Murder Under the Fig Tree

by Kate Jessica Raphael

  “Good morning, habibi.” His mother bussed him on the cheek and quickly turned back to the potatoes she was frying. Chloe saw a tear escape from the corner of her eye.

  “How were your dreams?” Chloe asked him in Arabic, mainly to see if she could say it in a way that he would understand.

  “Good,” he said. “I dreamed Mama and I were riding on a giraffe, and Baba brought us ice cream.” She thought he said “giraffe,” though he could have said jerafa, bulldozer.

  “Khaled,” Rania asked, placing a plate of fries and labneh on the kitchen table, “you said that Ustaz Kareem gave you the dog, right?”

  “That’s right,” Khaled answered. He sat at the table and reached for the hot potatoes. Chloe waited for Rania to join them before plowing into the bread, labneh, and zaatar. She heard Bassam moving around in the hall between the bedrooms and bathroom.

  “Did he buy it on the way to the hotel, or did he have it when you first saw him?” Rania asked.

  Chloe held her breath, following Rania’s train of thought. None of the young men had been carrying anything when they arrived at Al Yasmeen. If Kareem had bought the toy in the suq on the way back to the hotel, then one of the three of them had to have written that note.

  “He gave it to me as soon as I saw him,” Khaled said.

  That made it a little more interesting. It still seemed likely that one of them had bought the toy and put the note in it, but it was also possible that someone had handed it to them. In either case, there was something they had conveniently left out of their narrative the previous evening.

  “I am going to have to talk to Yusuf,” Rania said to Chloe in English.

  Chloe didn’t ask why him and not one of the others. She knew how Rania felt about Abdelhakim, ever since he had tried to sabotage her work last spring. Kareem would be in school, teaching Khaled, and Rania would not want to make unnecessary trouble with her son’s teacher.

  They got Khaled bundled off to school and sat down for another glass of tea with Bassam. He stroked his chin and looked unhappy when she said she was going to call Yusuf in a little while.

  “Let it rest,” he said. “Don’t you even care that you are endangering our child?”

  “Of course I do,” she protested. “But I am so close.”

  “Close to what?” he asked. He stirred the sugar into his tea emphatically. “Everyone is content. The soldier is in jail. If you leave it alone, the family may be able to get their money. You said that was what you wanted to achieve.”

  Rania put her hands on top of her head and tugged gently at her uncovered hair. Chloe felt like she was trying to yank the conflicting feelings out of her head.

  “If the soldier goes to jail for a crime he did not commit, where is the justice?” Rania said.

  “Ya’anni, there is no justice in this land,” Bassam replied. He finished his tea in a gulp and walked out. A few minutes later, he waved silently to them on his way out of the house.

  Chloe thought about that exchange as she went to brush her teeth. She had always believed she cared about an absolute form of justice as deeply as anyone on the planet. But Rania was a breed apart. It made her an ideal detective. It didn’t necessarily make her an ideal wife.

  Rania’s phone rang. It was Captain Mustafa. “Naam?” she greeted him.

  “How are you?” he asked.

  “I am well,” she said. “Thank you for your help.”

  “I did not really do anything,” he said. “But I am glad it worked out.” Worked out. That was an odd way to put it.

  “I spoke to the Nablus police,” he said. “They will continue trying to find out who is behind it.”

  “They must talk to the young man from Jemai’in,” she said.

  “Who?”

  “Elias Horani,” she said. “Yusuf’s brother. Yusuf said he thought his brother might know something about it.”

  “I did not hear that,” he said. “I will tell Captain Majid.” She had not known Majid’s title was captain, same as her boss’s. He seemed awfully young for so much responsibility.

  “I have one more question,” she said, forestalling his goodbyes. “Benny said the army searched the Palestinian American’s house on a tip from the muhabarat. Do you know where the muhabarat got the information?”

  “No, I did not hear anything about that,” he said. “I will see if Abu Ziyad knows.” She thanked him and hung up. She gathered up the breakfast dishes and set a pot of water on the stove to wash them with. Chloe emerged from the bathroom as she was waiting for the water to get hot.

  “I guess I should be going,” the American said. “What are you up to today?”

  “I have an appointment in Ramallah,” Rania said.

  “Oh. What kind of appointment?”

  “Just someone I need to see.” Chloe’s eyebrows shot up—both eyebrows, not one, like when Benny did it.

  “I just thought it might have something to do with Daoud,” Chloe said. “I didn’t mean to pry.”

  “You are not prying. I just cannot talk about it right now. But,” she said on a sudden impulse, “I have something to discuss with you. Can you come to Ramallah with me and, after my appointment, have lunch with me? There is a very nice café I went to once, with Daoud’s cousin, Ahmed. I would like to go back there.”

  “Well,” Chloe said, “I was not planning to go to Ramallah. Can’t we discuss whatever it is now?” Rania sensed there was some reason her friend did not want to go to Ramallah. But she insisted.

  “I do not have time,” Rania hedged. “I would rather get together later. And I would like company on the trip.”

