Along the edge of the lake moved flickering lights, soft in mystery, as people from various quarters of the town came to watch the caravan’s departure. Children from Arab and Jewish families ran through the narrow alleys, each group keeping to itself, while mothers stood silent and their husbands asked knowing questions of the muleteers. The morning, already steaming and airless, was filled with the good smell of horses, and the gates of the town were being opened.
At this point the kaimakam appeared, a big, handsome man in flowing Arab garb, while from the government building near the fort came four armed soldiers to mount their horses and take their places along the caravan. A drum began to beat and cheers rose from the crowd as the expedition headed for the light-tipped hills to the west.
It was prudent, in 1880, to move within an armed body, for solitary travelers were apt to be murdered, and even groups of three or four if not accompanied by riflemen might be assaulted by Bedouins. Along the very road which Jesus had walked alone and in security the Turkish kaimakam scuttled like a frightened schoolgirl; for the route which had once contained inns and numerous cities now crossed only bleak and dangerous lands. What was worse, if the hills were safely passed, one entered upon extensive swamps, much larger than they used to be and ridden with malaria; two thousand years ago most of the area had been irrigated land producing the grape and olive which had made the Galilee rich.
Shortly after eleven that morning the armed caravan reached the barren knoll of Makor, the customary halting place, for from its height the guards could protect themselves from bandits, and on this high spot Kaimakam Tabari’s tent was pitched. By noon, when the sun was savage, he was asleep.
At six that afternoon he was awakened by loud laughter. Sticking his head out of the tent to see what was happening, he detected nothing, but since the laughter continued, he threw a robe about his shoulders and went onto the knoll. On the path below he saw a sight which would have made anyone laugh.
Coming down the road from Akka, traveling alone and on foot, was a frail man wearing an outrageous costume; and from time to time, from either joy or insanity, he stopped, executed a little dance and leaped high in the air, uttering all the while unintelligible words. Then adjusting his shoulder pack he would resume his journey.
“What is he?” Tabari asked. No one knew. “Go fetch him,” Tabari directed, and three riflemen ran down the knoll to confront the surprised stranger.
He must have suspected that the men intended to kill him, for with an ecstatic indifference he stood before them and bared his breast, waiting for the shots. Fear he did not display; some other emotion possessed him, and when the Arabs made it clear that they meant him no harm he danced again, then dutifully followed them up the hill.
The frail man stood before the kaimakam and waited, as people on the knoll chuckled, for he was an amazing sight, a consumptive Jew bent in the shoulder and bearded. Beside his ears dangled long curls, and over his body hung a black coat gathered at the waist. His pants were extraordinary and the kaimakam could recall none like them: they were made of a gray fabric containing a bold vertical stripe, and, hanging free like a boy’s, reached only to his calf. Below them were exposed white-ribbed stockings, which ended in shoes with silver buckles. The costume was completed by a large flat hat trimmed with brown fur, and since the man had obviously been walking in the heat of day, his face was lined with sweat and dirt; but more memorable than trousers or fur hat or dirty face were his piercing blue eyes.
“Ask him who he is,” Tabari commanded.
Members of the caravan tried Turkish, Ladino and Arabic, with no results, but a horseman who knew Yiddish uncovered the fact that this was Mendel of Berdichev, come to settle on his new land.
Kaimakam Tabari recalled that this was one of the men identified by Shmuel Hacohen as a leader of the proposed colony, and it was from men like this that he was supposed to extort additional funds for the appeal on water rights. “Ask him what he’s doing on the road alone,” Tabari growled.
The interpreter could comprehend little of what the pilgrim replied, but he made an attempt to explain: “He could not wait for the others. He wanted to see the land.”
“Why is he dancing?”
“For joy.”
“How does he know where he’s going?”
“He has a map.”
The kaimakam asked to see it, and from a Russian printing of the Torah, Mendel of Berdichev produced a map of Old Testament days, and it was about as good as any that the Turkish government had produced in recent years. At least the path from Akka to Galilee was indicated, and it was this path that the Jew was following.
