ABOU SLEPT BETTER that night than he had in years. He awoke feeling fully rested, ready for the day, eager for human contact, and especially looking forward to the children’s visit to his tent on the bank parking lot. His mind swirled with ideas as he washed his teeth in the bank’s men’s room and then showered. He had seldom showered since returning from America, and secretly it was one of the real pleasures of Western society he missed most, next to oranges. Middle Eastern oranges were sour and skimpy compared to the juicy fruit of California and Florida. Once, in a group of unemployed men whose main entertainment was denouncing the United States, he remarked casually that America had wonderful fruit. The men stopped and looked at him suspiciously. Saying anything good about the West, especially the United States, was frowned on, but one of them said, “Your mind was turned to mush by your stay in that abomination of a country, Abou. There is nothing good to say about it!” Abou still secretly missed the California oranges, but now he kept it to himself.
Emerging from the back of the bank, he found Sophia waiting for him with two large containers of coffee and baby Leila in her arms.
“I have come to inspect your new tent site,” she said, as they walked side by side to the entrance. “I have just taken Akbar to school. He was the center of attention yesterday when some of the children decided to visit your tent after school and then told their playmates. When he came home, he could talk of nothing else, but his chatter seemed to annoy his father. He heard in the marketplace that you had moved to the bank site and it seemed to anger him, although I am not sure why.”
“Perhaps he thinks I passed up a wonderful opportunity not taking the room he found for me,” Abou suggested, holding a tassel over the baby, who grinned and attempted to bat at it.
“Are you happy here?” Sophia asked, taking a deep draft of coffee.
Abou smiled at her. “I miss you and the children. I feel I have deserted you.”
Sophia looked shocked. “But you haven’t. Yasser forced you away! I am so sorry, Papa.”
“It is not your doing, my daughter,” he replied gently, “and I have running water and a lavatory, rare luxuries for an old man such as me.”
“Akbar wishes to come with the children this afternoon,” Sophia said. “He was afraid to ask his father, so he asked me on the way to school.”
“He certainly can,” Abou said with great happiness. “He knows how I enjoy talking with him about his day. Will Yasser object?”
“Probably,” Sophia replied, “but I will talk to him. Now that you have moved from the orchard, he is angrier than before. But I will tell him others will talk if he keeps Akbar away. He always worries what others say about him.”
“He is a troubled man,” Abou said, sipping his coffee and looking at the baby, who was beginning to fret. “Perhaps his business isn’t doing well and he’s worried.”
“He says nothing to me about his business,” Sophia replied, turning away and uncovering herself so that her baby could suckle. “She needs her breakfast.”
Abou grimaced, feeling uncomfortable with his daughter nursing her infant in his presence, but at the same time somehow liking the idea that she felt she could. He averted his eyes as any decent Moslem man would, although there was absolutely nothing to see.
Abou finished his coffee. It was cold but still quite good. “I will eat lunch with Hamid, Ammon, and Absollah today.”
“You eat with them every day,” Sophia reminded him. The baby had fallen asleep. Sophia rearranged her gown. “What is so different about today?”
“I have plans,” Abou replied. “The children enjoyed their visit to my tent yesterday. I should have more children, including Akbar, this afternoon. I must begin to think of a program for them. That is what I want to discuss with my friends.”
Sophia smiled and touched his hand. “And you should. You are doing a very important thing here, explaining the herder’s ways to these children. Our ancient customs would be lost forever if it weren’t for people like you.” As an afterthought, she added, “Have you ever thought of how much lore has been lost? Even in tribes where stories were handed down with care, details must have been left out, gone forever. We can be thankful for books, so our children will have some record.”
“And computers,” Abou reminded her. “Everyone will have access to so much knowledge.”
“I would like Akbar to attend university. I would like him to be an engineer.”
Abou touched her hand. “Perhaps he will. And the baby? Do you want an education for her?”
“It is almost too much to ask,” Sophia replied in a whisper, as if someone were listening outside the tent, “but yes, I would like her also to attend university. More and more women are, you know. Every child should have a richer life than his or her parents.”
“It is a good thing. We need so many educated people to make our country strong. Doctors, scientists, engineers, businesspeople . . .”
“Not lawyers?” She grinned at him.
Abou shrugged. “Perhaps we have enough lawyers. They seem to create as many disputes as they settle.”
“But bloodless,” she reminded him. “Our ancient ways of settling disputes must end. Court decisions are better than feuds.”
Abou was impressed with his daughter’s insights. He realized he had never seriously thought of her as having a cognitive mind. In many ways he, too, was still mired in the old culture.
