Thieves in the Night (19 page)

“Patience,” said Kaplan. “Patience; don't hurry; take your time, are the three commandments of a Government official and the common ground where the British and Arab philosophies meet. Ten years in His Majesty's Service have taught me that there is a deep affinity between the British and the Oriental outlook on life. The same detachment, the same traditionalism, the same mystic belief that somehow in the end everything will work out all right.”

“Is that fellow with the pipe the famous Henderson?” asked Joseph.

“Yes, our pocket Lawrence in person. Last week he was again visiting in Arab costume the Mukhtars in my district, telling them that the Government doesn't like it if they sell land to us, and dropping the usual hints.”

“And can't you do anything?”

“What? Protest to Newton? Nobody can touch Henderson's outfit. The right hand isn't supposed to know what the left hand is doing.”

There was a movement in the crowd on the terrace. “It looks as if something's going to happen,” said Joseph.

“Don't tell me it's the banquet,” grunted Moshe.

“… Ladies and gentlemen,” cried Tubashi, and there was an expectant silence. “The peace-making ceremony is going to start now. Please form into pairs, and then we shall all walk behind the murderer and his family to meet the victim's family and rejoice at their reconciliation.”

There was a general shuffling of feet and Abu Arkub, the murderer, appeared from inside the house. He had pulled the top part of his striped kaftan over his head so that he appeared hooded, and he wore his agal, the black head-cord, hanging round his neck as a symbol of accepting the yoke of bondage. He also carried a stick in his hand, at the end of which was fastened his kefiyeh, the white head-kerchief, the tassels of which were tied in knots.

The procession started moving down the terrace, the hooded murderer in front, bent under the symbolic yoke and carrying the kefiyeh on his stick like a flag of surrender. Behind him walked the Mukhtar leading his blind father by the arm; for just before the procession started the old man had suddenly hobbled out to the terrace, haughty and awe-inspiring, and apparently not at all sick. Behind them marched the silent elders of the clan, the Arab dignitaries, and the European guests.

The procession marched slowly along the cobbled road, with staring women and children clustering in the doors of the mud huts. A scraggy pariah-dog ran for a while alongside them, but a vigorous kick from Issa sent him sprawling on his back, with blood trickling from his muzzle.

“Isn't it simply fascinating?” Cyril said to Lady Joyce. “Everything in the ceremony has its special meaning which dates back to Mohammed's day. For instance the knots on the kefiyeh. They stand for the blood-money—each knot represents a certain sum, either ten pounds or thirty pounds, I forget which. Of course the blood-money was originally paid in camels; cash is a concession to the march of time.”

“Why not in motor-cars?” said Lady Joyce. “A Ford for a simple murder and a Rolls for a dignitary.”

“You can't take anything seriously,” complained Cyril. “Have you got no feeling for tradition and all that?”

“I am hungry,” said Lady Joyce.

They had arrived at the open space which divided the domains of the two Mukhtars, and the procession came to a halt. Tubashi bustled round, arranging them all into groups. The Hamdan family was lined up in a row, the guests stood in clusters a little distance away. The stick with the murderer's kefiyeh was planted in the earth. Meanwhile from the other end of the space the Abu Shaouish were advancing towards them in single file. They looked poorer than the Hamdans, except for their Mukhtar who led the procession. He was a tall, bony man with one eye conspicuously missing.

“That's the real stuff,” Cyril whispered. “He looks like a brigand.”

There was a great silence while the Abu Shaouish formed themselves into a row facing the Hamdans. “Looks as if they were going to sing an opera chorus,” Lady Joyce said.

Henderson took his pipe from between his teeth. “Usually they don't make this fuss,” he remarked. “Tubashi arranged it to show off to us.”

“What's he declaiming?” asked Lady Joyce—for Tubashi, standing between the two rows and next to the white flag, had started on a speech.

“It's about peace and forgiveness and the common cause,” said Henderson.

It was hot, and the afternoon breeze wafted the delicious smell of shashlik across the space. Presently Tubashi stopped. There was faint and dignified clapping, then silence. Suddenly the Abu Shaouish Mukhtar shouted something in a raucous voice which sounded like an insult, and there was clapping again, and Tubashi hurriedly untied one of the knots on the murderer's kefiyeh.

