The Haj - Leon Uris [171]
We had to sell Absalom because we could no longer feed him. He had been a very good donkey and became my friend. We had many conversations when we went from the cave to our spring and into Jericho. Many peasants can be cruel to their donkeys, so I made certain that Absalom had a good master. Nada cried openly when he was sold. I hid my tears, naturally.
Haj Ibrahim and I walked from Aqbat Jabar into Jericho each day and listened anyplace where we could pick up clues of who might be doing business with the Jews across the armistice boundaries. We covered every café, souk, kiosk, and store and sniffed among the street peddlers. We fenced around with the beggars, who often were undercover traders in things like hashish. We listened around the bus station, the Red Crescent office, at the Allenby Bridge, the Jordanian military camps, even the mosques.
When we felt we had hit upon a likely agent of the Jews, we had to be extremely tender about how we approached him. In our world, it often took two men ten minutes to merely say hello to one another. If there were no point to the meeting a half hour of fruitless parables and proverbs often drifted out of their mouths, followed by another ten-minute discourse to break off the meeting politely so that no one was left offended. It was painstaking work, but after a month’s search we were left completely frustrated.
One evening I returned late from Jericho and reported to Father that I had found nothing new. He threw up his arms in despair and turned his back. I was enraged with frustration. Making contact with the Jews had become the obsession of my father’s life. It cut me deeply not to be able to do this for him.
There were other reasons I had to succeed. Sabri had won a new place in my father’s heart. With his great skill as an auto mechanic, he was the one in a thousand who could find work in Jericho. When he handed my father his pay each week, Ibrahim often patted his head and told him what a great lad he was.
Jamil was also coming more and more into view. He was hanging around all day with a gang of boys who talked nothing but vengeance. Their bravado was encouraged by the older men, who fed them on battles that never were, acts of courage that never happened. So far, Haj Ibrahim was not listening to the voices of revenge, but when one hears that talk day and night, Allah only knew when he would change his thinking.
As night crept into the valley, I would walk through the camp up to the base of Mount Temptation to get away from the mangle of people. I would climb up in the rocks so I would not have to look down on Aqbat Jabar. Once in a while, I had a reverie that I was back on my ledge in the cave before all the trouble began there.
The sky was never as clear at Mount Temptation because of the lights from the camps and the town. Yet there I could meditate, just as Ibrahim had done at the prophet’s tomb in Tabah. One night I put all my might into thinking about our problem as I huddled in the rocks to sleep.
I awakened to the sound of music of a shepherd’s flute. It was neither day nor night, but all around and about me was a strange, soft glow of light—blues and violets and yellows—that seemed to be illuminating and pulsating from the rocks. I walked toward the music and there, around the next boulder, sat a plump little man, bald on top, with a fringe of silver hair.
‘Good evening,’ I said politely. ‘May God bless our meeting.’
‘He has, Ishmael,’ he said, setting his flute aside.
‘How do you know my name?’ I asked.
‘Because I am a Moslem saint and prophet,’ he answered. Oh, now that scared me! ‘You have heard of revelation, haven’t you ?’
My mouth quivered out a yes of sorts. ‘Who ... are you?’ I croaked.
‘I am Jesus,’ he said.
My impulse was to flee, but some strange power held me fast.
‘Do not be frightened, my little friend.’ Whoever he was, he was a nice man and I began to feel I was not in danger.
‘You look nothing like your pictures,’ I dared.
‘Graven images,’ he snapped. ‘Do I look tall and red-haired and with