Part 1 (1/2)
Travel Tales in the Promised Land (Palestine).
by Karl May.
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 ”G.o.d'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 friends.h.i.+p'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 a.s.sistant 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 superst.i.tious 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 compa.s.sionate 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 ”das.h.i.+ng 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 relations.h.i.+p.
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 antic.i.p.ated. 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 n.o.ble, 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, gla.s.s-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 s.h.i.+rt 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 t.i.tle for a n.o.ble 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.