Source

by James A. Michener

  Tabari lay back in his chair and imagined the plaintiffs as they would stand before him in a few hours. The red-faced mufti would bluster: “As religious leader of the Muslims I demand.” The white-robed little qadi, afraid of his judgeship, would wheedle: “Excellency, I do think you should.” And Hacohen, a man of incorruptible determination, would stand with his left foot awkwardly forward and plead: “A boatload of Jews has landed at Akka.” And each would have in his pockets, to bolster his petition, a handful of gold coins, dependable, negotiable English sovereigns. It was the kind of situation the kaimakam could appreciate.

  But the real reason he sweated was not this exacting duplicity regarding land nor the oppressive heat of this unbearable day. Governor Tabari was nervous because he felt himself being edged closer to that moment when he must take a stand regarding the future of the empire, and this he was afraid to do. Before the recent war the sultan had arbitrarily offered a constitution and the hearts of young men like Tabari had surged with hope; but just as arbitrarily the sultan had revoked the constitution and young men could see that despotism and tyranny were to be indefinitely prolonged. This was a matter on which men of character should take a stand, and Tabari, at forty-two, could logically place himself either with the young idealists or with the established officials who were satisfied with no change. Normally he would have procrastinated on a matter of such importance, but his brother-in-law was on his way from Istanbul to urge that Tabari side with the reformers who were planning a direct appeal for the restoration of law. Trying to decide which way to jump in such circumstances was enough to make a man sweat.

  Kaimakam Tabari’s inability to make a decision should not be construed as defectiveness in character; one of the few Arabs permitted to attain high position within the Turkish administration, he had to be cautious where policy was concerned. In fact, his presence in government had been a fortunate accident and he would allow no mistakes to jeopardize it. Years ago, as a sharp-eyed Arab boy growing up in Tubariyeh, he had captivated the interest of the then kaimakam, a Turkish scholar of extraordinary quality who had invited young Faraj to play with his son and daughter, and who, in watching the Arab boy at games, had developed an insane passion for the youth.

  Strange years had followed, in which Faraj traveled with the kaimakam from Safad to Akka to Beirut, thus acquiring his insight into Turkish administration; and then, as suddenly as the passion had arisen, it waned, and the kaimakam allowed Faraj to marry his daughter and arranged for him to attend the school for administrators in Istanbul. There Tabari had been a lone Arab in classes dominated by Greeks, Bulgars and Persians, and had learned with what contempt the Turkish rulers held all Arabs, those least and lowliest of the empire. He dedicated himself to proving what an Arab could accomplish and he so impressed his instructors that after graduation he was assigned to exploratory positions in Salonica, Edirne and Baghdad. It was to that latter city, in 1876, when he was thirty-eight and his strange father-in-law was dead, that his wife’s brother had come with exciting news: “Faraj! You’re being sent to Mecca. And if you can somehow get together baksheesh in the amount of six hundred Maria Theresas you’ll be allowed to buy the kaimakam’s office in Tubariyeh.”

  At that stage in his career, with three children, Tabari had been able to accumulate through extortion, theft and bribery only two hundred Maria Theresas toward the purchase of his next appointment, so the secret offer posed a difficult problem, but his brother-in-law would accept no objections. “Get hold of the kaimakam’s office, one way or another,” he counseled, “for then you’ll be able to accomplish great things.” And for the first time Tabari listened to one of the young idealists explain what the Turkish empire might become. “Faraj! When you’re back in Tubariyeh you can open a school. Maybe a hospital. We have plans for a system of military service which will also teach peasants to read and write.” They had talked for many hours, at the end of which Tabari said, “I’ll find the money somehow,” and they had shaken hands, not as conspirators but as two men, one a Turk, one an Arab, who perceived the reforms that must overtake their tired old empire.

