Murder Under the Fig Tree

by Kate Jessica Raphael

  “What will you do?”

  “We don’t know yet. It depends what they want us to do. We won’t give them the names of our clients, and we won’t turn women away. But, other than that, we cannot really refuse to cooperate with our own government.”

  Rania nodded. “My husband works in the Ministry of Interior. I will speak to him about this.”

  “Thank you.” Did Tina already know that? Is that why she had brought it up? Was this another situation of someone pretending to want her opinion, just to get her to talk to someone else? Chloe changed the subject.

  “That reminds me,” she said, “I want to interview some women who have been elected to local councils. Wasn’t your sister-in-law one of them?”

  “Yes, Jaleela. I’m sure she would be happy to speak with you. And my other sister-in-law, Dunya, held workshops for women on how to present themselves as candidates. You could interview her, too.”

  “Definitely. Can you give me their numbers?”

  “Reem was elected to council, too, you know,” said Rania. “But she has resigned now that she is ill.”

  “Oh, that’s too bad,” Chloe said. “But I will interview her anyway, if she’s willing.”

  “We’d better go,” Tina said. “Thank you for the coffee.”

  Chapter 18

  “You drive a stick, right?” Chloe handed Tina the car keys. “You don’t?”

  “Not well.”

  “Good thing I’m here then.”

  Tina started the car and grimaced as the engine putt-putted hesitantly. “This thing is overdue for a tune-up,” she said.

  “The mechanic’s probably in Nablus,” Chloe said. “They can’t take the car through the checkpoint.”

  “There are mechanics in Ramallah,” Tina said.

  “You know how fussy men are about who works on their cars. And this is a BMW.”

  “So, how do you think he’ll feel when she tells him a couple of dykes are driving his car?”

  “She won’t say ‘dyke.’ She didn’t even know the word ‘gay.’”

  “No, she’ll say suhaqqiyyaat.” Tina leaned on the s so the derogatory word came out in a hiss.

  “I don’t think so,” Chloe insisted. “She was trying to understand. And she’s not that religious.”

  “She was trying to understand, but that doesn’t mean she wants lesbians for friends.”

  “It doesn’t mean she doesn’t.” Chloe wasn’t sure if the defensiveness she felt was for Rania or for their friendship. She reached for the radio. Fortunately, it worked. They drove the rest of the way listening to popular songs and commercials from a changing array of village stations.

  Reem’s house was a two-story stone building on a wide corner lot. Chickens ran around the backyard, clucking to each other and pecking anything that got in their way. A donkey was tied to the fence by a long tether. At least for the moment, it didn’t seem to bother him; he sat with his head on his hooves, eyes closed.

  “Ana jaheza,” I’m ready, Reem said when she opened the door. She was already wearing her hijab and jilbab. She only needed to grab her purse and lock the door. Chloe was glad they didn’t need to go through the ritual of coffee. She was nervous about the checkpoints. She had never traveled on a permit before and didn’t know what to expect driving into Israel in a green-plated car.

  “Please sit in front,” she said to Reem in Arabic, holding the front door for her.

  “Thank you,” Reem said in English.

  Chloe climbed in back, and Tina started the car.

  “Let me just make sure I have the permit,” Reem said. She spoke perfect English, with only a hint of an accent. She extracted a stapled sheaf of papers and gripped them fiercely. That permit was probably the most valuable thing she owned right now.

  “Your English is excellent,” Tina said.

  “I am an English teacher.”

  “For which grades?” Chloe asked.

  “I teach the girls who are studying for their tawjihi.” The tawjihi was an exam for students wanting to go to college. The students who chose to take it studied an extra year after high school.

  “Are you working now, or are you taking a leave?” Tina asked.

  “I will try to work.” She sounded apprehensive. Chloe wished Tina hadn’t brought up the treatment, but that was silly. Reem wasn’t going to forget where they were going.