It was obvious to Tabari that any attempt to mulct this demented man of baksheesh was hopeless, so he asked, “Doesn’t he know that he may be killed by bandits?”
The interpreter discussed this with the stranger, but the latter either did not understand or did not care. A positive radiance suffused him, and if death were to be his lot before he reached his land, there was nothing he could do to forestall it. “He says,” explained the interpreter, “that in the Russian troubles he nearly died, that in Danzig they stole his money, and that on the ship he came close to drowning, but he is now in Israel.”
The kaimakam and the immigrant stared at each other for a moment, the enchanted blue eyes of the Jew looking deep into the dark eyes of the Arab, and there was no understanding. Nor was there enmity. Grudgingly Tabari said, “Tell him he can sleep with us.” There was no point in sending him into the guns of the Bedouins.
But the Jew could not halt. He bowed to the kaimakam, to the horseman, to anyone in sight, then started dancing down the hill. “Give him some water,” Tabari directed, and when the man’s canteen was filled, he ran to the road, turned his face toward Galilee and leaped joyously like one demented, as if he felt coming through the soles of his feet the strange and lyric message of the land.
In the twilight he headed east, and as Tabari watched the disappearing figure, wondering what he signified, he had the strange feeling that this stranger from Berdichev had been looking at him with the same hard eyes that Shmuel Hacohen had used the night before. Haunted by these two pairs of eyes, Tabari began absent-mindedly toying with the gold coin that Hacohen had paid him for the Talmud; but he was not aware of doing so, for his attention was still focused on the dancing Jew.
Next morning, as Tabari approached Akka, he intended to proceed immediately to the immigrants to see how much baksheesh he could squeeze out of them for handling their water problem with Istanbul, but he found that the impact of the dancing Jew had driven aside such concerns and he had no wish to meet with the newcomers at this time. He therefore procrastinated, diverting himself with unimportant matters, but in the afternoon he forced himself to the ancient caravanserai of the Genoese, where the waiting Jews were encamped, and there he found Solomon and Jozadak to be more sensible negotiators than Mendel had been; but his heart was not in the business and he extorted only a tithe of what he would otherwise have managed. He was glad to leave the caravan, and made his way to the popular and spacious Turkish baths in the old building opposite the citadel; and there he found a pleasant surprise awaiting him. The large Negro attendant, naked except for a small towel, greeted him and said, “In the far room is someone you may wish to see.”
Tabari undressed hurriedly, eager to get the dust of the journey from his bones, and stepped into the small, well-remembered room where the stone seats were always clean and the steam abundant. At first he could not see who waited, then gradually through the steam and shadows he saw sitting on one of the benches the massive figure of the mutasarrif of Akka. The man was enormous, with a big, dark Turkish face and rolls of fat from chin to ankle; he seemed an enormous bullfrog waiting for a fly.
“Mutasarrif Hamid Pasha!” Tabari cried. “What an extreme pleasure of pleasures!” The fat man grunted, and Tabari continued. “I’ve come all the way from Tubariyeh to see only you, and here you are!”
“I was expecting you,
” the fat man said, as if from the bottom of a well. He indicated that Tabari was to sit beside him, and since the mutasarrif of Akka was a pure Turk and Tabari only an Arab, the gesture was more than merely polite.
For the kaimakam the moment had extra meaning, for it was to this room of perpetual twilight, with its dark and mysterious shapes looming up through the steam, that the old-time kaimakam of Tubariyeh had brought him while he was still a young boy, and it was here that the infatuated Turk had barred the door and explained his passion for the young Arab. In later years, when the madness had passed and Tabari was the kaimakam’s son-in-law, they had again come to this same room, but in a different relationship.
How old Mutasarrif Hamid looks! Tabari thought. The bullfrog resembled Tabari’s father-in-law in the years before he died.
The big Negro brought in fresh water, throwing some on the walls to increase the steam. “Would you care for some grape juice?” the mutasarrif asked, and when Tabari assented, the Negro disappeared, returning shortly with cool glasses.