“I shall leave you to your tasks,” Sophia said as she rose. “I am not happy you have moved your tent, but I am very happy that you have found this project. And I want you close to us. It was wrong of my husband to try to send you to a distant town.”
Abou saluted his daughter and watched her move across the lawn in front of his tent. She had suddenly become unique. Still his beloved daughter, of course, but a new person who thought and acted independently of him and her husband. He suddenly felt very proud of his Sophia. Certainly, he decided, his contact with Cohen was changing him. . . .
IT WAS JUST AFTER NOON PRAYER when Abou walked with Absollah across the square to the Camel’s Hump. Ammon and Hamid were already at a table sorting flyers.
“My friends!” Abou exclaimed. “Still busy?” He was secretly disappointed that all the flyers had not been distributed as yet, and that he had managed to miss midday devotions again.
“We have just returned,” Hamid said happily. “As his business was slow, Ammon left his shop in the care of his wife and helped me circulate these to all the schools, and he has given them to merchants to hand out to customers. You are going to be a very busy man, Abou. I have only a few stops this afternoon and everyone will know of your project!”
They ordered lunch and ate with relish, for they were busy men with good appetites. Once the coffee was served, Absollah lighted one of his long Egyptian cigarettes, which he smoked with obvious enjoyment. Abou cleared his throat, a sign to the others that he had something he thought to be important. “I have been thinking about yesterday, and I have decided that the children may become bored with my simple stories about the life of a herdsman. In America there is a ubiquitous restaurant called McDonald’s which often has a play area for children attached to it. What if we could have such a place where the children could come and play, and then listen a little while to an old man?”
Absollah beamed. “What a splendid idea! The bank’s back lot has been dreary far too long. We will turn it into a children’s playground, where a wise man can impart his learning but children can also play. I will call this very afternoon and see if I can order some play equipment. Of course, we would need a little sign saying it was donated by the bank.”
Abou was pleased with the ready acceptance of his first idea. Everyone was smiling at him around the table. He carefully cleared his throat. “It also occurred to me that my tales of ancient times might not be exactly what the children need, that the advice of others might be more useful. Perhaps we could find an engineer, a banker,” (a wink at Absollah) “a doctor, and maybe even a policeman to tell the children about their work. And I think we should ask the children if their parents would come to talk to the whole group, too.”
Ammon simply gaped. “Would the children be interested?” he finally asked.
“I think so,” Abou replied. “This idea that you work only at what your father worked at, and his father too, needs change. Children should have many avenues to explore.”
“All those people coming to participate,” Absollah murmured. “It would be wonderful for . . .” His voice faded, but they added the word “business” in their minds.
“Perhaps I could explain what a postman does,” Hamid offered. “I am not a postman, but I know what they do.”
“Fine,” Abou replied. “And perhaps you could circulate the names of the guest speakers to the schools.”
“I would be honored,” Hamid looked greatly pleased.
Absollah spoke again. “It is a great idea, Abou. I would like to think about it some more and talk to some other businessmen about it. Perhaps we could broaden the program by inviting them to participate and help with the funding. Maybe we could even offer the little ones some food, if their parents didn’t object.”
“I could give a free haircut a day and show them how to cut hair,” Ammon offered.
“Children hate haircuts,” Hamid observed. “They always cry.”
“Not in my shop. I give them dates and sweets sometimes.”
Hamid laughed. “It is the dates they love, not your haircuts.”
“Gentlemen. Gentlemen,” Abou intervened. “All children love dates, as well as candy, and I’m sure they all love Ammon’s haircuts. We will certainly find out if he offers to cut hair free and someone volunteers, won’t we?”
Absollah was so excited he rushed off after paying the bill, forgetting his usual parting amenities.
“I believe you have managed to turn our banker into a flappable duffer in one lunch.” Ammon was grinning from ear to ear.
“Oh, it isn’t that bad,” Abou observed, finishing his coffee. “He is just a bit excited. I must admit I was too as I thought of some of these ideas. My grandson is to visit me this afternoon. That makes me very proud.”
“As it should,” Hamid concurred. He rose and shouldered his pack. “I shall continue my rounds, my friend. Thank you for trusting me with such an important task.”
Ammon said he had to return to his shop. In the excitement of the previous few days, he claimed his trade had suffered from his absence and he found himself a bit short of dinars. Actually, Abou had noticed no change in his business, which was sluggish at best, but he said nothing to his friend, not wanting to insult him or pry. Abou made his way to the market, where he purchased a large bucket of dates. The talk of haircuts and dates had given him the idea that the children might enjoy a taste of the fruit that afternoon.
