“Sorry, I’m in Haifa,” Nehama said. “I had to take my mother for dialysis.”
“No problem,” Chloe said.
Avi was next. She held her breath when he came on the line. If he said no, she would jump in a taxi and damn the cost. Maybe she should do that anyway. But it would be steep.
“Do you want me to come with you?” Avi asked when she explained the situation. She exhaled. At least he didn’t say his parents had taken the car to Be’er Sheva.
“Avi, I wish you could, believe me. But I don’t know these people. I can’t show up with an Israeli without asking.” She had been prepared to send Nehama by herself a minute ago. But a young Israeli man was different than a middle-aged woman. “Could you meet me at Zatara and hitch home?”
“Sure, okay.” He sounded mildly disappointed.
“You’re the best. Half an hour,” she said. She was being optimistic. If she was lucky, a Nablus or Tulkarem bus would be getting ready to leave. She trotted the two blocks to the bus station. A Nablus bus was there, although the driver wasn’t on it. Once she was sitting on the bus, she called Reem to say she would be there in an hour. Reem sounded calmer.
“I will see you then,” she said, enunciating perfectly. Chloe almost wondered if she didn’t need to go, but she didn’t want to sound unwilling, so she didn’t ask. The driver emerged from the terminal, drinking coffee from a thimble-sized paper cup. He tipped his head back to drain the dregs, then crumpled the cup in his hand and tossed it on the ground before climbing into the driver’s seat. Usually, Chloe would be furious about the littering, but now she was glad the guy didn’t go all over hell-and-gone looking for a garbage can.
She was too tense to read. She looked out the window as the bus slowly wound its way through the Ramallah hills. Only as they picked up speed and turned onto Highway 60 did she think to call Tina and leave a message that she probably wouldn’t be home for dinner. She stuffed the cheese and pasta into her backpack. Hopefully, she wouldn’t be gone so long that the cheese would spoil.
At least Avi’s parents’ Volvo was an automatic. Chloe bounced along the dirt road between Yasuf and Iskaka and then made the sharp turn onto the paved road that led into Salfit. Only as she spotted the tall Zaytouna Building in the center of the city did she remember that the paper telling her how to get to Reem’s house was back at the apartment, in the pocket of her other jeans. It had involved a bunch of turns, and she doubted she would remember, even if she were not so nervous. She called Reem’s number.
“Is this…” What was the little girl’s name again? She had only met them all very quickly. “Amalia?” Could that be right? Amalia meant “operation” in Arabic. It could mean a surgery, but it also meant bombing. Would anyone name their daughter that?
“Yes, it’s me.”
“Amalia, ana Chloe. Mumkin ahki maa imik?” May I speak to your mother?
“My mother is sleeping,” the little girl said in English. Chloe decided she could use English, too.
“I am coming to your house, but I am not sure how to get there,” she said, reminding herself to speak slowly. “Is your father home?” Surely Reem’s husband would have come home from work if she was so sick.
“Not yet. Where are you?”
“I’m near…what am I near?” Chloe looked around. There were shops all over, but all the signs were in Arabic. She couldn’t make out any of the words. “There’s a pharmacy,” she said, noticing the caduceus over a storefront.
“Which pharmacy?” the little girl asked. Of course, this was not a village, which would only have one pharmacy. She stared up at the signs again, thinking of the minutes ticking away. She needed to get to the house and get Reem into the car and get to the hospital. For all she knew, the woman was unconscious by now, if she had had a bad reaction to the drugs. She looked at the letters. She had spent hours writing them just two days ago. But many of these were in elaborate calligraphy, which was harder to read than normal script. Concentrate, she told herself. Okay, there was a letter she recognized, the K sound. That was one of the dot ones next to it, the ones she could never keep straight. One dot on top. That meant B—no, that was one dot below. One dot on top was N. Kn. The next letter was Ra. Knr? She couldn’t think of a word that started with those sounds. Wait, it wasn’t a Ra. It had a broader base so it was the dalit, D. Knd. And the next one was the R. Only then did she notice the big wooden shoe hanging from the sign. Kundera, shoes.