  They were approaching the checkpoint that marked the current border between Israel and the West Bank. Reem swiveled to half-face Chloe.

  “This is not the Green Line,” she said, referring to the official border between Israel and the West Bank. “Last year, they moved it two kilometers inside. Before the Intifada, we never had to stop at all. We used to go to the sea at Netanya every Friday. I miss the sea.”

  The line of cars at the checkpoint was not long. Few Palestinians had permission to drive into Israel, and settlers usually did not have to stop at all. Chloe watched one yellow-plated car after another cruise through without slowing more than a few kilometers per hour.

  They, of course, could not do that, and Tina didn’t even try. If they had been by themselves, maybe they would have done something to show they didn’t recognize the legitimacy of the Israeli army in this place, but with Reem’s treatment at stake, they would be as obsequious as they needed to be. Tina waited behind the sign that read Stop—Checkpoint in Hebrew and Arabic until the bored-looking soldier motioned them forward with a crooked finger. She rolled down the window and presented the permit and all three of their IDs.

  “You are Reem Odeh?” The soldier craned his head through the window to look at Reem, who nodded.

  “Who are you?” he asked Tina in English, drawing his head back out of the car.

  “A friend of hers,” Tina said.

  “Well, friend, this permit says only her name. What are you doing here?”

  “Clearly, I’m driving her.”

  “Which are you, Chloe or Tina?”

  “Can’t you tell?” Tina gestured toward the passports he held.

  From the back seat, Chloe massaged Tina’s neck lightly. She saw Reem notice and dropped her hand quickly.

  “I’m Chloe,” she said.

  “Why do they need you?” asked the soldier.

  “They don’t. The appointment will be long. I came to keep my friend company while she waits.”

  “What are you doing in Israel?”

  That unanswerable question again. She needed to give an answer that would satisfy, but not encourage follow-up. “Just traveling.”

  He looked back at the papers, then at Chloe again.

  “You know, I don’t have to let you through,” he said. “The permit is only for her,” gesturing to Reem. “She is driving,” indicating Tina. “You’re not doing anything, so I could make you get out and walk through.”

  “That’s true, but they would have to wait for me on the other side, and that would make our friend late for her appointment, so I will be very grateful if you let me through now.”

  He actually seemed to consider it, before nodding sagely. “Have a nice day,” he said, handing the papers back to Tina.

  When they were safely past the checkpoint, all three of them let out a holler.

  “Asshole!” Chloe yelled, at the same time “Blooming bastard!” escaped from Tina. Chloe didn’t know the epithet Reem used, but she understood “Yahudi” all too well.

  After Chloe and Tina left, Rania puttered around, musing on what she had learned. It didn’t bother her to think that they were lovers, though she didn’t really understand it. Was being together for them like for her and Bassam? She didn’t want to think about the intimate details, but that wasn’t just because they were women. During her student days at Bethlehem University, when Palestinians could still go to Tel Aviv, some of her friends liked to go see foreign movies with explicit sex scenes between men and women. She had gone a few times, but she had never enjoyed them.

  If it was true that Daoud was sexual with men, it could op
en up a whole plethora of possible explanations for his murder. Sometimes traitors were accused of being homosexual. She had never believed it, just thought it was another cruel thing to say about someone whose family was already disgraced. But if someone was homosexual, and the Israelis found out, they could perhaps use that information to make the person into an informer, and an informer’s life was always in danger.

  If anyone would know whether Daoud was gay, it would have to be his school friends. She looked at the clock. It was nearly ten. She had three hours until Khaled came home from school. Plenty of time to get to Ramallah and back, if the roads were clear. Just to be safe, she stopped by her mother-in-law’s flat on the way out and asked if it would inconvenience her terribly to listen for Khaled to come home.

  “I always listen for my grandson,” the older woman said.

  “Thank you,” Rania said and headed out. She couldn’t help it, her step was brisk, her mind clear, now that she had a mission.

