
vest that had Hungarian Hussar gold-braided cords. Upon his head sat
a red fez, to which a white, silken neck-scarf was fastened. Today,
the boy looked exceptionally distinguished. "We are here. Father bids
you to come," said Thar. His voice had an official and powerful ring
to it. In a softer and more confidential tone, he officially put
forth this question: "Yesterday evening, did you also think that I
would receive a good thrashing? No? I've thought a great deal about
it. I wish that he had whipped me." For a moment, he pondered over
this-then he repeated these words: "Yes, yes, I wanted it that way!"
"Why?"
"If the beating were over, my father would no longer be angry
and sad. It would no longer be painful for me either. As long as I
have to await punishment, even as I do right now, he still has the
sad eyes-and that causes me twice the pain." I wanted to know the
reason: "In what way is it doubled?"
"First, I'll tell you about his eyes, then secondly about the
thrashing which is yet to come. Due to the fact that the punishment
usually never happens, I ceaselessly and hopelessly feel this way in
advance. So today, it will perhaps be the same. Since yesterday
evening, his sad eyes have hurt me. Mostly, he doesn't say a word-not
a single thing. Early today, he personally woke me up and helped me
get dressed. When he stood so silently in my room, I could no longer
bear it; I wrapped my arms around his neck and kissed him, begging
him to punish me-soundly and vigorously. He just gently smiled and
shook his head. Do you think he is doing the right thing?"
I gave him this advice: "At all times, what your father does is
the right thing. You must come to understand this." Thar questioned
me: "Even when I regard his actions as wrong?" Here was my reply:
"Then too! When you grow older, just as he is now, you will have an
experience that will convince you that he was right. Oh well, come
on! Your father is always so punctual-we shouldn't keep him waiting."
"Now just a moment,"he pleaded. "I still have something to tell
you; today is Friday, a holiday. It's forbidden for me to get dirty.
For that reason, I didn't bring along any colors. Nevertheless, I am
a hero. You see, it isn't required that a hero be painted up when he
wants to conquer his enemies. There are also cases in which-" At that
point, my wife jokingly added this line: "-the victor actually has no
paint at all. Yesterday, you told us that you wanted to paint the
first storming of Palestine's City of Jericho. Didn't you think
about that project on this special Friday?"
The boy answered her: "Anyway, nothing could be done about
Jericho. I lack the means to capture the necessary noise. I can
paint the trumpets and also the walls; but how am I supposed to
insert the loud racket when I can't portray that part of the picture?
It's really too bad-just a crying shame. So, now I'm ready. Let's
go."
We broke off our conversation and went to the carriage. Just as
we were climbing in, Lord Pasha Osman Achyr interrupted his morning
excursion and came riding upon his fat donkey. For a moment, he
reigned back on his steed, gave us a friendly greeting, then directed
this question to the boy: "Well then, which hero are you today?"
With his usual presence of mind, Thar answered: "I'm Joshua the
Conqueror. I'm going into the Land of the Canaanites in order to show
them that we are not afraid of them." The Pasha played along: "Where
does this land lie?" The boy replied: "In Gilgal." The Pascha
cautioned him: "My boy, be careful then. Without asking first about
your reason for being there, the people will cut you down." With that
parting advice, he rode off.
Regarding what was necessary for our journey, Mustafa Bustani
assured us that he had taken care of everything. Thar leapt onto the
seat beside the coachman where he felt more free and higher than in
the deeper part of the carriage beside us. The horses then began to
pull forward. Our steep path went from the Jaffa Gate into the Hinnom
Valley, which carries the Jewish and Islamic references to "hell."
We traveled farther to the Sultan's Pool; and from there, again
upward to the high and level Bethel. Thereon lies the Cloister of
Rabbi Elijah, from which we could admire a broad and outstanding
view. This monastery is associated with the Prophet Elijah, and
nearby is a spring where the Holy Family reportedly drew water.
Beyond this monastery, you'll find Rachel's Crypt, the burial
site of Patriarch Jacob's wife. At this holy site, we read these
words: "On the road to Ephratah, which is now called Bethlehem,
Rachel died and was buried. So Jacob erected a memorial upon her
grave; to this day, Rachel's monument is still there." The road
divides at this place.
To the left, it goes towards Bethlehem; straight ahead lies Hebron.
We took the latter direction. After forty-five minutes, we came to
the Three Pools of Solomon. Long before the Christian era, these aqua
ducts were constructed in order to supply water to Jerusalem. Even
though these pools and the region's small castle hold historical and
architectural significance, they have no bearing on our story-so for
now, we'll bypass them.
Of more interest to me is the broad Wadi a-'Arish; midway
between Jerusalem and Hebron, a "caf," was erected, a place where
men and animals can find a place to rest themselves. Don't picture a
European-style caf,. Instead, imagine a narrow, low-quality, jagged
stone building wherein a rather squalid fellow boils dirty water in a
filthy pot as he makes a brew which he calls "coffee"-a drink that he
sells to European passersby, all at sinfully expensive prices.
Yet the sin does not stem from the price that he demands. Oh no,
he's too sly for that. This might result in a complaint that could
lead to cancellation of his license to sell coffee. He works this
more cleverly. For the locals, he sets the lowest possible price; but
for foreigners, he always says this: "I'll take what you give me!" In
this way, he neither dissuades nor pleads. Since European travelers
are almost always well-to-do, having extra money to afford elevated
sentiments, the coffee-innkeeper gives them the impression that he's
needy-all with the aim that they will pay him a price which is more
like a present, or even an excessive tariff. For a very small
oriental cup, which contained no more than two or three thimbles-
worth of coffee, he held out his hand long enough to receive more
than a German Mark-whereas five Pfennig would have been entirely
enough. I had always been generous towards him. However, the last
time I stopped at his place, I saw how he was laughing at me as I
rode away-so today, he shall pay dearly for that.
When we arrived at his "caf,," we stopped and climbed out of the
carriage. He rushed outside; and with an exaggerated deep bow, he
asked about our "orders." Mustafa Bustani first ordered five cups of
coffee, then five more; for a third time, he ordered still another
five. Altogether, that came to fifteen cups. The man melted into a
downcast spirit; he knew that Mustafa Bustani was no foreigner and
that he often stopped here on his business trips to Hebron. So, he
could not treat him like a European. When we were preparing to leave
and climbing into our carriage, I took out my money pouch. The shop
owner's face completely lit up. I asked how much it cost for the
fifteen cups of coffee. "Give what you wish," he said. "I'll only pay
the price that you demand," I declared.
This accomplished nothing. He absolutely refused to set a price.
So when I threatened to pay him nothing if he wouldn't give me a
price, he simply answered with this: "OK, I'll give them to you as a
present." This trick had always worked for him. He assumed that no
European would allow him to give away his coffee. So, I acted just as
he expected. Appearing to be overwhelmed with his generosity, I gave
him a franc. In Palestine, the franc is the most prized silver coin.
He looked at it, then handed it back to me and said: "I'm giving the
money back to you." After taking the coin back, I first gave him
two, then three francs. Once again, he declined the money and
repeated these words: "I give these as presents to you." I understood
how this man operated; I knew just how far I could take this. His
greed for money grew with every increase of my offer. I gave him
four, then finally five francs. With this last sum, he closed his
hand and made a movement as if he wanted to pocket the money. At the
same time, he inquisitively looked at me.