“Your Excellency, when we heard about your proposed visit we called a meeting to discuss whether you should eat as we eat every day, or whether we should eat as you eat every day; and we decided to adopt the latter course.”
Newton tittered. When we showed them the Children’s House, Mrs. Newton said:
“Do you know to whom they belong?— I mean who the fathers are?”
There was a dreadful silence, poor Newton coughing and humming, and then Moshe said with a poker face:
“No, Madame. You know, we draw lots.”
“Oh, do you? How interesting,” said Mrs. Newton, whereupon several of our girls started to giggle and the unfortunate female went crimson. God, how she must hate us.
Simeon was invisible as long as the visit lasted.
Thursday
Worked all day in the shop, repairing shoes. Without the two sheets of leather from Gan Tamar half the Commune would have to run bare-foot in the coming rains. Repairing shoes is a very gratifying job, almost more so than making new ones. One has the surgeon’s satisfaction in healing, without the risks; not even the oldest boot gets internal haemorrhage under my knife. I like the smell of fresh leather and of the glue; I always have to whistle when I drive the tags into a heel—it’s a conditioned reflex. The work is never monotonous; there are no boring preliminary stages, as for instance in carpentry preparing the wood with sand-paper. The transformation under my hands of a mud-caked, punctured, twisted, wrinkled relic into a shining, re-born, as-good-as-new boot is quick and exhilarating; I feel like a benevolent magician.
There is no other trade which provides the same intense contentment. A patch on a suit is a blemish; hence repair-tailors are a meek, diffident race with a look of secret guilt in their eyes. Or, if you are a garage-mechanic, you are always liable to come up against some nasty hitch on a job; a big rusty bolt which has got stuck somewhere where you can’t get at it with the spanner, or a broken part for which there is no spare at hand. Hence garage-mechanics always look grumpy and reserved, and if asked how long the job will take they answer with wary and depressing you-never-can-tells; whereas I can always tell and have no fear of committing myself. My tags go in like a knife into butter and give me a sensation of effortless power. To cut a fresh leather sheet with a sharp knife following the curved contour of the heel gives me a clean, sensuous pleasure.
Take my opposite number, the hairdresser. He plays about with flimsy and futile embellishments on the top, whereas I provide the indispensable foundations for men walking the earth. Hence the hairdresser is a chatty, scatter-brained figaro, whereas the cobbler appears in all popular lore as a dignified and serene philosopher, full of contentment and benevolence. I can imagine myself at no other permanent manual task; the monotony of digging in a field would drive me crazy in a fortnight. I can’t understand that the others don’t all covet my job. But then Dasha and Moshe and Mendl and the other maniacs probably feel the same…. Why do people babble about the Red Scare, when it stands to reason that in a poor agrarian country nothing but a communal type of organisation can give a man sufficient scope to work only eight hours and to make his hobby his job?
Oh God, why can’t I stay as I am? I was a fairly exacting chap, and yet, You see, here I have found peace—or as much peace as I am capable of holding. I have asked for much and yet, You see, I am content with little if given in the right way. I love these hills, and my day-job and my night-job; I am approved of and I approve; I like and am liked. Sometimes, lying on my back in the sun, I whisper the words of the Song: “and his banner over me was love….”
Oh, let me stay as I am. You have twice expelled us from the Land and driven us from Spain and turned us into a race of eternal tramps; and however we try to disguise ourselves they smell us out and hold us up to derision in the nakedness of our flesh; now that the wheel is coming back full circle, with dry blood on each of its spokes, can’t You make it stand still at last, at last …?
I seem to be getting hysterical. I thought there was not much selfishness in coming here to live as a cobbler in the barren hills of Galilee; and now according to Simeon it is pure egotism and escape.
I wish Dina were back and I could talk to her.
To-morrow our string quartet will give its first concert….
3
The peace-making ceremony in Kfar Tabiyeh was the most important event of its kind for many years in the district. Preparations for the great reconciliation meal had begun several days beforehand and a number of guests had been invited, among them a party of English people from Jerusalem, which was to include the wife of the Assistant Chief Commissioner, Lady Joyce Gordon-Smith.