“A pharmacy next to a shoe store,” she told Amalia.
“You are right near our house,” Amalia said and explained where to turn. When Chloe found the house, the girl was waiting out front, still in her blue and white school uniform.
“Mama’s been sleeping since I got home,” she said. “It’s boring. Now, that you are here, maybe we can play?”
“Amalia, I’d love to, but I came to take your mom to the hospital.” Once she was on the right street, she recognized the house. She parked in front and ran up the steps, Amalia lagging behind her. “Is there anyone else home with you?”
“My brother’s upstairs, doing his homework.” She used the Arabic word, wajib. Even a seven-year-old knew some words were not worth learning.
That was good. She wouldn’t need to spend extra time finding someone to look after the little kids. She burst into the house. Reem was lying on the living room couch.
“Reem? It’s Chloe.” Chloe shook her lightly.
“Chloe? Welcome.” Reem’s eyes fluttered open. “I feel much better.”
She looked sick, but not deathly ill. Could it be that Chloe had done all this for nothing? It’s not like you had anything important to do, she told herself. But her body was aching from the anxiety of the last two hours. If it was no emergency, Reem could have called her back. Not to mention that Avi’s parents would get home and find their car gone.
“Should we go to the hospital anyway?” she asked.
“I do not think it is necessary,” Reem said. “I would just like to sleep.”
She closed her eyes again.
“Wait a minute,” Chloe blurted out. “What should I do?” Did Reem mean for her to turn around and go back to Ramallah?
“Could you look after Amalia for a while?” Reem asked. Her eyes fluttered closed again. Chloe gathered she was meant to spend the night. Momentarily, she wondered if she could really spend the night in a house with pictures of Khaled Mashal on the walls.
“Chloe, come see my dolls.” Amalia came running up with a battered Barbie in each hand.
“One minute,” Chloe said. “I left some vegetables in the car. I had better bring them inside before they spoil.”
“I can help you,” the little girl said solemnly. She skipped next to Chloe on the way to the car.
“What is your favorite subject at school?” Chloe asked.
“English!” Amalia said. Chloe opened the trunk and handed Amalia the bag of spinach. She took the heavier one with avocados, strawberries, and cauliflower. Amalia led the way to the little kitchen, which had barely enough space for the refrigerator, stove, and a little round work table. Chloe wedged her purchases in-between the few covered dishes in the fridge. She peeked into one of them. A grayish-brown wedge of lamb peeked out of some soggy rice. Good thing she had shopped.
“Are we having molochia?” Amalia asked, as she put the bag of spinach into the crisper.
“I don’t think I can manage that,” Chloe said. The girl’s face fell. “How about makluube and fries?”
“I like makluube,” Amalia said. Chloe hoped she would like the vegetarian version. She wasn’t about to cook chicken—not that there was any. If Amalia didn’t like it, she could eat fries and bread.
“Shall we play with your dolls now?” she said. Amalia had set up three dolls in a row on the dining room table and was lecturing them.
“In this class, you must speak English,” she instructed.
“Ana bidish ahki inglisi,” Chloe said, joining the row of students. “Bidi atalam Arabi.” I don
’t want to speak English, I want to learn Arabic.
“Tayeb,” fine, said the little teacher. “Shu hada?” What is this? She touched her teeth.
“Snaan,” Chloe responded.
“Correct. This?” She indicated her neck.
“Um, I don’t know.” It hadn’t taken long to reach the limits of her knowledge.
“Raqabe,” Amalia said.
“Raqabe,” Chloe said slowly, hoping she could remember it for twenty-four hours at least. “Raqabe. What else? Wait, I know.” She rummaged in her pack until she found what she was looking for.
“Look,” she said, presenting a long string of stickers for Amalia’s inspection.
“Mulsaqaat!” the little girl squealed. The line of plasticized paper whipped snake-like as she pulled it across the table. She squinted at the stickers, each of which pictured an animal. “Bissa,” she said, pointing to the cat.
“Even I know that one,” Chloe said with a grin. “Kalb,” tapping a dog.
Amalia pointed to the goat and waited for Chloe to supply “Jid.”
