Peering from behind a large stone, his curiosity drove him to see what was taking place. He saw “the eye of the monster,” the lens of the camera, which was pointed directly at me and towards the corner. He wanted to make sure that this “eye” did not focus on him—but a shaft of sunlight just so happened to shine on him. Actually, we no longer needed him and his mules. Since our present location was only a few hundred paces from the road where Mustafa Bustani was supposed to wait for us, I told him that we would just walk from here.
When the photography was finished, I paid him. In my business dealings with other people, it’s never been my nature nor my way to be a stingy man who haggles over the cost of things. Extending an open hand goes considerably further than acting like a miser. The same is true in this land. The Donkey Driver counted the money that I gave him: “Effendi, that is too much.” I insisted: “No, I gladly give you this money. You have been friendly and polite, so you’ve earned the baksheesh.”
“Even this tip is too much. Perhaps I can do still more that will justify this baksheesh. I will not leave this area until you also depart. I have nothing more to do, so nothing precludes me from serving you further.”
We had thought that Thar would want to take an interest in photography, but this was not the case. More than he realized, the exotic Arabic woman and her young daughter held a greater gravitational attraction than the cloud-black camera. He was looking for a way to meet them. In the way that boys do, he first meandered from a distance, then he came ever closer to them. Suddenly, he sat down between the two and began to talk with uncommon familiarity—as if he were an acquaintance from long ago, or even a relative of theirs.
After I had finished taking our photos, he brought the small girl to where my wife and I were seated on the edge of the cistern. Her mother remained sitting. The young girl had the most lovingly sensitive, wholesomely healthy face, with peach-red cheeks and large grey-blue velveteen eyes. Judging from her appearance, it seemed like some deep and undisturbed charming riddle was miraculously working inside of her. Like a fountain, her light brown hair flowed from under her desert-red scarf. One of her sunburned, delicate hands held a few long-stemmed Canterbury-bell flowers. She kept her other hand in the thin pleats of her spotlessly clean dress. I distinctly recall how her dainty, suntanned feet with miniature ivory nails partly emerged from elegant leather sandals. In light of this extraordinarily pleasant first impression of her, an endless sense of compassion filled my heart for this girl who was as poor as she was pretty. In my respect for her and her mother, I somehow felt more and more compelled to be prepared to offer them some great and suitably timely service. Later on, my wife told me that she too had felt this instant bonding—at precisely the same moment.
She turned to ask Thar: “Well then, what is her name?”
“I don’t know, but you yourself can ask her, right? In talking with her, I learned no more than these three things: she likes me; I’m her hero, and I’ll fight for her.”
“I’m called Schamah,” she said, putting an accent on the second syllable of her name. The fidgeting hand that formerly hid in the pleats of her dress now directed an outstretched forefinger as she pointed: “Over there is my mother.” Her voice sounded soft and tender, yet strikingly moving. Its tone had a hard-to-refuse ring. With open arms, my wife hugged the girl as she asked me this question: “What does the name Schamah mean?” So, I briefly explained: “It’s the East Jordanian pronunciation of Samah, which means ‘forgiveness.’”
Smiling as she talked to the child, my wife hugged her again: “Oh, innocently young and dear little soul, you’ve done nothing that requires forgiving.” With laughter in her voice, Schamah offered her colorful bouquet: “I bring you bells.” She held the Canterbury-bell flowers to my wife’s ear and lightly shook them: “Now, I’ll ring them. Can you hear them?”
“Yes, I do.”