  What Tabari did not know as he traveled south to Mecca was that the sultan’s men, seeking a new crop of officials who could be trusted to defend the old order, had selected him for preferment and were sending him there to see if an Arab with no funds could be relied upon to protect himself in an emergency. They found out. Within a month Faraj Tabari had set in motion an intricate plan which would enable him to steal twice four hundred Maria Theresas in less than a year, and all from impoverished Arabs who could not protest. It would not be wholly accurate to describe his manipulations as stealing; in those somnolent years the Turkish empire operated on the principle that each government employee ought to be able to put aside each year, in one manner or another, four times his official salary: one to pay baksheesh on the job he already held, one to pay for the job he wanted next, one to help his superior pay for his job, and one to hold back for emergencies. Any Turkish official who did not know how to extort, lie, squeeze, blackmail and defraud without creating scandal was obviously unqualified to help run the empire, and Faraj Tabari was ready to prove himself one of the best officials sent to Arabia in recent years.

  He started by going down from Mecca to Jidda, where Muslim pilgrims arrived for their journeys to the holy places of Islam, and within a few days he initiated a system whereby each pilgrim was milked of an additional tax. All ships putting in at Jidda harbor were required to pay unexpected port duties, and when they protested, unanticipated difficulties arose which could be solved only by the payment of more baksheesh. Next the energetic young Arab saw to it that all caravans putting in at Mecca were taxed on their oil and dates, and transfers of land were inexplicably held up until fees of an unspecified nature were paid.

  What was exceptional about Tabari’s operation was that he accomplished it with ease and even urbanity. Each underling who collected baksheesh for him was allowed to keep a portion for himself, while those in superior positions found themselves receiving unexpected contributions. Maneuvering as if he had headed governments for years, Tabari won the respect of all, kept the friendship of most and certainly demonstrated that he was prepared for a command position within the empire.

  When the six hundred Maria Theresas had been accumulated he took them to Istanbul, handing them to the official in charge of appointing kaimakams and then spending memorable weeks revisiting his school and forming those friendships which would control his destiny in the years ahead. His brother-in-law, who had insinuated himself into a good job, met him frequently at cafés along the Bosporus, with reports of progress among the younger men. “We have key positions in every department,” the enthusiastic reformer said. “When you get back to Tubariyeh there will be so much to do.”

  During his first weeks in Istanbul, Tabari was almost convinced that the younger men would succeed in forcing the promulgation of a new constitution and he felt strongly drawn to them, but in the fourth week a cab called for him and he was driven out along the Bosporus to the splendid Dolma Bagcheh Palace for an audience with the sultan, and he found Abdul Hamid, destined to be the greatest ruler of modern Turkey, to be a shrewd, calculating man, cruel in decision and obviously determined that his empire should not again be molested by constitutional reform. Tabari was one of several newly appointed kaimakams whom the sultan was receiving that afternoon and at one point the group moved to a dark room of the palace, where Abdul Hamid said, “In the old days, if one of our kaimakams betrayed his office, he was invited here for a consultation, and as he waited …” Abdul Hamid giggled, and in the ensuing silence a huge black eunuch slipped into the darkened room and caught Tabari by the neck. The other governors gasped, and Tabari could feel the slave’s fingers tightening about his throat. Then the Negro dropped his hands and everyone laughed nervously. Abdul Hamid added, “Without a trace the faithless ones were strangled and pitched into the Bosporus. Of course, today we no longer use such punishments.”
<
br />   And so, properly instructed on how to rule an empire, Faraj ibn Ahmed Tabari, the most successful man yet produced by the Family of Ur, returned to govern his home town of Tubariyeh. He allowed no strife, visited his outlying districts faithfully and paid regular baksheesh to the mutasarrif in Akka and to the wali in Beirut. Furthermore, as a result of insistent pressure on everyone who did business with him, he was able each month to put aside a sum of money toward the purchase of his next job, which ought to be of such importance that he could steal enough to retire on. When that time came he planned to return to Tubariyeh and buy a portion of the town for himself.