Amalia giggled profusely.
“That’s not right?” Chloe furrowed her brow. She hoped she hadn’t said anything totally offensive.
“Jidi,” Amalia touched the goat sticker. She crossed the room and took a framed photo from a dark, wooden end table. She brought the photo back to Chloe and handed it to her. The man pictured in close-up had boring, dark eyes surrounded by a thousand tiny lines and a bushy head of white hair. Whoever he was, he reminded Chloe a little of the picture of Mashal in the kitchen.
“Jid,” Amalia said.
Ah, Chloe understood. “Abu imik?” she asked. Your mother’s father?
“Abu abui,” my father’s father.
“Aish hon?” Does he live here? Chloe asked.
Amalia shook her head solemnly. “Maat,” dead, she said, “The soldiers killed him.”
Chloe wondered if she should ask follow-up questions or change the subject. Amalia did not seem distressed, though, so it would be weird to suddenly point to a giraffe and ask its Arabic name.
“When?” she asked.
“A long time ago. Intifada il Uwle.” If Jawad’s father was killed in First Intifada, that would make it fifteen years before Amalia was born.
“Here, in Salfit?” Chloe asked.
“Over there.” Amalia ran to the front door and leapt up to touch a nick in the wooden frame. Chloe walked over to inspect the bullet hole, as she was clearly expected to do.
“Was anyone else killed?” she asked.
“No. But my father got shot in his face.” Amalia held four fingers to her cheek. Her other hand clutching the portrait of her grandfather, outstretched, she resembled a tiny actress delivering a melodramatic monologue.
“Can I take your picture?” Chloe asked.
“Andik camera?” You have a camera? The little girl’s eyes lit up. She shed her theatrical fervor and became an ordinary kid yelling “Sawrini,” take my picture, as Chloe walked through any village in Palestine. Chloe found the camera in her pack and fussed with the settings. By the time she focused it on Amalia, the dramatic intensity she had wanted to capture had disappeared in a toothy smile. She snapped anyway, for form’s sake. She didn’t see any pictures of Amalia in the room, though there were several of the older boys. If these came out, she would print one and have it framed for Reem.
“Do you want to help me make dinner?” she asked.
“I can peel potatoes,” the girl said. An oblique demand for fries, Chloe figured. Fortunately, that was one of the few Palestinian dishes she knew how to make.
Despite the absence of chicken, Jawad had seconds of makluube and pronounced it “zaki,” delicious. Her fries met with Amalia’s approval, which had become very important to Chloe. Later, Amalia dried the dishes while Chloe washed. When they were done, they sat close together on the couch and Amalia opened her English book so that it straddled their laps.
“Read it,” she said.
“It’s your book,” Chloe said. “You read to me.”
“Raja was so excited,” Amalia read flawlessly. “Today was the day she would finally get to travel to Al Quds, to the Al Aqsa Mosque.”
“What is Al Aqsa?” Chloe asked.
“It is the holiest place in Palestine,” Amalia said.
“Have you ever been there?”
“No. The Jews do not allow us to go there.”
The back of Chloe’s neck prickled at the word “Jews.” But what Amalia had said was basically accurate.
“Not all Jews are in the Israeli army,” Chloe said. “Did you know that there are Jews who do not even live in Israel?”
“No.” Amalia looked down at her book. She turned the pages slowly until she found the picture she was looking for. “These are the Jews.” She pointed to two soldiers guarding a staircase in what looked like Jerusalem’s Old City. Behind the soldiers, a row of frightened children scurried away, holding hands.
“Those soldiers are Jews,” Chloe said. “But they are not the only Jews. I am a Jew, too.” She wondered if that was a mistake. If Amalia mentioned it to her parents, would Reem and Jawad feel she had lied to them?
Amalia tilted her head and scrunched up her face. “But where is your gun?”
Chloe laughed. “I don’t have a gun. I am not a soldier, see? I am not an Israeli; I am an American Jew.”
“I don’t care,” Amalia said. She closed the book and stood, twirling around. “You are my friend.”
