Part 6 (1/2)
Right now, I'm not sure what to call it, because I've never felt this way before. It's almost like a duty, and yet again, it may be more like something that I very much enjoy doing. Just as you witnessed yesterday, I would do battle with the whole world if it meant protecting Schamah and her mother. And yet, that is much, much too little; that's a long, long way from the right thing to do. I still want to think about this some more. When I've found the answer, I'll tell you. Now, may I leave you again? There's something very necessary that I must do. Remember what I said about going to the Lions, to the Elephants, to the Hippos, to the Whales, and to Abd en
”Does he know that you went to visit us?”
”I don't intend to tell him. As you know, he has such an extraordinary affection for you; if he learned that I planned to come here, you would be stuck with him for the entire day. Well then, may Allah protect you; I'm going now.” He finished his cup of coffee, shook our hands, opened the door, went outside, and stood still. For a moment, he pondered, came inside again, then firmly closed the door behind him. It seemed as if he had some great secret that he wanted to entrust to us: ”I simply must ask you a question.
Don't you find this ridiculous? In a man's own country, he is called ”The Chosen One.”
I tried to help him with the answer: ”How did you arrive at this question?”
”In my hours of vanity, I have taken pride in this designation; but seriously, this t.i.tle actually irritates me.”
”So, be angry!” said my wife. ”Your irritation is more justified than any pleasure from that t.i.tle.” As he meditated on that advice, he looked at her. Then he aimed his eyes on me, thoughtfully nodding: ”I put a great deal of stock into what your wife has said. Perhaps you don't? Up to this point, she has always come up with just the right words. Now, I'm really going to do it! May Allah protect you!”
Hardly ten minutes after he left us, there was a knock on the door. Who was it? His father. He asked us to forgive him for disturbing us at such an inconvenient hour. Something had happened which he absolutely had to share with us. ”Did you dream something?”
I asked him.
”Yes, how did you know that?”
”No, I didn't know for sure-I simply had a hunch.”
”You guessed correctly. Just think! In my dream, it was morning as I got out of bed and came into my living room. There sat my brother, as real as I am standing here. He smiled at me and said: 'I have come, and I want to see if I should remain.' In pure joy, I woke up. Now tell me, is that a phenomenon, or not?”
”A miracle? No, to me it is something more like a completely natural occurrence.”
”After our conversation yesterday, I too felt comfortable about all of this. Yet in today's awakening, instantly after the dream, a thought came to me-almost as if this thought itself were to be the continuation of the dream. Do you know what my brother said to me in the previous dream I described to you?”
”That he would send you a sign of his forgiveness.”
”Now then, do you recall the name of the child whom you met yesterday, the girl whom my son constantly talks about?”
”Schamah, the Forgiveness!”
My wife swiftly joined in: ”Yes, that's true! That's exactly right! It might be-”
Imitating Old Jew Eppstein, I quickly interrupted: ”Pssst!
Still! Pssst! Don't try to force some kind of mystery from all this. Although 'Schamah' means 'forgiveness,' at the same time, it's also a girl's name.” Mustafa interjected: ”But as Thar told me, the girl's mother comes from the region of Al Karak, and that place is in East Jordan, where my brother went.” In order to divert him from this subject, I asked him: ”So, did you and Thar talk about her today?”
”It was yesterday evening that we talked. Today, he was up early, but he said practically nothing. Whenever his thoughts are focused on his mother, he acts this way. It always keeps him preoccupied as he looks for some kind of gift he can give or a good deed that he can perform for someone. Off he went without having anything to eat or drink for breakfast.
”Does he know that you are here with us?”
”I don't think so. If he knew that he could visit you as often as he wanted, he would stay beside you for the entire day. I must confess that his heart dearly loves both of you. Ever since yesterday, I've seen changes in him. The young girl seems to have made an impression on him, and that baffles me.”
”Surely such a riddle is not a bad one?”
”Oh no, it's especially very pleasant and welcome. Compared to ordinary times, I too have changed. Yesterday was a festival; yet for me, it's as if the celebration is just now happening. I feel the same joy that I felt in my boyhood-when something long-desired finally promises to come true. Isn't that strange? Isn't that laughable?”
”It's not strange to me, and in no way is it absurd. Our souls are linked to an entirely different world than our bodies. This connection is so deeply intimate, that no reasonably sane man would ever doubt what we call our 'inner voices.' Did your dream clearly focus on your brother? Or was it merely a figure which you mistook for him?”