  She had Ahmed’s phone number in her phone, but she didn’t want to call if she didn’t have to; she would rather surprise him. Of course, she ran the substantial risk that he would not be home. In the middle of the day, students were likely at school. But half past ten was not exactly midday for students, if they did not have a long way to travel to school. Hopefully, either Ahmed or the other roommate—Elias?—was the type to lie around until noon.

  The servees dropped her in the center of Ramallah. She looked around hesitantly at the streets shooting off the square like spokes in a wheel. She couldn’t quite remember where the apartment was, but she was pretty sure it was down Rukab Street, the one with the ice cream place on the corner. She started up that street. She was sure she had passed the juice bar the other day, and that mini-mall up ahead looked familiar, though, in fact, every street in Ramallah had those, and they all looked alike.

  “Sabah al-kheir,” morning of joy, said a voice behind her elbow. Startled, she wheeled around to face Ahmed.

  “Sabah an-noor,” morning of light, she responded.

  His hair had not seen a comb, and his eyes had the unfocused vulnerability of someone just awakened. Either he was late for something, or there was no food in the apartment. Rania suspected the latter.

  “I was about to have some coffee. Would you like to join me?” she asked.

  He looked around, as if for a good excuse. “I was only going to the shop,” he said.

  “Please,” she said. “I would like some company.” He cocked his head and narrowed his eyes, then rolled his shoulders slightly.

  “If you wish,” he said. She headed for the first coffee shop she spied, the one with the picture of the Eiffel Tower dangling over the window stuffed with tiers on tiers of artfully piled baklava and date cookies. He hesitated.

  “It is better this way,” he said, leading her down the block and into an alley, then up a staircase to the mouth of a dark cave. When her eyes adjusted to the dim light, she saw why he had picked this place. At the smart, tiled tables sat several groups of foreigners and Palestinians speaking English. One group of very blond foreigners was speaking a language she didn’t recognize. Even the menus were in English. This would be a place where a young Muslim man from a village could sit with a strange, hijab-wearing woman without worrying about shocking his neighbors.

  He took a pair of glasses from his shirt pocket and looked at the menu. He took them off when the waiter came and ordered a cheese sandwich and a cappuccino.

  “I will have a cappuccino also,” Rania said. She was curious to try the drink. These western cafés had come along well after she had married and moved up north.

  “You said you’re studying English, right?” she said.

  He nodded. He was still holding his glasses. He opened and closed the ear pieces a few times. If he would just wear them, his eye wouldn’t wander so much. Instinctively, Rania touched her own thick glasses, as if she could subtly influence him. He didn’t seem to notice.

  “I also studied English, at Al Quds Open,” she said. It wasn’t exactly a lie. It hadn’t been her major, but she had taken classes in English literature. She needed some basis for rapport. “Who are your favorite English writers?”

  “I like Hemingway,” he said. So much for rapport. She barely remembered anything from Hemingway except endless descriptions of mountains and men trying to act like lions.

  The waiter appeared with a tray balanced on one flat palm. He served their coffees with a flourish.

  “Cinnamon?” he offered.

  “Please,” Ahmed said, so she accepted as well. He used a tiny hand grater to grind up a cinnamon stick right on top of the foamy milk and then left the rest of the stick in the side of the cup. Ahmed did not attempt to drink his coffee right away, so Rania let hers sit as well.

  “How long had Daoud been engaged to Hanan?” she asked.

  “Mmmm, perhaps three months,” he said uncertainly. He nibbled at his sandwich, pulling little bits from around the edges and popping them onto his tongue.

  She lifted her cup to her lips. The foam was so hot, it burned her tongue, and she didn’t manage to get any coffee. The milk tasted awful, like flavorless soup. She put the cup down.

  “Was it a love match, or arranged?”

  “Hanan is also his cousin, on the other side from me. I think he could not help loving her. She is very beautiful.” Not exactly an answer.

