Imitating Old Jew Eppstein, I quickly interrupted: “Pssst! Still! Pssst! Don’t try to force some kind of mystery from all this. Although ‘Schamah’ means ‘forgiveness,’ at the same time, it’s also a girl’s name.” Mustafa interjected: “But as Thar told me, the girl’s mother comes from the region of Al Karak, and that place is in East Jordan, where my brother went.” In order to divert him from this subject, I asked him: “So, did you and Thar talk about her today?”
“It was yesterday evening that we talked. Today, he was up early, but he said practically nothing. Whenever his thoughts are focused on his mother, he acts this way. It always keeps him preoccupied as he looks for some kind of gift he can give or a good deed that he can perform for someone. Off he went without having anything to eat or drink for breakfast.
“Does he know that you are here with us?”
“I don’t think so. If he knew that he could visit you as often as he wanted, he would stay beside you for the entire day. I must confess that his heart dearly loves both of you. Ever since yesterday, I’ve seen changes in him. The young girl seems to have made an impression on him, and that baffles me.”
“Surely such a riddle is not a bad one?”
“Oh no, it’s especially very pleasant and welcome. Compared to ordinary times, I too have changed. Yesterday was a festival; yet for me, it’s as if the celebration is just now happening. I feel the same joy that I felt in my boyhood—when something long-desired finally promises to come true. Isn’t that strange? Isn’t that laughable?”
“It’s not strange to me, and in no way is it absurd. Our souls are linked to an entirely different world than our bodies. This connection is so deeply intimate, that no reasonably sane man would ever doubt what we call our ‘inner voices.’ Did your dream clearly focus on your brother? Or was it merely a figure which you mistook for him?”
“Truly and clearly, it was so certain and distinct, that even in the dream I marveled at the joy I felt in seeing him appear precisely as he looked earlier. We were so extraordinarily similar that people often would mistake one for the other. We had fun with that, so he would often enhance that relationship by wearing the same clothes and by growing a beard just like mine. On the inside, we were very different. He was always tender , pliable, and prone to be at peace. By contrast, I was insensitive, unsympathetic, and always ready to play the role of lord and master. In the end, that separated us. However, today—.” Something inside him stopped. He walked to the window, gazed outside and reconciled himself to what would come: “There lies the road to Bab en Nebi Daud, and that way goes to Bab el Amud. For me, it’s the same, whichever path I take. They both lead me around the city and towards the Mount of Olives where I will wait to learn when and how the ‘forgiveness” will come to me. Today, I am in suspense, and I can’t relax. I’m going!”
He left, and I openly confess that a portion of his suspense stayed there with us. If I were to try to attach an artificial angle on his narration, one which differed from the view he had just shared with us, then I would have to rearrange the tale itself. The conclusion would be otherwise, even giving his story an extra chapter of its own. For me, it all seemed to follow a natural course of events, which was just as interesting as any literary embellishment that his son Thar would have added. So, I’ll follow the examples from our brave boy Thar and simply report the plain, unvarnished facts. As long as Schamah dwelt among us, she renounced any synthetic coloring of green nor blue, neither yellow nor red.
That morning, we visited the Graves of the Kings and a couple of other nearby sites. In the afternoon, we wanted to go to Ain Kahrim, one of my favorite places. However, we could not undertake this outing. Just as we were preparing to eat our lunch, there was a third knocking at our door. Who appeared? Schamah and her mother. We were genuinely glad to see them, and we welcomed their noontime visit. Without hesitation, we invited them to eat with us. The mother was a loving, good-natured, and noble-minded woman. She had an inner pride that stemmed from her heart’s solemn education. In spite of her humility, she spoke with a good deal of satisfaction about her Azerbeijan roots and the fact that she did not come from Syria. So, as far back as tradition stretched, her people had always been Christians. Due to her father’s beliefs, he was oppressed and died as a poor army officer in Al Karah. Her husband was also very poor, but he was blessed with all of the virtues that are necessary to merit the attention and the love of all mankind. His name was Achmed Bustani, and he died from a sickness of the heart, a yearning that never stopped gnawing at him—until death delivered him from that ceaseless longing.