The Sons of Isaac(3)

Nazzim always had the best of everything. His house was of the same mud brick as the rest of the villagers, but it had many rooms and the courtyard was large and shaded. He owned the local caravansary and shop where travelers and men from the village could sit and talk while drinking his fine barley beer or eating roast lamb that turned endlessly on a spit over the fire.

Nazzim was old now. Though his face was creased like a crumpled sheet and his thin lips sucked in over toothless jaws, his eyes were hard as agates and missed nothing. There was now no hint that in his younger days he had been a lusty, handsome man. Numerous stories were told of his questionable exploits right in their village and in the countryside beyond.

It was said that if he saw a woman he wanted, he would go to any lengths and pay any price to get her for his harem. Things had changed now, and it was whispered that he had outlived all of his favorites and had even sent some of the younger women back to their families in disgrace. “They were totally useless,” he complained. “None of them were entertaining and any dish they prepared was uneatable.”

* * *

As Laban sat getting the last fine shaping of his beard by one of the slaves, he heard a commotion in the outer room. The men with Laban fell silent as they listened. Voices could be heard, muffled and indistinct, rising and falling as though in some urgency. Then there was silence but for the soft padding of bare feet on wet stones.

A young man appeared in the doorway. He stopped and peered around the room until his eyes grew accustomed to the dark. When he spotted Laban, he came quickly and knelt before him. “My lord,” he said. “My master, Nazzim, waits outside. He wishes to see you alone.”

Laban was immediately alarmed, though he struggled to look unconcerned. He had visions of the old man calling the whole arrangement off, even taking his daughter back to give her to a more likely prospect. “Show him in,” he said nervously. He waved for the members of his family to leave him alone.

The young man disappeared and again came the sound of voices in the outer room and then a shuffling, slow, dragging sound accented by the solid thumping made by a staff. Laban’s anxiety became acute as he realized how important this meeting must be for Nazzim. The old man had trouble walking and rarely left his own courtyard. What could possibly be so important that he would come to the public bath to seek out the bridegroom of his daughter?

By the time the old man stood in the dim half-light of the doorway, Laban was dabbing the sweat from his brow. He rose and came to kiss the old man’s hand as was the custom, then led him to one of the benches that surrounded the wall. “I’m most honored,” he stammered as he puzzled over the strange affair.

Nazzim thumped his staff on the hard stone floor and shouted an unintelligible order that brought two young men carrying cushions and a tray with brass goblets filled with his famous date wine. He jabbed the staff at the bench, indicating where he wanted the cushions and the armrests. Then with great difficulty he sat and again ordered the cushions to be adjusted and the armrests to be put in place. When he was comfortable and the young men had helped him pull his feet up so he could sit cross-legged on the bench, he signaled for Laban to come sit beside him.

Laban hurried to accommodate him while the two young men held the tray of drinks for both of them. With this completed, Nazzim motioned for them to wait just outside the door; then he turned to Laban. “This is a good day for our families,” the old man said, looking with sharp, piercing eyes at Laban.

“You greatly honor me,” Laban said as he tried to find some clue as to Nazzim’s purpose in coming.

“May this day be blessed by all the gods,” Nazzim continued.

“May I bring happiness to your family,” Laban said as he became more relaxed.

“May my daughter be fruitful in your house.”

Nazzim obviously had not come to call off the wedding. Laban became more confident that he had come to ask some favor that could not wait. The sense of relief was so great that he was inclined to grant any favor the old man might ask.

The two sat in silence sipping the date wine and testing the atmosphere for any hostility. Finally with guarded words, Laban spoke, “What can I do to show my gratitude for the privilege of marrying your daughter?”

Nazzim stroked his beard and smiled. Laban had obviously said the right thing.

“Since you have broached the subject …” He hesitated and looked at Laban as though needing encouragement.

“What subject, my lord?” Laban asked, leaning forward with eager anticipation.

“Why, the subject of marriage,” old Nazzim said as he chuckled and then coughed with the exertion.