Джеймс Миченер - The Source

“Of course,” Tabari agreed amiably. “But have we any new solutions?”

“What word from Akka?” the mufti asked bluntly.

“None.”

“Then you will make the decision?”

“Of course.”

“And what have you decided?”

“I am inclined toward your point of view.”

The hopeful qadi assumed that this meant victory and was obsequious in his praise: “Excellency, we knew in our hearts that a man of your wisdom …”

But the mufti, one of the ablest men in Tubariyeh, was better schooled in the tricks of Turkish administrators, and sought to pin Tabari down: “Can we rely upon your word?”

If the kaimakam was insulted by the mufti’s crudeness, he restrained himself by recalling his main objective: Today I want money from this man. Revenge can wait until tomorrow. He smiled blandly and said, “Of course you have my word.”

Again the qadi was delighted. “Then the Jew gets no land?” he asked.

“I didn’t exactly say that,” Tabari hedged.

“What did you say?” the mufti snapped.

Once more the governor stifled his anger. He thought: Sooner or later I must cut this man down. But not today. To the mufti he explained, “I said that I shared your opinions.”

“But what are you going to do about them?”

Tabari thought: Let the red-faced dog get madder. Then it will be easier to goad him for the money. He said easily, “What am I going to do? Exactly what you two gentlemen have recommended.”

The little qadi showed his relief that the uncertainty had been erased. “This is a memorable day, Excellency. Then the Jew gets no land?”

“Not under any possible circumstances,” the governor promised, and with a gesture of transparent honesty he threw his hands on the table, palms up, as if to say: “There you have the whole matter before you,”

The qadi laughed nervously, as if a burden had been lifted from him, but the dour mufti realized that the squeeze was on. Whenever a Turkish official used that ominous phrase, “under no possible circumstances,” every wise man knew that the matter was at last up for hard discussion and that the verdict would go to the claimant who paid the largest bribe. The mufti thought: Look at that damned Arab, waiting for me to make an offer that would seal the bargain. Well, he can wait.

Kaimakam Tabari did wait. He saw that the stupid qadi had missed the point, but he knew that the mufti had understood what was expected and was remaining silent in order to humiliate his superior. But the mufti controlled the money that Tabari wanted, so it was the kaimakam who had to swallow his pride and say, “I’ve been thinking”; and when he used this universal phrase of Turkish corruption even the dim-witted qadi knew what was up.

“I’ve been thinking,” Tabari repeated, “that since the three of us have agreed that the Jew should have no land, I’d better inform the mutasarrif in Akka.” The mufti, a willful man but one eager to protect his Muslims, looked at the slippery kaimakam with contempt, so again Tabari was forced to spell out the negotiation: “But for me to go to Akka will require money.”

“How much?” the mufti asked scornfully.

“Thirty English pounds,” Tabari said unflinchingly. When he saw the qadi blanch he added suavely, “I say English pounds because I know you stole more than forty from the last group of pilgrims to Capernaum.”

As the mufti glared at the governor his red face became nearly purple. It was infuriating, the mufti thought, to be treated in this manner by an Arab playing the role of a Turk. Moreover, if he did give Tabari the thirty pounds, little of it would reach Akka, and this idea spurred a crafty thought: Why not give Tabari the thirty pounds, wait for him to steal half, then inform the mutasarrif in Akka that Tabari had stolen from him? By such a trick he might get rid of Tabari altogether, and that would be worth thirty pounds.

The qadi was not equal to such duplicity. The best he could do was sell legal decisions to the highest bidder and then split with the kaimakam, and the concept of springing a trap as far away as Akka was quite beyond him. But the moral problem in the case before him was not; and to everyone’s surprise he turned to Tabari: “Kaimakam Tabari, it seems clear that if you allow the Jew to buy land outside the wall he will bring in other Jews to work that land, and if they succeed, still other Jews will follow them, and soon we poor Muslims …”He waved his hand futilely, as if trying to stem the inevitable.

“Oh, I agree with you thoroughly,” Tabari cried enthusiastically. “That’s why I do hope you can find the money for Akka.”

“Will the mutasarrif be qualified to make the decision?” the mufti asked, lured against his will into discussing the case on its merits.

“Of course!” Tabari said in all seriousness, but even as he spoke he reflected: Two years ago the papers were started on their way from Tubariyeh to Akka to Beirut to Istanbul. The decision has surely been made by now, and somewhere along that chain a firman from the sultan is headed this way. Now the European governments have been insisting upon more liberal land laws throughout the empire, and if the sultan grants privileges to Russians and Englishmen, he must do the same for the Jews. So if I want to get my baksheesh from the qadi and the mufti I’d better get it now, before they learn that the sultan’s decision has gone against them.

The mufti was speaking in a low growl: “Aren’t you afraid of having Jews buy land?”

“I am indeed,” the kaimakam replied with honest passion. “It would change everything. Open the gates for …” He didn’t know for what, but he suspected that the easy old days of accommodation and the quiet passage of years would vanish. He felt an honest sorrow, which he quickly suppressed, for time was passing and the firman might arrive at any moment without his having got the money.

“If we give you the thirty pounds?” the qadi asked plaintively.

“I’d work diligently to keep the Jews off the land.”

“And we could rely on this?” the qadi pleaded.

“You have my word of honor!” the kaimakam expostulated. “In fact, I’m riding to Akka tomorrow. I’ll hand the mutasarrif your money myself, and there’ll be no Jews in Tubariyeh.” To himself he reasoned: If the sultan’s decision is otherwise, I’ll insist I did my best to halt it.

This wily thought, as it came to him, must have betrayed its duplicity in some way, for the canny mufti, watching Tabari’s face, gasped to himself: That dirty swine! He already knows what the sultan decided and he’s trying to steal our money. Damn him! I’ll give him the money and strangle him with it. Tonight I’ll send a message to the mutasarrif telling him what’s happened. And before the week is passed, our friend Tabari will be in jail.

But now something of the mufti’s trickery betrayed itself to Tabari, who was well schooled in the basic rule of Turkish administration: When you have forced a man to pay a bribe, study him carefully to see how he plans to take his revenge. It became clear to Tabari that if his mufti paid the bribe he would do so in hatred and only because he saw some way of hurting the kaimakam. What could the mufti do to endanger me? Tabari asked himself. Only one thing. Pay the money to me, inform the mutasarrif that he’s done so, and count on me to keep the money for myself. Smiling genially at the red-faced religious leader, Tabari thought: You illegitimate pig. I’ll take your money and I’ll give every piaster to the mutasarrif, then tell him what a swine you really are. In two weeks you’ll be in Yemen.

Now the qadi and the mufti looked at each other in consultation, and the qadi delivered their decision: “We’ll give you the thirty pounds, Excellency.”