Tabari, as he drank the purple juice, reviewed the delicate problem before him: if he could depend upon the fact that the mufti of Tubariyeh had not informed Mutasarrif Hamid of the thirty English pounds, he, Tabari, could keep all thirty for himself. On the other hand, if he were sure that the mufti had betrayed him, he could make a gesture of offering Hamid all the money before the question was raised, thus gaining credit for himself. And, finally, if the mufti had been afraid to approach the mutasarrif himself, but had somehow conveyed the impression that an unknown amount of money had changed hands, Tabari could keep a good share and give Hamid the rest.
But he must also remember that the mutasarrif controlled his chances for promotion, so it was necessary to retain not only his good will but also his active enthusiasm. What to do? It was precisely the problem that faced all officers of the Turkish empire: How honest should I be … this time?
He made up his mind. With a burst of frankness he told his host, “Excellency, I bring you good news. The mufti of Tubariyeh has given me thirty English pounds. For you. To enlist your aid in keeping the Jews out of Tubariyeh.”
“I know,” the fat old man mumbled.
Tabari was not fooled by this reply. There was a very good chance that the old man did not know and was claiming that he did only to keep Tabari honest in the future. In this tricky business a man could be certain of nothing.
The old bullfrog continued, with steam condensing on his face and dripping onto his paunch, “But as you well know, Faraj ibn Ahmed, the sultan has already decided to let the Jews have the land. So the mufti’s gift …” The two rulers had to laugh, and the old man raised his hands in a gesture of helplessness.
“I’m sorry for the mufti,” Tabari said cautiously.
“He’s a vicious man,” Hamid grumbled in the gloomy twilight, “and I took it as an affront when he came to warn me personally that he had paid you the money.”
“Did he do that?” Tabari asked in surprise.
The fat old bullfrog smiled to himself and thought: You know very well that he got to me with his story first. Else why should you have given me the full thirty pounds? But to Tabari he said, “Yes, he came running to me like a schoolboy …”
“How could he?” Tabari asked in real perplexity. “He paid me only two nights ago, and when I rode out of Tubariyeh I saw him in the crowd.”
“After you left he and the qadi came the back way by Safad. The mufti wants you out of Tubariyeh.”
The canniness of the red-faced mufti impressed Kaimakam Tabari. He was a redoubtable enemy and something had better be done about him, now: “Excellency, that mufti must be replaced.”
“I’ve already sent a letter to the wali in Beirut. But these things, as you know, Ibn Ahmed …”
“Cost money,” Tabari concluded. “I know, and with that in mind I’ve brought you a special gift, a gold coin issued eight hundred years ago. I found it in Tubariyeh.”
The old man’s eyes opened in greediness, then flashed a warm smile through the murky steam. “A generous gift, Ibn Ahmed. I don’t think the mufti will bother you in the future.”
The two officials relaxed in the pleasing heat and watched with casual interest as the Negro brought in wet towels to place about their heads. He also sloshed warm water onto their shoulders and rubbed their bodies with his powerful hands. When he was gone the old man observed, “In two years I shall retire.”
“So soon?” Tabari asked.
After a long silence the old mutasarrif grumbled out of the twilight, “I’m returning to a farm near Baghdad. A beautiful spot it is.”
“I liked Baghdad,” Tabari said. More silence followed, during which the young man tried to guess at what the older intended.
“It will be costly to man the farm … to do the things required.”
Oh, God! groaned Tabari to himself. The ancient thief wants more money. But this time he was wrong. The old man was reflecting on his long years as an official and for once required nothing but an attentive ear.
“I’ve been haunted the last few weeks, Ibn Ahmed, by memories of the places I served in. Baghdad was the best. Aleppo the most interesting. And Bulgaria was the worst. If I had my way I’d turn Bulgaria loose and tell them, ‘Rule this damned place yourselves. It’s your punishment.’ ”
“I always understood that Greece was the worst,” Tabari suggested.
“Never served in Greece,” the old man said. “But three days ago when I watched the ship come into harbor with those Jews I had the strange feeling that they were going to prove more troublesome than Greeks or Bulgarians. Faraj ibn Ahmed, are we making a great mistake in allowing so many to enter the country?”
“The firman has been signed.”
