Part 1 (2/2)
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 ta.s.seled fez. In the Middle East, such a flat-crowned hat has long been a.s.sociated with many speeches and counter arguments. His head was completely bald, glistening a slippery-bright, as if it were waxed and s.h.i.+ned. 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 s.p.a.ce 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 gra.s.s-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 Mana.s.seh. Good-bye!” In a dignified way, Thar nodded to the man, then proudly strode out of the shop. Still clad in his make-s.h.i.+ft 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!”
<script>