by Matt Rees
“God bless your hands,” Omar Yussef said.
“Blessings. How is Umm Ramiz?” Nasra asked.
“Well.”
“And Zuheir and Ala?”
“Zuheir is visiting us later this month. He’s coming in from Wales to celebrate the Eid with us. Ala just changed his job and is selling computers in New York.”
“Tell them I want to see them when they visit.” Nasra smoothed her skirt and closed the door behind her.
“Double-health and well-being in your heart,” Charles Hal-loun said as Omar Yussef began to drink his coffee.
Omar Yussef put the coffee on the table. “Abu Jeriez, I will ask you a direct question. How is my family provided for?”
Charles Halloun sat forward. The dense eyebrows drew close to the bridge of his nose in concern. “Is something wrong with your health, Abu Ramiz?”
“No, not really.” Not yet. “I’m considering retirement. If I were to stop earning at the school, would I be able to continue to live as I do?”
“Well, you have the income from the investments your dear father made. There are some shares in the Arab Bank, some Egyptian bonds, and there is the rent from the land Abu Omar purchased in Beit Sahour shortly before he passed away. Most of this has been reinvested, because you live on your UN salary. But you could draw an income from it. I think retirement probably wouldn’t alter your lifestyle too much.” Charles Halloun cocked his head. “Are you sure it is only retirement that’s on your mind, Abu Ramiz? You’re a young man.”
“I’m fifty-six.”
“But you’re in good health, thank God.”
“Yes and no. I no longer consume alcohol, but I drank enough for a lifetime before I quit ten years ago. It’s only five years since I stopped smoking, and I sometimes feel a little short of breath even today. I don’t exercise, except for walking to the school in the morning. And, well, there are some things that I won’t go into except to say that they cause me a great deal of worry, which I’m sure is something of a stress on my heart.”
“No alcohol, no cigarettes? Your life is one long Ramadan.”
“But for almost fifty years, it was a continuous Eid.” Omar Yussef laughed. “Rest assured that my retirement will preserve my health. I only want to know all the facts about my financial situation before I make any final decisions.”
“I shall prepare a report for you with some projections of the income that you would be able to live on.”
“All I need is food and money to treat my grandchildren to presents. I don’t travel very much, just once a year to Amman with Maryam to visit my brother, and once a year a vacation in Morocco by myself.”
“This should be no problem, Abu Ramiz. You will be able to afford to continue with those trips.”
The two men drank their coffee.
“I spoke to Ramiz this morning about something delicate,” Charles Halloun said. “I thought perhaps you might discuss it with him, too. He wants to expand his business, to open several more mobile phone shops around the Bethlehem area. The problem is that expanding businesses tend to attract the attention of some disreputable types these days. There are a number of them that have been taken over rather suddenly by the Martyrs Brigades.”
“You mean protection money?”
“No, that’s old hat. I mean, they take over. Just like that.” Charles Halloun snapped his fingers. “These days they come to the house of the owner with a contract and say, ‘Sign it over to us or we’ll kill you and take the business anyway.’”
“You’re worried this might happen to Ramiz?”
“All the gunmen use mobile phones. They can see that it’s a real business. That attracts them. Look how they just took over the Abdel Rahman auto shops.”
Omar Yussef felt his heart draw an extra pulse. “What?”
“When the Israelis killed Louai Abdel Rahman, the family lost its protection within the resistance factions. So long as Louai was alive, no one could touch the Abdel Rahmans, unless they wanted to fight the part of the militia that was loyal to him. Their auto shops became very successful. They have one in Irtas, two in Bethlehem and one in al-Khader. But as soon as Louai was killed, the Martyrs Brigades went to his father and told him to hand over the keys to the business. Now it’s all in the hands of Hussein Tamari’s brother.”
“I’m shocked,” Omar Yussef said. “Louai has only been dead two days.”
“Nothing Hussein Tamari does could shock me.”
