Джеймс Миченер - The Source

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.”