The Haj - Leon Uris [140]
‘And this Captain Umrum?’
‘He is seldom around and when he leaves, the other soldiers in his command usually slip away. He is crazy for women. Father, I don’t know what you are planning, but many of the items you mention are not in your warehouse.’
My father handed me a letter and told me to read it. It was on the stationery of the mayor, Clovis Bakshir, an order by him to give Haj Ibrahim anything he needed from the nearby Red Crescent warehouse. Between the two warehouses there was almost everything we would need. With such a letter, we would have no problem.
‘Is this everything?’
‘No,’ my father said. ‘We must have a machine gun, four rifles and many thousand rounds of ammunition, and, most important, Iraqi uniforms for Jamil, Omar, and Kamal.’
‘The uniforms, yes; the guns, no,’ I answered, daring to disappoint him. ‘The warehouse with the guns are not in Captain Umrum’s section anymore and it is heavily guarded all the time.’
‘We may have to do without the machine gun,’ he mumbled. ‘Getting the rifles will be no problem. The casbah is filled with deserters of both Kaukji and the Iraqis. They are all selling their weapons on the black market. We will need lots of cigarettes to bargain with.’
‘Tobacco is possible,’ I said to mollify him at once. ‘Why must we leave?’ I blurted out. ‘Why can’t we stay just as we are?’
‘Tell me, Ishmael, why do you think we got this villa?’
‘Because you are a great and respected muktar,’ I answered.
‘The fields, the ravines, and hills all around here are filled with great and respected muktars,’ he said. ‘You have read to me many times about Abdullah. You know who he is.’
‘The Hashemite King of Jordan,’ I answered.
‘And as an educated boy, you know who the Hashemites are.’
‘The Hashemites are the same clan as Mohammed. They come from Arabia, from the Hejaz. They were keepers of the holy places of Mecca.’
That is right,’ my father concurred. ‘They are a clan of mosque keepers. It is a bone they threw to these dogs because of Mohammed. None of them were ever more than minor emirs and these titles were honorary. We are sayyids. We are also related to Mohammed and direct descendants. Believe me, Ishmael, you have more right to be the King of Jordan than Abdullah. There was no Hashemite dynasty until three months ago, only a long line of mosque keepers. This king business was an invention of the British Foreign Office, just as the whole of Jordan is an invention. They are as much a royal family as a line of donkeys at a well.’
He clasped his hands behind him, his worry beads in motion, and for a moment he recited many of the ninety-nine names for Allah, then became pensive. ‘We must leave because once we call Abdullah master, we are his dogs forever. In order to remain in Nablus, I must agree to lure our people from the fields and over the Allenby Bridge to Amman. Abdullah needs our bodies to fill his so-called kingdom. What do I lure our people to—a land of milk and honey? I am not Moses and Jordan is not our promised land. It is a kingdom of camel shit and sand, so impoverished it could not feed an extra mouth, even at the king’s coronation. The Allenby is a one-way bridge. Once it is crossed, we will not return.’
‘I believe I understand,’ I said, almost breaking into tears.
‘You must understand! If there is anything we have learned with salt in our eyes in the past months, it is that our penchant for brotherhood and hospitality is fine as long as our vines are full and there is peace. When there is fear among our people, they slam the doors of mercy in our faces. What fool believes it will be any better in that wasteland over the river? Abdullah is not my king and he is not your king. He has more enemies than any man in the Arab world and, believe me, I cannot count that high.’
My father slumped and his face