Omar Yussef thought back to the mourning tent for Louai Abdel Rahman. When Hussein Tamari came along the path firing his MAG in the air, it wasn’t just a noisy sign of tribute: it was a threat. He remembered how Louai’s father had looked disturbed by something Hussein Tamari said to him, even as he was supposed to be offering his condolences.
“No,” said Charles Halloun. “The resistance-hero pose doesn’t fool me. I’ve known that bastard Hussein Tamari for exactly what he is ever since he jailed me for tax evasion.”
Omar Yussef looked perplexed.
“Oh, I didn’t evade any taxes, Abu Ramiz,” Charles Halloun said. “It was a racket. Tamari pulled the same trick on a dozen other businessmen here and in Hebron, too. Six years ago, he came here with a squad of Preventive Security officers. They were disrespectful to Nasra, and they took me away. They didn’t confiscate any of our files or records. There was no investigation. They just took me to the jail in Jericho and locked me up. Tamari told me, ‘Look, you haven’t paid your taxes. Give me thirty thousand dollars or I’ll have you accused of collaboration with the occupation and you’ll sit in this cell until you rot.’”
“What did you do?”
“I told him to fuck himself and demanded to see a lawyer. Pardon my language, Abu Ramiz.”
“That’s all right. And so?”
“He laughed in my face. Then he slapped it.” Charles Hal-loun gasped at the memory. “He tortured me, Abu Ramiz. I don’t like to tell you everything he did to me, but let me just say that every time I stand up I still get a shooting pain through my back and it reminds me of my time with Abu Walid.”
Omar Yussef looked up. Abu Walid.
“I was in the jail in Jericho for a week,” Halloun said. “I didn’t eat the whole time. They gave me a little water, but the bastards urinated in it and I was so desperate I drank it. They shaved one side of my head and made me wear a dress. In the end, they gave me a phone and I called Nasra. I told her to get the money from the bank and hand it over. Even then, Abu Walid gave me another beating before he sent me home.”
“Who is Abu Walid?”
“Hussein Tamari. The bastard father of a bastard son. Did you never meet Walid, his eldest boy? He’s a bullying swine, too. Ask any teenager around town. They’ve all got their lumps from that nasty scum. Just like his father.”
Omar Yussef felt the weight of the Webley and the two spent cartridges in his pocket. Here was the information he needed. Abu Walid. Was Hussein Tamari the man in the bushes to whom Louai Abdel Rahman spoke before he died? How many men would there be among those gunmen who were known as “the father of Walid”? With Louai dead, Abu Walid took over the Abdel Rahmans’ business. He had a motive, something to gain from Louai’s death. But was he also the killer?
Omar Yussef said farewell to Charles Halloun and Nasra. He drove down the hill to Dehaisha. He had always been sure that George Saba was innocent, but now he believed he knew the identity of the real collaborator. He felt his pulse rise and his knuckles whitened as he gripped the steering wheel tightly. How was he going to prove that George Saba had been set up by the head of the resistance in Bethlehem? He knew that he must carry on, for the sake of George and for the sake of his town, which was quickly becoming a place where these gangsters could do whatever they wanted. Khamis Zeydan had told him this was a dangerous path to take. It wasn’t getting any less risky.
Omar Yussef parked his car in the sandstone garage behind his house. He came in through the basement door and went up to his bedroom. He opened the drawer be
neath his closet. His socks filled the drawer, bulbed in matching pairs. He took the Webley from his pocket and shoved it into the back of the pile. He looked about guiltily and closed the drawer.
What did I bring this gun here for? I’m behaving like a detective, he thought. I’m gathering evidence. This gun is evidence, so I have to keep it. But I’m scared. Things could become dangerous, if a man like Hus-sein Tamari is involved. How will I react if Tamari confronts me? Already I’m frightened by the presence of a useless, antique gun amongst my socks. He rolled the two MAG cartridges in his palm, thick and stubby. He imagined them filled with gunpowder and tipped with a lead slug.
Omar Yussef went into the salon. He picked up the phone and dialed Khamis Zeydan.
“I need to talk to George Saba,” he said.
There was a pause. “Come and see me in the morning. At eight A.M. At my office.” Khamis Zeydan hung up.
