O Jerusalem - Laurie R. King [30]
FIVE
ج
And Joshua the son of Nun secretly sent two men out of Shittim as spies, saying, “Go and look over the land.”
—JOSHUA 2:1
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Beersheva, the place of oath, the settlement whence Abraham and Isaac set out on their ominous journey into the hill city of Jerusalem for the father’s willing sacrifice of his beloved son. Before the guns of August had broken into their ages-old way of life in 1914, the residents were only slightly more numerous than in the days when Hagar and Ishmael had been turned out into the wilderness, and only marginally more technological. Now the town was an uncomfortable mixture of dust-coloured hovels older than the hills, a couple of modern buildings constructed by the Turks to demonstrate their determination to retain this border outpost, and a number of brisk, efficient structures the incoming army had thrown up to house its personnel.
Our destination was an ancient inn at the southern end of town, a single-storey mud-brick establishment of numerous rooms leaning shoulder-to-shoulder around a central courtyard. The instant we came onto the premises a shouted conversation began between Ali (increasing my respect for the hardness of his skull) and several men who appeared from nowhere to seize our mules and lead them off.
Halfway through the courtyard, an older man emerged from a doorway and swept up to Mahmoud, kissing him three times on his cheek to welcome him. He then took Ali’s hand, clasping it briefly to his chest, and greeted Holmes and me with less familiarity but equal enthusiasm. We stood in a cluster for some minutes before he noticed that Ali was not his usual vigorous self, and on hearing of our mishap at the check-point, he threw up his hands in horror, bemoaning Ali’s mistreatment at the hands of those sons of dogs soldiers (or such was Holmes’ translation of the epithets) and examining the admittedly alarming knot concealed by Ali’s kujfiyah. At Mahmoud’s firm suggestion the landlord finally whisked his shaky guest off to a bed.
The shouting contest continued unabated even in Ali’s absence, touching down occasionally on Mahmoud, who would grunt a monosyllabic answer that seemed to make no discernible impression on the questioner. They ignored Holmes and me completely, but led us all cheerfully towards the back corner of the inn. We were ushered in, the flimsy door was shut carefully behind us, and I soon was given the opportunity to add to my vocabulary the words for various vermin, as well as a few expressive adjectives.
The door flew open, crashing off its primitive hinges, and half a dozen lads staggered in carrying all our possessions aside from the livestock, which when deposited on the floor left us with only one room to move in, a room currently occupied by the snoring Ali. Mahmoud caught one of the boys by the shoulder, pointed to the tent sprawling massively sodden across the floor, and told him to take it up and spread it on the roof to dry. Out went the roomful of damp, smoky, goaty hair; the cheerful voices retreated, and were heard from the open window, until finally thumps and footsteps overhead told of the task being carried out.
Next through the doorway came a meal, a platter heaped with rice and hunks of tough mutton (a change from the tough goat’s meat we had eaten most nights) and a stack of bread, with mugs of laban and bowls of dates and dried figs. The lads dribbled water over the fingertips of our right hands from a long-spouted pot, stood there talking over our heads for a while, and then went off, politely propping the door back in the doorway as they left. The three of us ate, making balls of meat and rice from the platter and tossing them back into our throats. I was gaining confidence at eating with my less dextrous right hand, but Mahmoud, long practised in the technique of eating without chewing, finished first. He wiped his greasy fingers on his robe, went to check on Ali, whose stentorian snoring never paused, and then came back.
“He sleeps,” he said unnecessarily. “You remain here; I will return.” He wrestled himself out