Джеймс Миченер - The Source

Tabari lay back in his chair and imagined the plaintiffs as they would stand before him in a few hours. The red-faced mufti would bluster: “As religious leader of the Muslims I demand.” The white-robed little qadi, afraid of his judgeship, would wheedle: “Excellency, I do think you should.” And Hacohen, a man of incorruptible determination, would stand with his left foot awkwardly forward and plead: “A boatload of Jews has landed at Akka.” And each would have in his pockets, to bolster his petition, a handful of gold coins, dependable, negotiable English sovereigns. It was the kind of situation the kaimakam could appreciate.

But the real reason he sweated was not this exacting duplicity regarding land nor the oppressive heat of this unbearable day. Governor Tabari was nervous because he felt himself being edged closer to that moment when he must take a stand regarding the future of the empire, and this he was afraid to do. Before the recent war the sultan had arbitrarily offered a constitution and the hearts of young men like Tabari had surged with hope; but just as arbitrarily the sultan had revoked the constitution and young men could see that despotism and tyranny were to be indefinitely prolonged. This was a matter on which men of character should take a stand, and Tabari, at forty-two, could logically place himself either with the young idealists or with the established officials who were satisfied with no change. Normally he would have procrastinated on a matter of such importance, but his brother-in-law was on his way from Istanbul to urge that Tabari side with the reformers who were planning a direct appeal for the restoration of law. Trying to decide which way to jump in such circumstances was enough to make a man sweat.

Kaimakam Tabari’s inability to make a decision should not be construed as defectiveness in character; one of the few Arabs permitted to attain high position within the Turkish administration, he had to be cautious where policy was concerned. In fact, his presence in government had been a fortunate accident and he would allow no mistakes to jeopardize it. Years ago, as a sharp-eyed Arab boy growing up in Tubariyeh, he had captivated the interest of the then kaimakam, a Turkish scholar of extraordinary quality who had invited young Faraj to play with his son and daughter, and who, in watching the Arab boy at games, had developed an insane passion for the youth.

Strange years had followed, in which Faraj traveled with the kaimakam from Safad to Akka to Beirut, thus acquiring his insight into Turkish administration; and then, as suddenly as the passion had arisen, it waned, and the kaimakam allowed Faraj to marry his daughter and arranged for him to attend the school for administrators in Istanbul. There Tabari had been a lone Arab in classes dominated by Greeks, Bulgars and Persians, and had learned with what contempt the Turkish rulers held all Arabs, those least and lowliest of the empire. He dedicated himself to proving what an Arab could accomplish and he so impressed his instructors that after graduation he was assigned to exploratory positions in Salonica, Edirne and Baghdad. It was to that latter city, in 1876, when he was thirty-eight and his strange father-in-law was dead, that his wife’s brother had come with exciting news: “Faraj! You’re being sent to Mecca. And if you can somehow get together baksheesh in the amount of six hundred Maria Theresas you’ll be allowed to buy the kaimakam’s office in Tubariyeh.”

At that stage in his career, with three children, Tabari had been able to accumulate through extortion, theft and bribery only two hundred Maria Theresas toward the purchase of his next appointment, so the secret offer posed a difficult problem, but his brother-in-law would accept no objections. “Get hold of the kaimakam’s office, one way or another,” he counseled, “for then you’ll be able to accomplish great things.” And for the first time Tabari listened to one of the young idealists explain what the Turkish empire might become. “Faraj! When you’re back in Tubariyeh you can open a school. Maybe a hospital. We have plans for a system of military service which will also teach peasants to read and write.” They had talked for many hours, at the end of which Tabari said, “I’ll find the money somehow,” and they had shaken hands, not as conspirators but as two men, one a Turk, one an Arab, who perceived the reforms that must overtake their tired old empire.

What Tabari did not know as he traveled south to Mecca was that the sultan’s men, seeking a new crop of officials who could be trusted to defend the old order, had selected him for preferment and were sending him there to see if an Arab with no funds could be relied upon to protect himself in an emergency. They found out. Within a month Faraj Tabari had set in motion an intricate plan which would enable him to steal twice four hundred Maria Theresas in less than a year, and all from impoverished Arabs who could not protest. It would not be wholly accurate to describe his manipulations as stealing; in those somnolent years the Turkish empire operated on the principle that each government employee ought to be able to put aside each year, in one manner or another, four times his official salary: one to pay baksheesh on the job he already held, one to pay for the job he wanted next, one to help his superior pay for his job, and one to hold back for emergencies. Any Turkish official who did not know how to extort, lie, squeeze, blackmail and defraud without creating scandal was obviously unqualified to help run the empire, and Faraj Tabari was ready to prove himself one of the best officials sent to Arabia in recent years.

He started by going down from Mecca to Jidda, where Muslim pilgrims arrived for their journeys to the holy places of Islam, and within a few days he initiated a system whereby each pilgrim was milked of an additional tax. All ships putting in at Jidda harbor were required to pay unexpected port duties, and when they protested, unanticipated difficulties arose which could be solved only by the payment of more baksheesh. Next the energetic young Arab saw to it that all caravans putting in at Mecca were taxed on their oil and dates, and transfers of land were inexplicably held up until fees of an unspecified nature were paid.

What was exceptional about Tabari’s operation was that he accomplished it with ease and even urbanity. Each underling who collected baksheesh for him was allowed to keep a portion for himself, while those in superior positions found themselves receiving unexpected contributions. Maneuvering as if he had headed governments for years, Tabari won the respect of all, kept the friendship of most and certainly demonstrated that he was prepared for a command position within the empire.

When the six hundred Maria Theresas had been accumulated he took them to Istanbul, handing them to the official in charge of appointing kaimakams and then spending memorable weeks revisiting his school and forming those friendships which would control his destiny in the years ahead. His brother-in-law, who had insinuated himself into a good job, met him frequently at cafés along the Bosporus, with reports of progress among the younger men. “We have key positions in every department,” the enthusiastic reformer said. “When you get back to Tubariyeh there will be so much to do.”

During his first weeks in Istanbul, Tabari was almost convinced that the younger men would succeed in forcing the promulgation of a new constitution and he felt strongly drawn to them, but in the fourth week a cab called for him and he was driven out along the Bosporus to the splendid Dolma Bagcheh Palace for an audience with the sultan, and he found Abdul Hamid, destined to be the greatest ruler of modern Turkey, to be a shrewd, calculating man, cruel in decision and obviously determined that his empire should not again be molested by constitutional reform. Tabari was one of several newly appointed kaimakams whom the sultan was receiving that afternoon and at one point the group moved to a dark room of the palace, where Abdul Hamid said, “In the old days, if one of our kaimakams betrayed his office, he was invited here for a consultation, and as he waited …” Abdul Hamid giggled, and in the ensuing silence a huge black eunuch slipped into the darkened room and caught Tabari by the neck. The other governors gasped, and Tabari could feel the slave’s fingers tightening about his throat. Then the Negro dropped his hands and everyone laughed nervously. Abdul Hamid added, “Without a trace the faithless ones were strangled and pitched into the Bosporus. Of course, today we no longer use such punishments.”