Omar Yussef sat in silence. He listened to the blood pumping hard through his temple. He thought of what Charles Hal-loun had told him about his income. It wasn’t retirement he was planning for. He wanted to be sure that Maryam would be comfortable if he came to some harm. He felt determined. Nothing would happen to him, so long as George Saba needed his help. If he didn’t stick to his path, George wouldn’t be the last victim of Hussein Tamari.
I’m not a victim, Omar Yussef thought. He held his hand out before him and laughed. For the first time in years, it wasn’t shaking.
Chapter 10
The bells in the Church of the Nativity resounded about Manger Square as Omar Yussef crossed to the police station. The tourist shops on the south side would open later, though few pilgrims braved Bethlehem now. There were no buyers for the cherubic newborn Christs, which lay in silent rows along the shelves in the windows of the Giacomman family’s store, gazing blandly at the equally numerous Virgin Mothers. The earthy scent of yesterday’s foule drifted from the shuttered restaurant next door. Omar Yussef never ate breakfast, but the smell of the fava bean mash made him crave a plate. His hunger made him cold and he pulled his coat up at the collar.
Omar Yussef traversed the carefully laid-out expanse of stone paving and tree planters in the square. In the thin light, the dark buttresses of the Armenian monastery that fronted the church were as foreboding as the tolling bells. The liveliness that he remembered of the church in his youth was gone, swamped by the Muslims of the surrounding camps and villages, who came like him as refugees and with swelling numbers soon felt entitled to treat the once-Christian town as their own. The symbol of Bethlehem, the basilica of the birthplace of Christianity, was beleaguered, its massive stone walls a futile bastion against a hostile religion and a declining congregation. It seemed like a place for burial, not birth. George Saba’s cell was in the police station at the corner of the square closest to the church. Omar Yussef imagined George assaulted by the ominous pealing of the bells that reckoned his slow minutes of imprisonment, just as they chimed a doleful countdown to the extinction of the Christians in his town.
At the corner of the square, a voice called. “Greetings, ustaz.” Omar Yussef turned to see a thin priest crossing the empty road toward him with long, bouncy strides. The priest wore a black Catholic robe with a white dog collar. There were gray socks under his open sandals. His skin was olive and speckled with the kind of black whiskers that always need shaving. His black hair was thin and curly, standing above his scalp like the fuzz on a hairy man’s chest. In no more than two years, he would be completely bald. His thick glasses made his eyes seem tiny.
“Elias,” Omar Yussef said. “I’m so happy to see you. George reported that you were back from the Vatican. We spoke proudly of your achievements.”
“Yes, I’m back. Can you believe it? I just couldn’t keep a safe distance,” the priest said. “It’s wonderful to see you, Abu Ramiz. You look so well.”
“I have never trusted the word of religious men, and now I understand why. I am not in such great health, to tell the truth.”
“Perhaps I am just so delighted to see you that I feel everything must be perfect.”
“I wish it were so, Elias.” Omar Yussef looked toward the police station. “I am going to visit George in his jail cell now.”
Elias Bishara pushed his heavy glasses up his nose. “Tell me if there is anything George needs,” he said. “He could have no greater friend than you, Abu Ramiz, but perhaps he will ask for a priest. I would like to minister to him.”
Omar Yussef wondered if Elias Bishara already was thinking ahead to George’s last rites. He wasn’t ready to accept that, yet. “I will let him know.” He shook Elias’s hand.
Khamis Zeydan met Omar Yussef at the door of the police station and walked him down the rough steps to the cells. It was cold in the corridor, though Omar Yussef was sure that the chill he felt was as much because of the location as the winter morning. Khamis Zeydan glanced sideways at his friend as he unlocked a metal gate and ushered him through. They passed two cells that were empty except for old, cheap prayer mats laid out on the beds.
“This was where I kept the Hamas people, back when we actually used to arrest those types,” Khamis Zeydan said. “Then we received orders to free them. Now there’s no one here except your friend.”
