The Poisoned Dish of Baklawa

Here is one of my favorite stories from Claudia Roden's book of Middle Eastern Cooking.
The Poisoned Dish of Baklawa

"In view of the high character and learning of the Khoja, the notables of Akshehir were anxious that their boys should profit by his instruction and appointed him head master of the town school.  One of the notables whose boy attended the school examined him on the lessons he was preparing.  The boy answered his questions so well that his father was highly delighted and, calling a servant, bade him take the Khoja a present of a tray of baklawa.

"It came just when lessons were going on, and the Khoja wondered how he could prevent the boys getting hold of it.  He himself had been called away suddenly to attend a funeral, so, as he could do nothing with it till he came back, he called up the head boys and said to them, "I am putting this tray on the shelf here.  Be careful you don't touch it.  I don't quite trust the man who sent it, for we were once on very bad terms.  Most likely there is something poisonous in it, and if so, it is not a mere practical joke, but a crime he has committed.  Mind, it is your own look-out; but if you all die of poison, I shall be held responsible, and you will cause me to be thrown into prison and rot there."

"When the Khoja had gone, the head boy, who happened to be his nephew and knew that this was only humbug, took the tray down from the shelf, sent for his particular chums, and tried to persuade them to join him in eating it.

The boys cried, "No!  It is poisoned.  The Khoja said so.  We won't tocuh it.  We don't want to die"

"It is a trick, boys.  Just see me eat it! Now you can't say anything after that," said he, as he took some.

"All right, said the others; "but what answer are we to give the Khoja?"
"You leave that to me," said he.  "I have got an answer ready that will quiet him.  Now then, let us polish off the baklawa."

Feeling more at ease, the boys at once set to work and made a clean sweep of it, shouting and laughing as they did so.

That rascal of a nephew must have made his plans ever since the baklawa arrived, for no sooner had they finished eating it than he ran into the Khoja's room, caught hold of a penknife on the inkstand and broke it.  At that moment the Khoja came in, and seeing the penknife, asked angrily who had broken it.

The boys all pointed to his nephew as the culprit.  "What did you do this for?" he demanded.  "Do you want me to break your bones for you?"

The boy pretended to cry and said, "My pen broke.  I tried to mend it with your penknife and broket the knife.  Then I said to myself, "How ever can I look Uncle in the face?  What answer can I give him?  If he comes in now, he is sure to give me such a thrashing that he will break every bone in my body.  It were far better to die than bear such torture," said I.  Then I began to think what was the best way to kill myself.  I did not think it nice to throw myself down the well, because it would make it smell.  Then I suddenly remembered the baklawa on the shelf which you told us was posoned.  I took down the tray, and first I repeated the words of our Creed, "There is no God but God, and Mahomet is his prophet,'; then I said good-bye to my schoolfellows and sent word to my father and sister and to my poor mother who had been angry with me.  I begged them all to forgive me, and then saying 'Bismallah!' I shut my eyes and swallowed the baklawa.  I did not forget to clean up the tray with my fingers, but . . . I am sorry to say . . . such is my unhappy lot . . . I did not die . . . I could not die."

The poor Khoja, though exasperated at the loss of his favorite dish and teh breaking of the penkife, which had been a present from his father, could not help exclaiming, "My lad, I am amazed that at your age you should have thought of such a clever plan.  I am always ready with an answer whatever I am asked, but you will soon be able to give me points.  It is quite clear that this is hereditary in our family."