  For he loved the grubby little settlement in which he had been reared. Even when serving in remote districts he had been able to recall the snow-capped mountain to the north, the lights of Safad nestling in the hills and the beauty of the lake. The quality of government he gave Tubariyeh was by no means inferior, if judged by the standards of the area, say, from India to Morocco, for he kept his people happy. He initiated no oppression and allowed each minority, like the Christian or the Jewish, to govern itself in matters concerning religion and family life. He supervised a rough justice and maintained civil peace in which the tedious years could pass with no disruptions and little change. Throughout the east thousands of people lived under conditions far worse than those provided by Governor Tabari, and if along the lake there were no schools, if women of all creeds lived like animals, it was simply that no alternatives had been suggested. During the two years he had sat in his office staring out at the barren hills of the Galilee, it had not once occurred to him that the reforms spoken of by the eager young men in Istanbul could be applied here if only he would spend a little energy upon them. When he saw the barren fields he did not understand that they could be otherwise or that they ever had been so. He lived beside a lake which contained some of the finest fish in Asia, a lake which had once fed multitudes even without the miracle of Jesus, yet he never thought it strange that contemporary Tubariyeh had no boat and no food from that plentiful reservoir that stood right at the edge of town. It did not occur to him that it might be a good idea to purchase a boat somewhere and bring it to the lake so that the citizens of Tubariyeh could again enjoy fish. The last vessel to sail that lake had rotted away four hundred years before, and where there had once been fleets of a hundred and two hundred craft there was now not even a rowboat. On the edge of plenty his people starved, and he could not visualize a solution.

  “My job,” he once explained to the wali in Akka, “is to maintain order and to watch at night lest the Bedouins attack the walls.”

  Kaimakam Tabari had one simple rule of administration, and it was understood by his subjects: In Tubariyeh positively everything was for sale. If an Arab youth was summoned to military service it was obvious that there was no possible escape; but if his father paid the kaimakam enough, he could escape. Alien Jews were forbidden under the most severe penalties reaching almost to death from owning land in Arab areas; but if the Jew could get together enough baksheesh he could buy the land. When the qadi found a man guilty, it was arranged between the qadi and the kaimakam that the former would impose an excessive sentence; then the guilty man could appeal to the latter, and if he had enough money to pay the baksheesh he went free. For the issuance of the simplest government paper, an established scale of bribes was in force, and in either the civil court of the qadi or the religious court of the mufti any decision that was wanted could be had by paying the proper baksheesh to the kaimakam.

  Of course, the income thus gained was by no means all his. He was generous in paying off his subordinates and in splitting fees with the qadi and the mufti. Furthermore, he had to send regular bribes to Akka and Beirut. As a result of this constant drain on the people of Tubariyeh, there was no money left for schools, or sewers, or water supply, or a jail in which a human being could survive. There were no hospitals, no adequate policing, no fire-fighting and no roads. There was the wall, and this kept out the Bedouins, and there was the smiling, amiable kaimakam who made things as easy as possible for his people.

  For such a system of general bribery to work, there had to be relative honesty among the principals, but recently the kaimakam had found that the red-faced mufti was cheating on baksheesh and undermining him in Akka. Such behavior was not surprising, for Tabari’s brother-in-law had warned him that Arabs like the qadi and the mufti would be unhappy with a fellow Arab for kaimakam: “They’d prefer outsiders. A Bulgarian, for example. They would fear him and know where they stood.” As usual, the young man proved right, and as this hot day drew to a close Tabari resolved to settle matters with the mufti. He finished his grape juice, wiped his body for the last time and donned the Turkish uniform in which he conducted the business of government.