At the end of the corridor, he unlocked another grille. It was George’s cell. “I’ll wait at the end of the row here,” Khamis Zeydan said. “Just call me. But don’t be too long, for Heaven’s sake.” Omar Yussef could tell the gruffness was a screen for his friend’s nervousness. He wasn’t sure if that was because the policeman didn’t want to be discovered allowing a visitor to the collaborator or because he feared that Omar Yussef’s investigation would lead to trouble and now he was implicated in it.
George Saba stood up from the sagging camp bed in the corner of the bare room. His face was puffy, unwashed. Omar Yussef saw that the stubble of George’s beard was surprisingly thick with gray, though white only touched his head around the temples. His hair was tangled and stuck out from his head at strange angles. He looked like a man who had slept for years, but without resting soundly. George Saba embraced Omar Yussef, who could not help but wrinkle his nose at the stale smell of his friend’s neglected body.
“Abu Ramiz, I’m so happy to see you.”
Omar Yussef found himself at a loss. It saddened him to the point of tears to feel George’s shirt against his face. The cotton was cold and so were the hands that now held his fingers.
“George, it’s freezing in here.”
George nodded toward the cell window, barred and glassless. He tried to smile, but it was a sad attempt.
“Take my coat,” Omar Yussef said, pulling off his short herringbone overcoat.
“I really can’t, Abu Ramiz. You’ll get cold.”
“I’ve got a jacket on underneath. See? Take it.”
“I don’t think it’ll fit.”
Omar Yussef made him try the coat. It was ridiculously tight around the bigger man’s arms and barely closed across his belly, but it was clear that George felt the overcoat was a reprieve from a terrible torture.
“May God compensate you for this,” he said.
Omar Yussef immediately shivered in his tweed jacket. He gestured to George to sit with him on the bed.
“What happened on the roof, George, after you left me at the Orthodox Club?”
“I took an antique British pistol that I was intending to sell in my shop and went onto the roof. There were two gunmen up there firing a massive machine gun. I told them to get off the roof, but they only cursed me. So I held the gun on them. They weren’t sure about it, but in the darkness it looked threatening enough, I guess. I only recognized them when they were leaving. One wore a fur hat. His name’s Jihad Awdeh. The other one carried the big gun.”
“Hussein Tamari?”
“That’s him.”
“The two men at the top of the Martyrs Brigades in Bethlehem. You picked a prize pair to face off with, George.”
George smiled,
bitterly. “Hussein Tamari did all the shooting. I thought I should watch Hussein Tamari more closely. He was the one with the gun after all. But there was something that drew my eyes to Jihad Awdeh. He seemed so menacing. I can’t really describe it. There was a moment just before they went down from the roof: Jihad bent to pick something up and stuff it into his jacket. It was more than one thing, in fact, metal things, I think, that were spread on the roof. He gave me such an evil look. It would chill me even now, if I weren’t already too cold to feel anything. Then the two of them went down the stairs and left.”
“Perhaps Jihad was picking up the empty cartridges from the bullets, for some reason. You see, I found only one on the roof when I went up there yesterday. He must have missed it.”
“Why were you on the roof of my house? What are you up to, Abu Ramiz?”
Omar Yussef didn’t answer the question. “Do you have any enemies who would set you up?” he said.
“Just those two, as far as I can tell. This is hardly the way some customer would avenge himself on me for overcharging on an antique chesterfield, is it? Tamari and Awdeh said they’d get me. But I figured they would just come and beat me, or even kill me on the street. I didn’t think they’d shame me like this.”
“Did either one of them threaten to kill you?”
“I think they both did. No, I believe it was only Hussein who actually said he would make me pay. But then as they left Jihad made a gesture like he was cutting a throat.”
Omar Yussef looked about at the bare walls of the cell. The mustard paint was covered in small graffiti, the scribblings of bored men venting their anger or doodling about their dreams of a good meal. The toilet bucket in the corner suffused the cell with a rank odor, despite the open window. The wall and floor beneath the window were damp where yesterday’s rain had come in. Omar Yussef sighed, and his breath made a steamy path from his mouth into the freezing air.