“What's that mean?” asked Lady Joyce.

“The victim's clan has just announed that in honour of the King they are reducing the blood-money by ten pounds.”

The man standing next to the Abu Shaouish Mukhtar in turn shouted something, and there was more clapping and another knot untied.

“That's for King Farouk of Egypt,” said Henderson.

“I thought the sum was agreed beforehand?”

“It is. And so are the remittances.”

Another announcement was made and another knot untied. “Ten pounds for Mr. Chamberlain,” Henderson translated. “Ten for President Roosevelt. Ten for His Excellency the High Commissioner. Ten for the District Commissioner. Ten for myself.”

“You?” said Lady Joyce. “What about little me?”

“Women don't come in.—Ten for the Sheikh. Ten for Tubashi. That's the lot.”

“They have given away a fortune,” said Lady Joyce.

“Theoretically. It makes the sum look more important,” said Henderson.

The Hamdan Mukhtar advanced and, wetting his thumb, counted a wad of notes into Tubashi's hands who, amid more clapping, handed them over to the Abu Shaouish Mukhtar. The remaining knots were untied on the murderer's kefiyeh which unfolded in the breeze.

There was a tense silence, while all eyes were turned on the murderer. Presently he detached himself from the Hamdan row and, humbly bent in his hood, advanced across the space which separated the two clans. When he arrived in front of the tall Abu Shaouish Mukhtar he stood still for a second, then lifted the Mukhtar's hand to his lips and kissed it. The Mukhtar drew the murderer up to him and kissed him on both cheeks. There was renewed clapping while Abu Arkub moved along the Abu Shaouish row, kissing each man's hands and being kissed on his cheeks. Then he righted himself and seemed to have suddenly grown a head taller. There was more clapping.

The murderer now having obtained formal forgiveness, it was the turn of the other members of his family to get reconciled. The first to advance was the Hamdan Mukhtar, leading his blind father by the arm. When the old man stood in front of the Abu Shaouish Mukhtar whose father he had killed, there was a last moment of tension. Then the Hamdan Mukhtar guided the blind man's two hands toward his enemy's right which hung limply by his side; but at the moment when their hands touched, the Abu Shaouish Mukhtar threw his arms round the old man's shoulders and kissed him prolongedly and with fervour. The two groups mixed, shouting, kissing and patting each other; some of the older men were seen crying.

“There is, after all, something to be said for tradition,” Joseph said to Moshe, as the whole gathering was moving with alacrity towards the banqueting tables.

“Not if it's become a parody,” said Kaplan who was walking next to them. “You should have heard the Bedu Sheikh's comments.”

“What did he say?”

“He was so indignant, he almost got a stroke. He is the Sheikh of one of the Ruheiwat tribes who live mainly on smuggling hashish from Syria, and he's got all the contempt of the pure Bedu for the degenerate cross-breeds who live in towns and villages. He calls them mongrels, sons of bitches, and denies that they are Arabs at all. He is a great fellow. Would you like to meet him?”

“Is he a friend of yours?”

“He is my blood-brother,” said Kaplan, grinning. “I once got him out of a mess—but that's a long story…. Oi, ya Sheikh!” he called to the tall figure walking a few steps ahead, who now stopped and with a quick swerve turned towards them.

“This is my brother, Sheikh Silmi of the Ruheiwat,” Kaplan introduced in Arabic, “and these are my friends Jussuf
and Mussa, two Hebrews from the settlement across the valley and very good boys.”

“My brother's friends are my friends,” said Sheikh Silmi, shaking hands with them. He was an elderly, dark and vivacious man, with a sparse black beard along the edge of his jaw which ended in an abrupt tuft on his chin.

“I was telling my friends that you did not like the ceremony,” said Kaplan.

“It was a mockery,” said Silmi. “It was like monkeys playing at being Arabs.”

They arrived at the table, where the English party and some of the notables had already taken their places. “Will you tell my friends the Bedu legend which you just told me?” Kaplan asked Silmi when they were seated.