  “Do you think he wanted to help himself from loving her?”

  “I didn’t mean that—it’s just a figure of speech.”

  “Did she ever come here to see him? Or did he only see her with their families?”

  “She came once. Her parents did not approve, but that weekend they had gone to Jericho. She told them she was visiting a cousin in another village.”

  “Did she stay at your flat?”

  “No, with another girl. A friend of Daoud’s.”

  “Did Daoud have a lot of girls for friends?” she asked.

  “Girls. Boys. He had a lot of friends. Everyone loved Daoud.”

  No need to point out that someone clearly did not love him.

  “What did he and Hanan do when she was here? Did they go out?”

  “I don’t know. Probably they did. I wasn’t here that weekend.”

  “Did he ever take Hanan to Adloyada?”

  Ahmed picked up his cappuccino and sipped carefully, sucking the dark liquid out from underneath the foam. So, that’s how it was done. She didn’t see how she was going to do it and not end up with coffee all down her front.

  “Adloyada? What is that?” he asked. His lazy eye got lazier, a tiny vein popping in his forehead.

  “Apparently, it is a place in Jerusalem that Daoud was fond of.”

  “Who told you that?”

  “No one. I found something from there in his jacket pocket, in your flat.”

  “That doesn’t mean he went there. He might have picked it up on the street.”

  “Perhaps. But, if so, why would he have kept it? It wasn’t exactly a thing of value.”

  He didn’t answer. He drank some more of his coffee and finished the sandwich.

  “I’m not going to make trouble for Daoud’s family,” she said. “I’m not asking as a policewoman. I only want to help Hanan understand what happened to her fiancé.”

  “What is to understand?” he said. “The army killed him, just like they killed lots of our friends. Two other friends of ours were killed last year, in demonstrations against the Wall. You didn’t come around then, asking questions about where they liked to go.”

  He had a point. She gave up on being sophisticated and stirred her coffee into the foam with a spoon. She tasted it. It was bitter, but with a little sugar it might be drinkable.

  “Was Daoud gay?” she asked. She didn’t want to use the derogatory Arabic word, and didn’t know what other word to use, so she used the English word. She added two lumps of sugar to her coffee and stirred again, to help it dissolve.

  “Laa,” no, he said at once.
“Who says such a thing?”

  “No one,” she answered. “But he had something from Adloyada, and people who go to Adloyada are gay, right?”

  “I don’t know. I told you, I have never been there.”

  She sipped her coffee. It wasn’t that bad.

  “Did Daoud ever tell you when he was going there? You were his best friend, after all.”

  “Once, he said he was meeting someone there. I told him to be careful not to get arrested. A lot of soldiers go there.”

  “How did you know that if you never went there?”

  “A friend of mine goes there sometimes. He told me he saw Daoud talking to one of them once.”

  “To an Israeli soldier?”

  “Yes. But it’s not what you’re thinking. Daoud was not a traitor.”

  “I wasn’t thinking any such thing,” she said.

  “Of course you were. Everyone would, if they heard.” He stood up and signaled to the waiter for the check. “I’m late,” he said.

  “Go,” she said. “I’ll pay the bill.”

  He hesitated. It was irregular for a young man to let a woman pay for him, but he must have decided that her age made the difference.

  “Thanks,” he said. She watched him walk out, picking up speed as he went. The waiter with the gold earring put a hand on his shoulder, but Ahmed instantly shrugged it off. Was he really late or just putting distance between himself and her? She was left with more questions than she came with, but at least she had a direction to pursue.

  She drank the rest of her coffee. The milk was soothing, and she was starting to like the cinammony taste.

  Chapter 19

  Reem introduced herself to the receptionist in English.

  “Are you the translator?” the receptionist asked Chloe in Hebrew. Chloe winced.

  “No, I’m just a friend,” she said in English.

  “I do not speak English well.” The young woman shook her curly head to punctuate each word. “Please sit down there.”