”Truly and clearly, it was so certain and distinct, that even in the dream I marveled at the joy I felt in seeing him appear precisely as he looked earlier. We were so extraordinarily similar that people often would mistake one for the other. We had fun with that, so he would often enhance that relations.h.i.+p by wearing the same clothes and by growing a beard just like mine. On the inside, we were very different. He was always tender , pliable, and p.r.o.ne to be at peace.
By contrast, I was insensitive, unsympathetic, and always ready to play the role of lord and master. In the end, that separated us.
However, today-.” Something inside him stopped. He walked to the window, gazed outside and reconciled himself to what would come: ”There lies the road to Bab en Nebi Daud, and that way goes to Bab el Amud. For me, it's the same, whichever path I take. They both lead me around the city and towards the Mount of Olives where I will wait to learn when and how the 'forgiveness” will come to me. Today, I am in suspense, and I can't relax. I'm going!”
He left, and I openly confess that a portion of his suspense stayed there with us. If I were to try to attach an artificial angle on his narration, one which differed from the view he had just shared with us, then I would have to rearrange the tale itself. The conclusion would be otherwise, even giving his story an extra chapter of its own. For me, it all seemed to follow a natural course of events, which was just as interesting as any literary embellishment that his son Thar would have added. So, I'll follow the examples from our brave boy Thar and simply report the plain, unvarnished facts As long as Schamah dwelt among us, she renounced any synthetic coloring of green nor blue, neither yellow nor red.
That morning, we visited the Graves of the Kings and a couple of other nearby sites. In the afternoon, we wanted to go to Ain Kahrim, one of my favorite places. However, we could not undertake this outing. Just as we were preparing to eat our lunch, there was a third knocking at our door. Who appeared? Schamah and her mother. We were genuinely glad to see them, and we welcomed their noontime visit.
Without hesitation, we invited them to eat with us. The mother was a loving, good-natured, and n.o.ble-minded woman. She had an inner pride that stemmed from her heart's solemn education. In spite of her humility, she spoke with a good deal of satisfaction about her Azerbeijan roots and the fact that she did not come from Syria. So, as far back as tradition stretched, her people had always been Christians. Due to her father's beliefs, he was oppressed and died as a poor army officer in Al Karah. Her husband was also very poor, but he was blessed with all of the virtues that are necessary to merit the attention and the love of all mankind. His name was Achmed Bustani, and he died from a sickness of the heart, a yearning that never stopped gnawing at him-until death delivered him from that ceaseless longing.
Achmed Bustani! Surely, you can imagine the impact this name had on us. Just think-the brother of our friend. As soon as the widow made this disclosure, both women intuitively knew that they had been drawn to each other-both outwardly and inwardly, sensing a bond of confidentiality between them. In spite of the few short lines that I now use to report this surprise, naturally, it took several hours for us to grasp what we had just learned. During the time she talked with us, her heart's restrained agony peered out from her moist, poignant eyes. Not wanting to increase her sadness by asking insensitive questions, it was especially hard for us to repress our normal curiosity about the details.
Quite simply, Achmed Bustani died of homesickness. At most, his love for his wife and child delayed his death, but nothing could prevent his dying. Knowing the inherent importance of very close family relations.h.i.+ps among Semitic people, it cost him his life when he could not bear the thought of his father and his entire family banis.h.i.+ng him and forever refusing to give him their support.
Practically moments from death, he asked his wife to promise him that she and Schamah would make a pilgrimage to Jerusalem. If possible, she was to find his brother and seek reconciliation with him.
Originally, she had only wanted to hike from Abraham's Oak to Bethlehem. Her plans changed at the Hospice, where she received a slip of paper from an anonymous benefactor in Bethany, a village on Jerusalem's eastern slope of Olivet. The note a.s.sured them of free room and board in the Good Samaritan's house. At the same time, he had arranged for our Donkey Driver to take them to Jerusalem. From there, someone would pick them up and accompany them-all free of charge. It pleased her to recall the kindness of this man's heart.
Likewise, she was thankful for the humanitarian aid they received in the Russian Hospice that stood near Abraham's Oak. They never suspected the truth, that our ”Hero of the Blood Feud” was the one to whom they owed their thanks.
They did not go into the accursed Valley of Hinnom where the G.o.d Moloch was once wors.h.i.+pped. Nor did they ride straight to the house of their anonymous benefactor. They first wanted to ask if we thought it was ”OK” for two lonely, Christian pilgrims to accept this man's invitation to stay in his home. We gave them as much information as we could and offered to accompany them to their host's house, for we too wanted to meet this man. They gratefully accepted our offer. Just as we were ready to depart, there was a fourth knock at our door-in stepped our lad Thar.