Sheikh Silmi smiled broadly, baring his teeth. “As you wish,” he said. “At the beginning of the world there was nothing but a strong whirlwind in the desert, and God caught a gust of this wind and out of it he created the Beduin. This Beduin shot an arrow into the air and God caught it and made it into the camel. Then God bent down and picked up a lump of clay and made it into the donkey. And after that God saw that he had forgotten something, and he bent down again and picked up the dung which the donkey had dropped, and out of it he made the peasant.”

The sheep were brought on enormous wooden dishes, surrounded by mountains of rice, and the meal took its traditional course. There were more speeches and more coffee, and at the end of the meal a fantasia, with the village youths galloping round the square on their small underfed horses and shooting their rifles into the air.

“
Habibi
,” Moshe said to Joseph with a discreet belch, “if we did that, they would confiscate the rifles as illegal arms and put us into jug. We are not picturesque.”

“Shut up,” said Joseph. “You have filled your belly with their food. so stop grumbling. I am enjoying myself.”

“You go on enjoying yourself,” said Moshe. “And I'll go on wondering where they got those new Mausers from.”

“You must ask the Duce,” said Kaplan.

“What are you a Government official for?” asked Moshe.

“To play chess with my superiors and collect taxes from you,” said Kaplan. “And if you don't like it here you can bloody well go back where you came from.”

At sunset the Jerusalem party set off.

“Did you notice,” said Cyril Watson to Lady Joyce, “how those boys from the Hebrew settlement behaved? They looked as if they were making dirty cracks all the time, and it never occurred to them to come over and talk to us.”

“What else did you expect?” said Lady Joyce.

“I thought you wanted to go and live with them to study Communism,” said Henderson, lighting his pipe.

They were all tired, and walked for a few steps in silence.

“I don't know,” Cyril said after a while. “One's got to be fair to them. Persecution and all that. But I must say, you can't call them encouraging.”

“Never mind,” said Joyce. “You go and study them and sleep with the girl comrades.”

“… Whereas these Arabs,” Cyril mused, “whatever you think of them, they've got a certain style.”

“That's it,” said Joyce, getting into the car. “And now you've settled the problem I want to sleep all the way back from here to Jerusalem.”

“Did you notice,” Moshe said to Joseph as they were riding back, on horses borrowed from Gan Tamar, towards Ezra's Tower, “did you notice that not one of these English people said a word to Kaplan or to either of us?”

“I did,” said Joseph. “Why didn't
we
go and talk to them?”

“Me?” Moshe puffed indignantly. “Crawl before that arrogant bunch of
Herrenvolk
number two?”

“They are less arrogant than shy,” said Joseph. “Inhibitions are a national disease with them.”

“What a misunderstood nation,” said Moshe. “They had to grab an Empire out of sheer timidity.”

Joseph patted the head of his horse. It was a small Arab horse and he thought of the pony he used to ride in the bygone days, and of the lawn in front of the spacious Elizabethan house, and of Mr. Watkins the gardener who preached on Sundays in the Methodist church.

“At home they are different,” he said. “It is unfair to judge them by the type we meet out here. When people talk about the French, they mean the Frenchman in France. When they talk about the English, they mean the Englishman abroad—the tourist and the colonial. But you can live in England for years without seeing anybody of this type—except in the comic cartoons.”

“I can only judge by those I know,” said Moshe. “If they are so unrepresentative as you say, they shouldn't send them abroad. Don't try telling me that poor Henderson is pitting the Arabs against us because he's shy and has inhibitions.”

Joseph gave no answer. He felt a little irritated by Moshe, as he often did. But after all it was not his business to defend the English. If they always appeared in the wrong light it was their own fault. Why could they never show themselves as they really were? Why did they disdain to give explanations and hold the judgment of the world in such sovereign contempt?

“You know it is more complicated than that,” he said after a while.

“You don't say.”

“It is a kind of double-decker sandwich. There is a crusty top layer of apparent arrogance, which in fact is just shyness, as I said. When you pierce that, there is a soft layer of jolliness and decency. But when you get through that too you find the bottom layer of real conceit, which is the more unshakable
as it is elastic, mumbling and incoherent. It is the arrogance of the under-statement, which is worse than boasting.”