“Sometimes the wrong firman is signed,” the old man said cryptically. Wringing out the towel he placed it over his huge, wet face.
Kaimakam Tabari recognized this statement as one made to trap him, but he did not know where the trap lay. Had the mutasarrif uttered his mildly disloyal statement as a means of luring him into anti-imperial sentiments? If so, it ought to be rebutted, for it was a reflection on the sultan. Or had the old man finally awakened to the dry-rot in the empire and did he honestly believe that changes were necessary? If so, Tabari ought to agree with him, for the mutasarrif had it in his power to determine what promotion Tabari would get next, and he would be capable of holding him back if disagreements arose.
It was essential that Tabari say something, and in trying to decide which way to jump he began to sweat with a copiousness not justified by the steam. In spite of the moist room his throat went dry, and in panic he looked to see if the mutasarrif’s countenance would betray any clue to the old man’s thinking, but the bullfrog remained passive, with the towel hiding his face as he had planned. Desperately Tabari racked his mind for guidance, but none came. In his heart he wanted to be a courageous man like Shmuel Hacohen, willing to challenge obstacles if necessary, but when he saw the great hulking mass of the mutasarrif he lost his courage. Almost certainly the old man was trying to trap him into radical disclosures, so Tabari clenched his hands and said, “I’ve found the sultan is usually right in the firmans he signs.”
Beneath his towel the mutasarrif wheezed approvingly. Uncovering his face he stared at Tabari with huge drooping eyes and said, “It’s good for an Arab to think that way. This morning the mufti tried to tell me that you had gone over to the reformists.”
“That swine!” Tabari was outraged by the treachery yet pleased that his assessment of the mufti had been correct.
“Normally I’d not have listened to him,” the flabby mutasarrif continued, “but two days ago your brother-in-law was hung in Beirut. Conspiracy.”
Tabari sagged as if the tense ropes in a torture chamber had been relaxed. The old bullfrog had nearly trapped him. Had he given the wrong answer, he might now be on his way to death, but it was not this escape that caused his body and his conscience to sag. He realized that in masking
his slowly developing opinions in order to protect a possible promotion he was surrendering them forever. Other men would lead the Turkish reformers, not he. Shmuel Hacohen would ride with the future, not he. Perhaps this was why he had saved the Jew that night, to serve this purpose. His limp hand reached for the towel and now it was he who covered his face, for at this moment he wished no one to see him.
“You were wise, Ibn Ahmed,” the old man said, “to resist your brother-in-law. Never again will the sultan allow any constitution foolishness. What we must do is permit no change and hope that things work out for the best.” At that moment his desk was heavy with petitions covering matters of health, schools, Catholic missionaries and an ingenious plan for clearing the harbor of silt, but during his remaining tenure none would be moved forward.
The old bullfrog shifted his enormous belly so that steam could work its way into a new set of folds, then, unexpectedly, grabbed the towel from Tabari’s face and stared at him, saying, “When I leave Akka you’re getting my job.”
Tabari sighed. Somehow the flavor had vanished from the promotion.
“Promise me one thing, Ibn Ahmed. Keep things as they are. We have a happy city here. Be sure that Christian pilgrims are allowed to visit their holy places without molestation and keep the Bedouins away from towns. But above all, when the wali comes down from Beirut be certain that things are in good shape. Spend money to fix them up, your own salary if necessary. Because in a place like Akka you can always get it back later, one way or another.”
The silent Negro slipped in to suggest that perhaps the two officials would like to move into another room for their massage, but the mutasarrif refused: “Let’s stay here a little longer, Ibn Ahmed.”
Later, as they were dressing, Tabari sought to deliver the gold coin, only to discover that he had lost it, and as he vainly searched his belongings he became aware that the fat old man was irritated and suspected him of some kind of double dealing. If this suspicion were allowed to persist, Mutasarrif Hamid might change his mind about the promotion, for the old bullfrog could be vengeful. So feigning generosity and love Tabari cried, “Excellency, I’ve lost your coin. But here are some funds I’ve collected for another purpose.” And he handed over the money which he had extorted that day from the incoming Jews.
The Source: A Novel Page 112