The blood feud between the two leading clans of the village, the Hamdans and the Abu Shauish, went back to Turkish days. To keep the balance, the Turkish and later the British rulers had always appointed the most distinguished member of each of the two clans to dual mukhtarship. Fifteen years ago Issa’s great-grandfather, Hadj Saade el Hamdan, had been murdered by a member of the Abu Shaouish clan. An atwa or truce had been arranged, but the negotiations on the blood-money had broken down, and after biding his time for eight full years, Issa’s grandfather had killed the murderer, who had meanwhile been appointed Mukhtar on the Abu Shaouish side.
The reasons why Issa’s grandfather had waited so long before he avenged the family’s honour were two. First, the murderer was a cautious man, well aware of the constant danger in which he lived, and it was therefore necessary to wait for an opportunity and lay a carefully prepared trap. Secondly, Issa’s grandfather had preferred to wait until the murderer had attained the same age and dignity as his victim at the time of his death, to make the act of revenge more impressive and satisfactory. Issa’s grandfather enjoyed a wide reputation for his strict observance of tradition and etiquette, and the way he had killed his victim was to this day held up as an example of savoir-faire in the whole district. When, at the price of patience and cunning, he had at last succeeded in surprising the Abu Shaouish Mukhtar alone in his sleep, he had knelt down beside him on the mat with his knife in his hand, had shaken him by the shoulder: “Wake up, ya Abu Shaouish, for you have killed my father and the time has come for you to die,” and had then cut his throat from ear to ear. He was taken to prison and kept there for a while, but nothing could be proved against him as twenty members of the Hamdan clan solemnly swore that he had spent the critical time in their company, discussing the weather.
That had been seven years ago. Again an atwa was arranged which expired three days after the murder, and was extended to three months against payment of fifteen pounds by the Hamdan clan to cover the expenses which the victim’s clan had incurred by entertaining mourners, visitors and police. But the second atwa also expired, and despite the efforts of the dignitaries, Reformers and professional Arbitrators of the district, it was again found impossible to make the two clans agree on the amount of blood-money to be paid either in camels or cash. A third atwa was however arranged, which cost the Hamdans a considerable amount of money and which was to last “until Peace was concluded and forgetfulness obtained”. As months and years passed and peace was still not concluded, it became a matter for new dispute whether the atwa was still in force or not. Several times during these years members of the two clans had come to blows which led to loss of limbs, teeth and eyes but not to the loss of life, as both families were careful not to complicate the main issue. Meanwhile Issa’s father had been appointed Mukhtar in succession to the Old Man, and it was clear to everybody that the Abu Shaouish were merely waiting until he had reached the proper age, renown and wealth to avenge the honour of the family. Best of all knew this the Hamdan Mukhtar himself, and despite the elaborate precautions he took to protect his life he never really felt safe; and what with the additional worries about the Patriots in the mountains and the Hebrews on the Dogs’ Hill, he felt like a man walking in the shadow of an evil cloud.
However, some six months ago a new, efficient District Officer had been appointed by the
Government, a young man of ambitions named Jussuf Tubashi. This young man had studied at the University of Beyrout, was an admirer of the Roman dictator, and determined to make a career in the Government Service so that later, when the English and the Hebrews were driven out, he might become one of the leaders of the nation on the path from mediaeval backwardness towards the modern corporate state. Tubashi, who was naturally anxious to prevent a stupid murder in his district which would cast a blemish on his career, threw himself with youthful zeal into the task of mediation, and succeeded in a few weeks where the old dignitaries had failed in years: by mixing threats with persuasion, he induced the Abu Shaouish to settle the old feud against a reasonable amount of blood-money, and the Hamdans to pay it. This day was to be the day of his first triumph, and he had seen to it that the peace-making ceremony was given the proper publicity in the Arab Press and the higher circles of Jerusalem Society. When three days ago Mr. Newton, the Assistant District Commissioner, had informed Tubashi, his Junior District Officer, that the wife of Mr. Gordon-Smith, the Assistant Chief Commissioner, would herself be among the guests, Tubashi was convinced that henceforth his career was made.