The children began arriving just after three and continued filling the small lot until four. Abou was delighted with the crowd, as was Akbar, who sat next to his grandfather and glowed in the limelight. Abou told the children about goats, their eating habits, how they cared for their young, and even gave a passable imitation of a male goat looking for his dinner or something else. He didn’t go into that “something else”, but several of the older boys snickered and nodded knowingly.
The girls hung back at the edge of the crowd listening, but not asking any questions. Abou tried to draw them out, but they were timid with so many boys about. But the dates, which Absollah supplied, were welcomed by all. Hamid, who arrived a bit late, expounded on the mail and, to Abou’s surprise, was quite eloquent about how necessary and important communication was between humans.
“Weren’t you lonely sitting out there with your goats all the time?” one little boy with soulful eyes asked Abou.
Abou hesitated. “Yes, I was,” he admitted. “I wanted to stay in my village and play with the other children and go to the occasional film, which was a great treat in those days. I knew I had to help my father, but I wanted more than sitting with goats on a hillside. My father taught me to read and supplied me books to keep me occupied, and now I realize how wonderful those days were.”
“Did you eat your goats?” another boy asked.
“Oh, yes,” Abou admitted, “but their milk was so rich and the cheese so wonderful that we kept them alive as long as we could. But we wasted nothing. We were very poor and had to use the whole animal.”
Parents began arriving to take their children home, but not before Ammon, who had arrived just moments before, pointed out that the Americans called their children “kids”, as if they were baby goats. This, for some reason, caused great glee, and the children trooped off calling each other “kid” just like the Americans did. “Hey, there, kid,” and “What’s for dinner, kid?” and “How many kids in your family?”
Abou sat before his tent holding Akbar on his knee, and when Sophia arrived, she asked her son how he had enjoyed his afternoon.
“Grandpa told everyone funny stories, and Hamid told us about the post, and Ammon, the barber, told us that the Americans call their children kids, as if they were goats.”
“They must love goats very much to use their name for their children,” Sophia observed.
Abou frowned. “Actually I never saw a goat in America, and it was very difficult to get goat meat, although they had wonderful, tender sheep.”
When she and little Akbar had gone, Hamid and Ammon helped Abou clean up, although the children had been very careful and had dropped almost nothing.
“They are good children,” Ammon said. “I wish mine had been as well mannered.”
“Your children are fine, as are your grandchildren,” Hamid replied, a tad out of sorts, for he had never married and had no offspring.
Ammon nodded good-naturedly. “I suppose, but the grandchildren never seemed as interested in things as these children were this afternoon. All they want to do is watch TV and play games on small computerized machines. But I’ll see if they want to join us.” It was well-known that Ammon was a generous father and grandfather, who bought his offspring many expensive gifts.
They walked Ammon half the way to his house and then Abou and Hamid stopped for a light supper.
“I thought you were good with the children today,” Abou said.
“I wanted to be a teacher, but there was no money for education in my family.” He laughed suddenly. “There was no money for food either, for that matter.”
“Do you ever visit your village?”
Hamid shrugged. “Not for many years. I have one remaining brother and a sister who married a well digger. He’s not very successful, but they ask him to search for water in straight lines so that they can use his holes to build fences after he’s gone.” Hamid looked down at the dust his sandals caused as he moved them under the table. “I have been thinking about my home of late. When we were young, it seemed so right to fight the Jews. They came and took our land. We swore we would push them into the sea. How foolish we were to think we could defeat them so easily.”
Abou nodded. “It is a shame we couldn’t have found a better way. The Jews are to be pitied for what they have suffered, and they are an energetic people who do wonders with the land.”
Hamid looked at his friend sharply. “You may be right, Abou, but we should be careful talking like that.”
Abou shrugged. “We could have shared Jerusalem.”
“Perhaps,” Hamid muttered, looking about to determine if anyone was listening. “Certainly things have not worked out well for us as it is, but people of different faiths do not live comfortably together.”
“You may be right about that. Maybe we were better off when we were small tribes meeting each other casually every few years in some far corner of the desert. We are too crowded in this little land.”
“Were we ever like that?”
Abou flushed. He knew he was drawing inference from what Cohen had said to him. “So I have been told,” he added lamely.
Hamid relaxed. “You read too much, my friend. I am usually satisfied with my mail. Dreaming of where it is from is enough for me.”