Honor (9781101606148) Read Online Free PDF

shawl. He was wearing his only suit and looked like a miniature of a man. Time crept by and the child got bored. Pembe told stories to entertain him. One of those stories would stand out in his memory for ever.
    â€˜
When Nasreddin Hodja was a boy he was the apple of his mother’s eye.
’
    â€˜Did she have apples in her eyes?’ he asked.
    â€˜That’s an expression, my sultan. It means she loved him very much.
The two of them lived in a nice cottage on the outskirts of the town.
’
    â€˜Where was the father?’
    â€˜He had gone off to war. Now listen.
One day his mother had to go to the bazaar. She said to him, “You should stay at home and watch the door. If you see a burglar trying to break in, start shouting at the top of your voice. That’ll frighten him away. I’ll be back before noon.” So Nasreddin did as he was told, not taking his eyes from the door for even a moment.
’
    â€˜Didn’t he have to pee?’
    â€˜He had a potty with him.’
    â€˜Wasn’t he hungry?’
    â€˜His mother had left him food.’
    â€˜Pastries?’
    â€˜And sesame
halva
,’ Pembe said, knowing her son well. ‘
After an hour, there was a knock at the door. It was Nasreddin’s uncle, checking on how they were doing. He asked the boy where his mother was and said, “Well, go tell your mother to come home early and prepare lunch for us. My family will stop by for a visit.
”’
    â€˜But he is watching the door!’
    â€˜Exactly.
Nasreddin was puzzled. His mother had advised him to do one thing and his uncle another. He didn’t want to disobey either of them. So he pulled up the door, saddled it on his back and went to get his mother.
’
    The boy chuckled but he quickly grew serious. ‘I wouldn’t do that. I would always choose my mother over my uncle.’
    No sooner had he said this than they heard a noise. Somebody had crossed the stream and was walking towards them. To Pembe’s – and the village elders’ – surprise it turned out to be an old woman. She had a spectacularly aquiline nose, hollows under her wrinkled cheekbones and a set of crooked teeth. Her small, beady eyes constantly moved, refusing to settle anywhere.
    Pembe told her that her son urgently needed a name and asked if she would kindly help, avoiding details like Naze’s ghost or the village elders waiting behind the bush. The old woman didn’t seem the least bit surprised. Leaning against her staff, she weighed something up in her head, calm and compliant, as if a request of this kind was the most ordinary thing in the world.
    â€˜Mum, who is this?’ the child asked.
    â€˜Hush, my lion. This nice lady here is going to give you a name.’
    â€˜But she’s ugly.’
    Pretending not to hear that, the woman took a step closer and scrutinized the boy. ‘So you haven’t found your name yet, I gather.’
    The child raised his thin eyebrows, refusing to comment.
    â€˜All right, well, I’m thirsty,’ she said, pointing to where the watercourse had formed an inlet. ‘Will you go and get me a cup of water?’
    â€˜I don’t have a cup.’
    â€˜Use your palms, then,’ the old woman insisted.
    With a deepening frown the boy glanced at the woman, then at his mother, and then at the stranger again. ‘No,’ he said, a new edge to his voice. ‘Why don’t you go and get your own water? I’m not your servant.’
    The woman tilted her head to one side, as if the words were a blow she had to dodge. ‘He doesn’t like to serve, does he? He only wants to be served.’
    By now Pembe was convinced that they had picked the wrong person. To appease the situation she said in her most conciliatory tones, ‘I’ll go and get you water.’
    But the woman didn’t drink the water Pembe brought to her, cupped in the palms of her hands. Instead