The Haj - Leon Uris [187]
‘I am Sheik Ahmed Taji,’ the man said softly. ‘My people and I are in the Hebron Camp.’
Picking up on his lowered voice, my father introduced himself quietly.
‘I know who you are,’ Sheik Taji said. ‘I saw both of your performances today, at the Hotel Philadelphia and at the amphitheater. You are mad, truly mad.’
The sheik slipped something to my father that appeared to be a talisman made of black rock. Father pocketed it quickly.
‘We should meet after this conference,’ Sheik Taji whispered. ‘When I receive the talisman from you with a note, I shall come to you.’
Father nodded, and as briefly as the two men had met, they went off in separate directions. I indicated to Father that I had gotten the man’s name and drifted off to gather information on him.
That evening we were taken to the Hashemiiya Palace to meet the king. Never having been to a palace or seen a real king, I was genuinely impressed, even though it was Abdullah. Both Father and I were well dressed, having borrowed clothing from anyone who had anything decent left in our section of Aqbat Jabar. However, many of the delegates were in rags. The line inched into the throne room.
My knees rattled for the second time that day. Well, he certainly had a nice place. It was the only thing of beauty I had seen besides the Roman amphitheater and the citadel. Although the palace wasn’t as magnificent as the things I had seen on my journey to paradise, it was suitable enough for Abdullah and Jordan.
And there I was before the very king! I think I was disappointed. His throne was only a large chair on a platform painted gold. He had stepped down to receive the line of delegates; he was encased by his Circassian guards. They were not real Arabs but Russian Moslems who had come here centuries ago. They wore fur hats with a silver replica of the king’s crown and appeared like pictures I had seen of Cossack horse riders. Advisers wearing Western suits with Arab headdresses flanked the king and whispered in his ear as each delegate passed.
Abdullah was very short for a king and his robes were not ornate, but he had the shiniest black shoes I had ever seen. He was very jolly, and that surprised me because I had expected him to look sinister like Colonel Zyyad, who was close at hand. The colonel whispered to the king as we approached. Abdullah broke into an abnormally great smile, embraced my father and kissed both cheeks, then patted my head, even though I was almost as tall as he was.
‘Welcome, welcome, welcome to my humble kingdom, Haj Ibrahim! May my land be as your home. We are blessed by your presence. May Allah’s wisdom guide you through the next days.’
‘Your Majesty, no words can adequately describe the ecstasy of this moment,’ my father responded.
‘Whatever you want, now or later, is all within your grasp,’ the king said, then turned to me. ‘Your name, my son?’
‘I am Ishmael,’ I proclaimed majestically.
We were nudged slightly to keep the line moving, and ended up outside in the greatest tent I had ever seen, one that held the entire delegation. It was not difficult to ascertain who was a refugee and who was among the wealthy and affluent of the Palestinians as a show of rags and gold thread mingled in brotherhood.
The feast that followed was even greater than those my father had given when he was Muktar of Tabah. Many of us had not seen food like that for so long that we ate until we became bloated and ill, then kept on eating. Music and dancers added to the atmosphere of love and harmony. Hashish was slipped to us by the cadres of servants so our bliss would not wear off too quickly.
After the feast we witnessed camel races, demonstrations of horsemanship and falconry, and more music and dancing. We heard on the radio later that the king had slipped quietly from Amman because he did not wish to influence the conference by his presence or upset the democratic nature of the meeting.
Next day Father went in to his committee, which began and ended as a shouting match through