Lady Joyce Gordon-Smith, who had lived for five years in the country but had never been at an Arab peace-making before, had gladly availed herself of the opportunity to escape the boredom of Jerusalem by joining a party of Englishmen to Kfar Tabiyeh. She was in her early forties, tall and county-bred with regular features—a Wiltshire Juno as an admirer had once called her—with a preference for tweeds and flat-heeled shoes and a constant look of just-having-come-out-of-the-bath on her cool, aseptic skin. The rest of the party consisted of Cyril Watson, a dark and fidgety young man who lectured on Elizabethan Poetry for the British Council in Jerusalem, and Squadron Leader James Abdul Rahman Henderson who had embraced the Moslem faith, looked like a football professional and worked for Intelligence. There was also a third, elderly Englishman, a retired Lieutenant-Colonel named Wyndham, who did not belong to the party. He had fought during the first world war as a Battalion Commander in the Jewish Legion and had been known as a fierce disciplinarian among his men, who suspected him of an anti-semitic bias. However, as soon as the war was over Wyndham had published a book which was a passionate plea for the resurrection of the Hebrew State based on the prophecies of Isaiah, had retired from the Army and bought a small house on Mount Carmel where he lived alone, doing his own cooking and housework, and known to everybody as “the Colonel”. He was rather unpopular among the British Colony because of his pro-Zionist views, and equally unpopular with the Zionist leaders whom he accused of cowardice for not having yet driven out the Arabs and proclaimed the Hebrew State. He was a short, dry and taciturn little man of a pronouncedly military bearing, with a rather fixed stare in his eyes and an aura of loneliness about him.
The Jerusalem party and the Colonel had arrived from different directions but almost at the same time in the morning, and had been directed by District Officer Tubashi to the house of the murderer’s family, where according to custom the guests were to assemble. The Hamdan Mukhtar received them on the terrace of his house; he was beaming, and magnificent to look at in his new silver-spun agal. There were also two or three silent old men of the Hamdan clan who were ceremoniously introduced to the newcomers. Issa served sweet black coffee in thimble-cups, lowering his eyes before Lady Joyce Gordon-Smith’s somewhat disconcertingly frank Junoesque stare, and they all sat down on the low wicker stools on the balcony. Squadron Leader Abdul Rahman accepted a water pipe and a rosary of yellow beads to play with, and the Mukhtar beamed delightedly. The conversation dragged on, Tubashi translating with great fluency.
Cyril Watson, who could not bear sitting still at parties for more than five minutes, strolled over to the parapet. “What’s that village over there?” he asked, pointing with his coffee-cup towards Ezra’s Tower. Tubashi translated with a knowing smile, discreetly lowering his voice as if to apologize for the tactless question. “Oh, that is the Hebrew settlement,” the Mukhtar said in a non-committal tone.
“I see,” said Watson. “Rather spoils the view, doesn’t it?”
Tubashi translated with an even more delicate smile. The Mukhtar too smiled, non-committally. “That is as it pleases the Government,” he said.
“Ask him where the murderer is,” said Lady Joyce. Tubashi translated, reverting to his normal conversational voice.
“Ah, they want me to introduce the murderer to them?” the Mukhtar said, beaming again. He turned to Issa: “Call Abu Arkub, son.”
Issa went into the house and returned a moment later with a shrivelled and seedy-looking little man, who remained standing at the door and touched his forehead and heart with an obsequious smile.
“Is that your father?” Lady Joyce asked, staring.
The Mukhtar laughed boisterously. “Oh, Abu Arkub, did you hear that? The lady thinks you are my father. Ha!” The little man smiled sourly. “No,” the Mukhtar explained, becoming serious again. “He is my cousin. My father is in his room, slightly ill, and regrets to miss the great pleasure of being introduced to the guests.”
