this is part of what the apple incident created.
Stepping off the staircase landing, the panoramic view of the hotel dining and lobby area filled my eyes with instant colors and ostentatious opulence. I love this hotel.
Faithfully staffing the podium, Kahan was at his assigned post. Any patron could count on Kahan, diligent, suave and always the diplomat. Those qualities have earned him high honors and, knowing him, probably big tips.
As I approached, he seemed to have caught movement with his peripheral vision and looked up to see me coming toward him. His huge mustachioed face became animated as he offered his hand.
“Mr. Stanton, good very morning to you.” His English still needed a little work, but he was learning. I considered him one of my best students, albeit, not a full time one. I only really saw him at mealtimes, but the time that I have invested in him was paying off as he has become quite fluent in English. Even though his thick middle-Eastern accent caused many of the English words he spoke to sound so dramatic, his debonair appearance in his snappy tuxedo, and his “Always happy to see you” look on his face made up for what was lacking in verbal eloquence.
“That’s ‘very good’ morning Kahan.” I corrected, “A ‘very good’ morning to you Mr. Kahan,” I returned his greeting with the correct phrase.
His hands immediately went into the air and fell back along the sides of his face. Holding his face in his hands he playfully repeated his morning greeting with a sheepish tone, “A very good morning to you Mr. Stanton. I did it this time right, yes?”
“Yes, Kahan,” I responded as I came to a stop at his podium. “By the way, isn’t this the same place I saw you last night seating people for dinner. Don’t you ever go home?”
“Home? What is home?” His hands once again assuming their talking position, that of being thrust head high and making small parade waves as if they were dotting each syllable with accents.
“Kids are all crying, woman, she always telling me to do something. My brother comes over, and he tell me mother in Kafr-Nahum is having bad time. She walks with crooked back, and can’t walk so good. So, I stay at work. I get money to help her out and for my woman to buy falafel’s for the gangsters.”
“That’s ‘youngsters,’ Kahan,” He was making such good progress that I felt bad correcting his English. Especially while he was baring such an important part of his life, and besides, dropping some of the formality of the English language made speaking with Kahan fun and challenging.
“Oh, sorry so, Mr. Stanton,” responded an embarrassed Kahan. “Let me take you to the table.”
“You’re doing marvelous in English, Kahan, don’t apologize.” I placed my hand on his shoulder to re-assure him.
“Sorry is for telling you about my family, not my English. My English is getting better every day I learn from you, Mr. Stanton.”
I chuckled as we turned and headed toward my table. Tossing my notebook on the glass covered tabletop, I turned to Kahan and asked, “After I order, would you have a few minutes to come to my table? I have a number of questions to ask you?”
“Sure, Mr. Stanton, I am always available for you. My woman needs falafel money,” he responded with the not so buried inference that it would cost me to dig info out of him. However, if I were to get any info to start my background research, it will have to come from him. Besides, it is an expensible item. The publication allows me certain, well, expensible items, such as drawing information from snitches and in Kahan’s case, needy informants. So, why not help him and his family at the same time. I felt such a rush of power; there I was being so magnanimous in my justification of spending the company’s money and helping Kahan’s family at the same time. It actually felt good.
Either it was a slow breakfast morning or it was a holiday that I hadn’t recalled because the dining room was very bereft of movement. There was a couple enjoying their quiet conversation in the booth by the wall, and a business looking gentleman, reading the Journal, seated solo in the middle, but that was all. I thought it weird until I glanced at my watch. These weren’t the late breakfast crowd. They were the early lunch crowd. I was simply running late. I must not have realized how much time slipped away as I was developing my list of inquiries. Curiosity can cause a man’s brain to lose track of time. Not Kahans’ as I looked up to see him approaching me again.
“Mr. Stanton, please, I am ready to give answers that you have questions for.” I thought it somewhat cute that he was trying with all his might to sound so eloquent in his newfound language, and there simply were times, like this one, when I didn’t have the heart to correct him.
“Kahan, tell me a little bit about your religious background, Hebrew correct?” I thought that I should back into my questions slowly. Perhaps I assumed him more religious than he really was; I could embarrass him, or worse, offend him.
Standing next to me, he began his response, “Yes, Mr. Stanton, I am of the Hebrew faith. Jewish you can call it. I am not so good at being Jewish. I don’t pray three times a day, and I don’t go to synagogue as much as other good Jews do. But, I try to teach my family what I hear of Torah that was read to me. We learn rules to be good for God. What we’re suppose to do and not to do to make a happy God at us.” Kahan launched into his apology for his lack of religiosity as if he were confessing to his Rabbi.
“Okay, Kahan, I can appreciate, and really understand your desire to want to serve your God, and make him a happy God with you, and I can see that you aren’t really caught up in the religion of it all. However, from those Torah teachings, what do you know, and what do you remember of a coming messiah? Is there one expected? Do you think he is alive today? If so, where could a guy like me locate a guy like that? Where do they say he is supposed to live or even be from?” I found myself running through my list faster than he could answer. I finally motioned for him to take a seat, and he did.
“Mr. Stanton, please, slower. I must understand questions then make words to answer.”
I realized now that I was rushing him. I have to be deliberate as I speak, being careful not to sound mocking and injure his pride.
“Our prophets of the Torah teach us that there is to be a messiah that comes from the tribe of Judah. A mighty and awesome savior he is to be, hallelujah.” Once again, Kahan became his animated self, waving his hands skyward while looking up at the ceiling. He acted as if he were fulfilling some religious ritual and acknowledging something unseen that he was praising, “And he is to save us from our sins and make us with God, one.”
“Do you honestly believe that Kahan,” I asked with a sense of incredulity.
“Yes, Mr. Stanton, I do believe. I must believe. Look at man, he is ugly and mean, without a God’s message, we live with faces looking at ground. With God and his promise, we can now walk with faces looking towards, how do you call it,” pointing upward, toward the ceiling he looked at me for assistance.
“You mean the sky?” I asked.
“No, what’s you call, in English, where God lives?” He struggled.
“Are you speaking of heaven?” I responded with a half-quizzical tone.
“Yes, Mr. Stanton, heaven, where God lives and will have us live with Him, too!” I wasn’t sure if he was excited because he had learned a new word, or that he was speaking of heaven.
“We can walk with face to heaven because we have hoped
