“Who receives this corporal punishment—you or me?” the boy asked.
“You!”
In deference to the Pasha, Thar turned and said: “Surely you see that this is neither too little nor too much. Are you serious in your judgment of only ten lashes?” The General confirmed his decision: “Yes. For Gideon, this is actually not a great honor to be beaten with a cane!”
The boy agreed: “I think so too! However, I now have this misfortune—not merely to retaliate once, but to collect vengeance again! So I plead with you; at least grant me permission to put aside my hero’s garb.” His wish was granted, so he made his exit to the coffee-corner. He took off his warrior-weaponry, then returned in order to get on with the improvised administration of justice.
“Hold him!” the Pasha commanded the father. Mustafa obeyed. In the manner that all readers know full well, the father leaned forward, stuck out his left knee, and placed the Guardian-of-Blood-Feuds across his lap, thereby causing the back side of the Transgressor to be exposed. Without saying a word and without struggling, Thar allowed all this to happen. The Pasha positioned himself, took a swing with the cane, and counted the strokes: “One—two.”
He continued no further. The execution could not go forward, because my wife had sprung from her chair, placed herself squarely between the competitors, and appealed for mercy. The Pasha asked who she was. She told him. For a moment, he reflected, then bowed to her and replied that he would grant her request—but not before the count of ten which he had dictated. Under all circumstances, he was obligated to uphold his word; therefore, he was unable to rescind his order. Admittedly, he could not mitigate the two strokes that he had already given. In regard to the outstanding eight which she now wished to administer, and rightly so, the Pasha would grant her heart’s desire.
At this point, he handed her the cane, stepped back, and beckoned her to proceed. Since we were all in sympathy with the Delinquent, we were pleased that she accepted his offer. When she turned towards the Pasha, she no longer saw him. In the meantime, he had gone back to the shop next door. Just when the man from Ain Kahrim prepared to lodge his objection to a lighter sentence, Mustafa Bustani invited him to come back in one hour and pick out a present for himself. With just a few more words here and there, the gentleman left, for the time being.
Meanwhile, the boy whispered so that his father would not hear him: “He laughed— oh how he laughed! Did you see it? Oh how that makes me happy!” His good-hearted, loving-eyes lit up. Then he kissed my wife’s hand and said: “I thank you for the ‘eight’ which you have given me. They were tender and mild as pepperless home-baked cookies. For this, I’ll never forget you. As you know, I’m a hero. Whenever you’re in need, please call on me to rescue you.”
On this note, Thar once again withdrew to the coffee-corner. With the help of African Bem, he somehow managed to change into a new outfit. His father once more took his place upon the crate in order to pick up the conversation where we had left off. Laughingly, he closed the matter with words about his darling Trickster’s capers: “He was his mother’s ‘chosen one.’ She saw everything in him! Whether the Pasha wants to believe it or not, he really is greatly gifted.” I wanted to know how the boy had acquired his strange love for colors: “Was it also present in his childhood?”
Mustafa answered: “No. Understand that my Coffee Helper Bem and my dark-skinned cook are a married couple. For some time, their own young son has apprenticed himself to a whitewashing craftsman. With their help, my son has developed a lively interest in the multi-faceted kingdom of colors. It seems to me that he was born to be an artist. At first, we of course saw only the beginnings; but they soon became so evident that I began to think that my lovely revenue-earning store must have been seized by alien hands. According to Islam, the human body should not be illustrated nor copied. Yet for Thar and his sense of artistry, he sees how life holds such majesty and beauty— it seems to invite him to become a famous and honored painter. Among all of my acquaintances, they believe that something of great consequence has been planted within him. Is it not my duty to help him become a great man?”