“Now just a moment,” he pleaded. “I still have something to tell you; today is Friday, a holiday. It’s forbidden for me to get dirty. For that reason, I didn’t bring along any colors. Nevertheless, I am a hero. You see, it isn’t required that a hero be painted up when he wants to conquer his enemies. There are also cases in which—“ At that point, my wife jokingly added this line: “—the victor actually has no paint at all. Yesterday, you told us that you wanted to paint the first storming of Palestine’s City of Jericho. Didn’t you think about that project on this special Friday?”
The boy answered her: “Anyway, nothing could be done about Jericho. I lack the means to capture the necessary noise. I can paint the trumpets and also the walls; but how am I supposed to insert the loud racket when I can’t portray that part of the picture? It’s really too bad—just a crying shame. So, now I’m ready. Let’s go.”
We broke off our conversation and went to the carriage. Just as we were climbing in, Lord Pasha Osman Achyr interrupted his morning excursion and came riding upon his fat donkey. For a moment, he reigned back on his steed, gave us a friendly greeting, then directed this question to the boy: “Well then, which hero are you today?” With his usual presence of mind, Thar answered: “I’m Joshua the Conqueror. I’m going into the Land of the Canaanites in order to show them that we are not afraid of them.” The Pasha played along: “Where does this land lie?” The boy replied: “In Gilgal.” The Pascha cautioned him: “My boy, be careful then. Without asking first about your reason for being there, the people will cut you down.” With that parting advice, he rode off.
Regarding what was necessary for our journey, Mustafa Bustani assured us that he had taken care of everything. Thar leapt onto the seat beside the coachman where he felt more free and higher than in the deeper part of the carriage beside us. The horses then began to pull forward. Our steep path went from the Jaffa Gate into the Hinnom Valley, which carries the Jewish and Islamic references to “hell.” We traveled farther to the Sultan’s Pool; and from there, again upward to the high and level Bethel. Thereon lies the Cloister of Rabbi Elijah, from which we could admire a broad and outstanding view. This monastery is associated with the Prophet Elijah, and nearby is a spring where the Holy Family reportedly drew water.
Beyond this monastery, you’ll find Rachel’s Crypt, the burial site of Patriarch Jacob’s wife. At this holy site, we read these words: “ On the road to Ephratah, which is now called Bethlehem, Rachel died and was buried. So Jacob erected a memorial upon her grave; to this day, Rachel’s monument is still there.” The road divides at this place.
To the left, it goes towards Bethlehem; straight ahead lies Hebron. We took the latter direction. After forty-five minutes, we came to the Three Pools of Solomon. Long before the Christian era, these aqua ducts were constructed in order to supply water to Jerusalem. Even though these pools and the region’s small castle hold historical and architectural significance, they have no bearing on our story—so for now, we’ll bypass them.
Of more interest to me is the broad Wadi a-‘Arish; midway between Jerusalem and Hebron, a “café” was erected, a place where men and animals can find a place to rest themselves. Don’t picture a European-style café. Instead, imagine a narrow, low-quality, jagged stone building wherein a rather squalid fellow boils dirty water in a filthy pot as he makes a brew which he calls “coffee”—a drink that he sells to European passersby, all at sinfully expensive prices.
Yet the sin does not stem from the price that he demands. Oh no, he’s too sly for that. This might result in a complaint that could lead to cancellation of his license to sell coffee. He works this more cleverly. For the locals, he sets the lowest possible price; but for foreigners, he always says this: “I’ll take what you give me!” In this way, he neither dissuades nor pleads. Since European travelers are almost always well-to-do, having extra money to afford elevated sentiments, the coffee-innkeeper gives them the impression that he’s needy—all with the aim that they will pay him a price which is more like a present, or even an excessive tariff. For a very small oriental cup, which contained no more than two or three thimbles-worth of coffee, he held out his hand long enough to receive more than a German Mark—whereas five Pfennig would have been entirely enough. I had always been generous towards him. However, the last time I stopped at his place, I saw how he was laughing at me as I rode away—so today, he shall pay dearly for that.
When we arrived at his “café,” we stopped and climbed out of the carriage. He rushed outside; and with an exaggerated deep bow, he asked about our “orders.” Mustafa Bustani first ordered five cups of coffee, then five more; for a third time, he ordered still another five. Altogether, that came to fifteen cups. The man melted into a downcast spirit; he knew that Mustafa Bustani was no foreigner and that he often stopped here on his business trips to Hebron. So, he could not treat him like a European. When we were preparing to leave and climbing into our carriage, I took out my money pouch. The shop owner’s face completely lit up. I asked how much it cost for the fifteen cups of coffee. “Give what you wish,” he said. “I’ll only pay the price that you demand,” I declared.
This accomplished nothing. He absolutely refused to set a price. So when I threatened to pay him nothing if he wouldn’t give me a price, he simply answered with this: “OK, I’ll give them to you as a present.” This trick had always worked for him. He assumed that no European would allow him to give away his coffee. So, I acted just as he expected. Appearing to be overwhelmed with his generosity, I gave him a franc. In Palestine, the franc is the most prized silver coin. He looked at it, then handed it back to me and said: “I’m giving the money back to you.” After taking the coin back, I first gave him two, then three francs. Once again, he declined the money and repeated these words: “I give these as presents to you.” I understood how this man operated; I knew just how far I could take this. His greed for money grew with every increase of my offer. I gave him four, then finally five francs. With this last sum, he closed his hand and made a movement as if he wanted to pocket the money. At the same time, he inquisitively looked at me.