  From behind a curtain on the second floor of his home he spied with fatherly interest upon the life that began to move once more through the alleys of his town. Muslim shopkeepers lounged at the doors of their shops. An old Jew passed through the market, seeking rags, while through the entrance of the synagogue other Jews passed to resume their study of Talmud. A Christian missionary, unable to convert either Muslim or Jew, walked in perplexity beside the lake, wondering what secret power Jesus and Paul had possessed that they could unlock hearts which were barred to him. Finally the kaimakam saw what he was looking for: from the door of the mufti’s house supped the little qadi, dressed in white and very nervous. Looking furtively in all directions the judge darted across the alley and started to walk in innocence toward the government buildings. After he was safely gone the portly mufti, dressed in black and with a red face on which his emotions could not be hidden, appeared from the same door and casually walked by different streets to the building where the meeting was to be held.

  “They don’t want me to know they’ve been conspiring,” Tabari laughed. In a way he was pleased that they had been laying plans behind his back, and he was careful to give them time to reach his office, so that if necessary they could conspire further; for he judged that the more secure they felt, the better chance he had of squeezing from them a sizable chunk of baksheesh. This was contrary reasoning, for usually one would expect only a man alone and in desperation to offer real baksheesh; but Turkish administrators had discovered that it was men who felt sure of themselves, men who had substantial funds at their disposal, who paid for what they wanted. Such men could not be bullied, but they could be tricked.

  Kaimakam Tabari put out his Turkish cigarette, adjusted his tarboosh, went in to kiss his wife, to whom he owed so much, and started his walk to the office. Arabs and Jews alike drew back to pay him respect, and he moved slowly, majestically past the mosque, but at the caravanserai, which occupied a central area, he paused to inquire whether the messenger had arrived from Akka with the dispatches from the mutasarrif, and he was disappointed to find that no horseman had come.

  “If one does,” Tabari directed, “speed him to me,” and with this he could no longer delay facing his visitors, so with feigned eagerness he burst into his office, hurried up to the two conspirators and embraced them warmly.

  “Good friends, be comfortable on this hot day.” He arranged chairs for them and asked, “Now what’s your problem?”

  The little judge gaped. “Excellency! For two years we’ve been discussing our problem.”

  “Of course,” Tabari agreed amiably. “But have we any new solutions?”

  “What word from Akka?” the mufti asked bluntly.

  “None.”

  “Then you will make the decision?”

  “Of course.”

  “And what have you decided?”

  “I am inclined toward your point of view.”

  The hopeful qadi assumed that this meant victory and was obsequious in his praise: “Excellency, we knew in our hearts that a man of your wisdom …”

  But the mufti, one of the ablest men in Tubariyeh, was better schooled in the tricks of Turkish administrators, and sought to pin Tabari down: “Can we rely upon your
word?”

  If the kaimakam was insulted by the mufti’s crudeness, he restrained himself by recalling his main objective: Today I want money from this man. Revenge can wait until tomorrow. He smiled blandly and said, “Of course you have my word.”

  Again the qadi was delighted. “Then the Jew gets no land?” he asked.

  “I didn’t exactly say that,” Tabari hedged.

  “What did you say?” the mufti snapped.

  Once more the governor stifled his anger. He thought: Sooner or later I must cut this man down. But not today. To the mufti he explained, “I said that I shared your opinions.”

  “But what are you going to do about them?”

  Tabari thought: Let the red-faced dog get madder. Then it will be easier to goad him for the money. He said easily, “What am I going to do? Exactly what you two gentlemen have recommended.”

  The little qadi showed his relief that the uncertainty had been erased. “This is a memorable day, Excellency. Then the Jew gets no land?”

  “Not under any possible circumstances,” the governor promised, and with a gesture of transparent honesty he threw his hands on the table, palms up, as if to say: “There you have the whole matter before you,”

  The qadi laughed nervously, as if a burden had been lifted from him, but the dour mufti realized that the squeeze was on. Whenever a Turkish official used that ominous phrase, “under no possible circumstances,” every wise man knew that the matter was at last up for hard discussion and that the verdict would go to the claimant who paid the largest bribe. The mufti thought: Look at that damned Arab, waiting for me to make an offer that would seal the bargain. Well, he can wait.