It gave birth yesterday to a young colt, and the birth went well, and the young horse is very healthy.”
Nimr set down the jug on the tray, and Abu Omar gave a short laugh.
“So what we have here of course is two stupid people. One is the farmer who did not realise his horse was pregnant. Perhaps he thought it was just very fat, or something. Second is the client who did not realise it would upset the farmer to know he had sold a pregnant horse … ya‘ni … two for the price of one. So of course this farmer is dismayed, he demands the client pay an extra sum for the second horse, which had been conveyed in this purchase without his knowledge. Or, he says, the client has the option of returning the second horse. So, what happens? Of course the client says absolutely not, the horse is mine, you sold it to me fair and square bi’ulu bil ingleezi, as one … package, ya‘ni. And the farmer says, but if we count back to when the mare was impregnated, it must have happened in my care, the father would be one of my stallions, thus the offspring is rightfully mine, and and and, heyk heyk heyk.
“So we leave behind certain of the stupid aspects, this becomes an interesting case. Does one own a horse if it is not yet born? Remember, my role is to find the solution that is most just. And what is most just? That which makes the lives of men less painful. This is not something easily quantified, tab‘an, for who can say the first farmer is not gravely hurt by the loss of this horse, now that he knows about it? Who is to say for the contingencies, perhaps his daughter is ill, perhaps he wants private treatment in Jerusalem. Of course, there are needs and needs, and these can be counted to a degree. And in this way, Abu Omar, such a case presents me with a moral question and at the same time a logical question. Logic is not divorced from life ya zalameh, and philosophy is what we live by, whether or not you are a philosopher.”
“And what did you decide?” said Haj Hassan. “About the horse?”
“I hear you,” said Abu Omar, and as he tilted his head his spectacles shone like mirrors. “But how do you apply this to the land sales? When you have some landlord in Beirut, and he wants to sell his land in the Galilee, because there is now a border and how is he supposed to get his yield. And the new buyers don’t care about the fellahin. What would Ibn Abidin say, if the Quran says the owner is the one who ploughs. What I mean is there is logic and there is logic, and we can get lost in storytelling and lose sight of the truth. And this story about the horse … it could be used in fifty different ways, you could make any argument by twisting its limbs.”
Haj Nimr sucked his lip, drank from his glass, and exhaled sharply through his teeth while looking at the juice. “In the end, it helped you to understand my argument. Therefore, it is a sound form of reasoning.”
“And what did you say your verdict was, ya Haj? About the horse and its baby?” said Hassan.
Haj Nimr was about to respond when footsteps sounded on the stair, and he turned his head as the door opened on the veiled face of Widad Hammad.
“You have a visitor, Abu Burhan.”
Haj Nimr stood and a pale young man entered, He was dressed in a slim navy suit and a dark red tarbush. His thick hair was black and his large green eyes shone, and, though it was cool outside, his brow was visibly specked with perspiration. He held his cane a little uneasily, the tip hovering near the ground as though he were uncertain whether to lean on or carry it. He glanced at the other men and jolted into a bow.
“As-salamu alaykum. My name is Midhat Kamal.”
“Wa alaykum as-salam,” everyone murmured.
“Nimr Hammad,” said Nimr, reaching to shake his hand. “Would you like a glass of orange—Widad! Bring another glass, please. And more juice. Itfadal. Sit.”
Midhat had already recognised the other men sitting there: the mayor Abu Omar Jawhari, of course, and the famous Haj Hassan Hammad. It had been enough to prepare for a meeting with Haj Nimr, and the sight of these other