It was after eleven, and she was still going strong. Like most Palestinian kids, she did not seem to have a bedtime. But if Chloe was going to play surrogate mom, her surrogate daughter was going to get a good night’s sleep.
“You’re my friend too,” she said. “And friends tell friends when it’s time to sleep.”
“What does that mean?”
Chloe laughed. “It doesn’t mean anything,” she said. “Aren’t you tired?”
“No.”
“I think if you lie down, you will be. It’s very late and you have school tomorrow.”
She had meant to make a bed for herself on the living room floor, using cushions from the couch. But when Amalia climbed into bed, she rolled all the way into the corner and patted the space next to her. Chloe could not refuse. She just hoped she wouldn’t do anything embarrassing, like snore or hog the blanket.
Chapter 34
As Rania prepared breakfast for Khaled and Bassam, she thought about her brief conversation with Kareem. She hoped he would not make trouble for Khaled. She had decided not to mention it to Bassam. She was sure Khaled would let them know if anything untoward happened at school.
If Elias had a bad reputation, why had she not heard about it? Was she that out of the mix? Six months ago, she would have known anything that was vaguely hinted at in any of the Salfit villages. The police station was a hothouse for gossip of every stripe. It had to be. Most information began as gossip.
Bassam took his tea to the living room and sat in his usual armchair with yesterday’s paper. She called to Khaled. When he did not answer, she went to his room and found him still in his pajamas, playing with his model train.
“Khaled! Get ready for school or you will be late.”
She took his school uniform, dark slacks and light-blue polo shirt, from where she had hung it last night, after washing and pressing it. He remained sitting on the floor.
“Choo choo choo. All aboard!” he said in English. At least he was learning some English at school, even if he was also learning to be disobedient.
“Khaled, now,” she said. When he did not move, she crossed to where he sat and hoisted him up by the arm. He was like a little rag doll, not fighting her but making her do all the work. She pulled the top of his pajamas over his head and replaced it with the blue shirt. The pants were harder, because she had to lift his legs and that required him to balance on one foot. He toppled to the floor and began sobbing noisily.
“Come on,” she said. “You
are not hurt. You are being a brat. Do you want to be late and get in trouble at school?”
“I don’t care.”
“You will care if you cannot be an engineer, because you stayed home and did not study.”
That worked better than she would have predicted. He stood up and put his pants on.
“Where are your books?” she asked, and he walked around the room gathering things that appeared to have been scattered by hurricane. She packed them all into his backpack.
“Hurry, you will not have time to eat,” she said. He followed her to the kitchen. She set his breakfast on the table. He ate three bites.
“I am full.”
“Eat some more. You will be very hungry later.” He dipped a little more bread into the zataar. “Khaled. Eat some labneh.” Why was he making everything a fight? She managed to get enough food in him that at least she didn’t think he would faint from lack of protein. She bustled him off to join the line of kids marching toward the school.
“I think I will come to Ramallah with you,” she said suddenly, as Bassam was preparing to leave.
He looked at her quizzically.
“There is someone I need to see,” she said. “The roommate of the boy who was killed.”
“The martyr from Kufr Yunus?” he asked.
What other boy did he think she might mean? “Daoud al-Khader, yes.” Why did everyone persist in calling him “the martyr”? It was as if they were daring her to find out what really happened.
“I still do not understand why you are doing this.”
“I told you; I am trying to help his family sue the army.”
“If that is so, how will going to Ramallah help you?”
“His roommate was with him in the village, when he fought with the soldiers.” It was a bald-faced lie, but he had no right to question her activities. Besides, she was not sure she believed what Elias had told her about that day. She needed to have a chat with him. She dressed quickly and left the house with her husband.
Once in Ramallah, she made her way to the apartment Elias shared with Ahmed. She wondered if they had gotten another roommate. No one answered the buzzer. She pressed it again, this time holding it down longer. Still no answer. She tried the front door, and it opened easily. What was the point of a buzzer if the door was unlocked? Perhaps the bell did not even work, and that was why they had not responded. She mounted the stairs and knocked smartly on the door.
Murder Under the Fig Tree Page 26