Tubashi translated. “I thought somebody said the murderer was his father,” said Lady Joyce.
“It has never been proved,” Tubashi explained with his delicate smile. “Also, it would be inconvenient for the old gentleman to submit to the rituals of the ceremony. This man is a poor relative of our Mukhtar’s and it has been decided that he should be the murderer.”
“I see,” Lady Joyce said drily. The vicarious murderer, seeing that people had lost interest in him, touched his forehead and withdrew.
“When is the show going to start?” asked Cyril Watson.
“Oh, soon. In an hour or two perhaps.”
Watson sighed, wiping his face out of habit though it was not hot. He carried his handkerchief in his sleeve, but most of the time he held it in his hand crushed into a ball. “What’s that growing over there?” he asked, looking down into the valley.
“Barley,” Tubashi explained. “It is the winter crop coming up.”
“And on the field to the right?”
“That is also barley.”
“But why is the barley to the right so much higher than the other barley?”
Tubashi translated the question to the Mukhtar. “The barley to the right,” he explained, “is grown by the Hebrews. They use fertilisers.”
“I see,” said Watson. “Why don’t you use fertilisers too?”
Tubashi translated and the Mukhtar shrugged with a resigned smile. “We are poor,” he said. “This is a very poor village. We even have to hire the tractor of the Hebrews at two pounds and a half per dunum.”
“A peppery price, by Mohammed,” Abdul Rahman Henderson remarked in Arabic, smoking his water pipe with an impassive face.
The Mukhtar gave no answer, smiling like a long-suffering man who bears his cross with patience.
“That is as it pleases the Government,” he said.
“I think you people are having a bloody unfair deal,” said Cyril Watson. Tubashi translated; the Mukhtar kept smiling blandly, saying nothing. He stood with his back to the parapet with arms folded, a tall and imposing figure. There was a silence, suddenly interrupted by the Colonel, who up to now had not spoken a word.
“That is all stuff and nonsense,” he said sharply. “Ask him whether it is true that when he married his daughter three months ago he had the marriage room papered with pound notes.”
Tubashi translated. The Mukhtar beamed.
“We have our customs of hospitality,” he said modestly. “A man will ruin himself to do honour to his guests.”
“Tell him,” said the Colonel, “that one square yard of that wallpaper is enough to buy a tractor and fertilisers for the whole district.”
“Ah no, Colonel,” Watson intercepted, indignantly kneading his handkerchief. “I object. You can’t ask them to change their traditions overnight. Next you will want them to open Woolworth branches and chemist’s shops in
the desert.”
“Or synagogues,” the Squadron Leader muttered half aloud, the pipe of the nargileh in the corner of his mouth.
The Colonel looked from one to the other with his parade stare, and subsided into silence.
“What did they say?” the Mukhtar asked Tubashi.
“They are arguing among themselves,” Tubashi said, smiling.
“Tell our guests,” the Mukhtar said measuredly, “that we are not of those who always bewail their misfortunes in the ears of the world, as certain people do. We have no propaganda offices in the capitals of Europe and no gold to buy newspapers and influential friends. We are a poor, simple and hardworking people who only ask that the earth which belonged to our fathers and fathers’ fathers should not be taken away from us.”
Tubashi translated with a certain solemnity, and there was another short silence, ended by the arrival of Assistant District Commissioner Newton and his wife. There were more introductions. Mrs. Newton wore a Mickey Mouse brooch, a Coronation scarf with the portrait of the Royal Couple, and a complicated hat which a Jerusalem modiste had copied from a Beyrout fashion paper. “Oh, we have met before,” she said in her genteelest accent to Lady Joyce Gordon-Smith. “Have we?” said Lady Joyce. “On the boat,” Mrs. Newton said. “Oh,” said Lady Joyce, still staring incredulously at the hat, “one always forgets faces from a boat, doesn’t one?”
Thieves in the Night: Chronicle of an Experiment Page 13