  “Sure.” Chloe shrugged. “I don’t know if I am going to stay in Ramallah, but I can hang out there for a while.”

  They had nearly reached Ramallah when Captain Mustafa called back.

  “Yes?” Rania answered. The reception was bad and the car was noisy. But she heard the words “Abdelhakim,” “muhabarat” and “Abu Ziyad,” and understood that the tip that brought to soldiers to the Palestinian-American house had come from Abdelhakim via Abu Ziyad. Just as she had figured. The only questions were, had Abdelhakim planted the gun himself or was he passing on a message from one of his friends and, if the latter, which one? He and Yusuf had been in the area the day of the search, she reflected, but she did not see how they could have put the gun in the house just then. It must have been somewhere she had missed.

  Chapter 51

  Rania had become adept at sneaking into Jerusalem. She had given herself two extra hours to make the crossing, in case one, or even two, of the usual crossing points had soldiers lurking around. She made it on the first try, so she was very early for her appointment. She thought she was going to the Jerusalem Hotel for a coffee, but instead she found herself wandering into the Old City and standing in line for the Al Aqsa Mosque.

  After guaranteeing the Waqf men who searched her things that she was not menstruating, she entered the sanctuary. She had been here quite a few times in her youth, before Jerusalem was closed to West Bank Palestinians and before she had lost interest in religion as anything but a way of being connected to her people. She was struck again by the beauty, almost the magic, of the place. Foreigners only knew the golden dome that presided over the city, but the hand-painted ceiling mosaic and the Italian marble that made the walls were its true glories.

  She passed under the graceful arches and followed the sea of headscarves to the women’s chapel in the western corner. She removed her shoes and stood watching the women prostrate themselves to pray. She had not brought a mat, of course. She walked around the edge of the room and there found what she was seeking: a little bin full of ragged prayer mats. She took one and walked hesitantly up the center aisle. She laid out her mat on the soft, red carpet and knelt, then bent from the waist and placed her hands down by her sides. She felt a twinge in her middle and momentarily thought she was going to be sick. She ignored it, and the feeling subsided. She barely remembered how to do it. But when her head t
ouched the ground, the tension she had been carrying since her release from prison dissolved like a sugar cube in hot tea.

  “Allah Most Merciful,” she prayed. “Show me my path.”

  When she stood up, she felt a rush of well-being, as if a space had opened in her lungs and the love of God, or of her community, which might be the same thing, had rushed in to fill it. She was no longer afraid of what she might learn at the appointment she was now in danger of being late for.

  She took a servees to the Shuafat refugee camp and asked someone for directions to the medical clinic. She had chosen this camp precisely because she had never been there and knew no one who lived here, though now it seemed a silly precaution. She entered the little storefront, tucked between the fitness club and the pharmacy, and gave her name to the receptionist. Half an hour later, she had the information she had been dreading, which she now accepted with a calm serenity, if not the excitement the nurse was expecting.

  “How far along am I?” she asked.

  “Perhaps two months,” the nurse said. As Rania suspected, she had already been pregnant when she was in prison. She shuddered to imagine that she could have given birth in there, shackled to a dirty bed with soldiers watching her spread her legs and push the baby out. Then she wondered, could all the men who were nagging her about having a baby see something in her that she herself had not? If so, it would not be the first time.

  She bounded into the street to find a servees to Ramallah, where she would have a lovely lunch with Chloe. Tonight, she would give Bassam the good news.

  It felt strange to be in Ramallah but unable to call Tina. For so long, Chloe had dreamed of them being in the same city. How quickly it had fallen apart, once her dreams had become reality. But that was usually the case with dreams. She had come here on a noble impulse, to get Rania out of jail, and she had succeeded. She wouldn’t undo it if she could.

  She tried to shop for presents for her friends at home. She looked at T-shirts printed with English slogans—why would you bring those as souvenirs from Palestine?—and Chinese knickknacks. Water pipes always seemed like a good idea, but, in fact, no one she gave them to ever used them. It would be better to buy things in the Old City in Nablus or the market in Tulkarem, where you could get real crafts for a fair price. Or, better yet, she would call one of the Salfit women Reem had introduced her to and arrange a private showing of the crafts they made to sell in their hoped-for cooperative.

  She passed a travel agency with signs proclaiming Amsterdam—800 NIS, London—1200 NIS, Riyadh—600 NIS, Tokyo—4000 NIS. If she had seen a sign for San Francisco, she might have gone in. As it was, she passed it by. Tina had said she still loved her. Maybe something could be salvaged. The bigger question was what she was going to do. She couldn’t just float around, looking for people who might need rides to the hospital or help getting a relative out of jail. She would work on her video, maybe write an article about women in the Palestinian government, but that wasn’t a full-time job.

  She was passing the building on al-Irsal Street where Addameer, the prisoner support group, had its offices. She had gone there a year ago, when she was trying to get Fareed released. Why not? she thought. What do you have to lose? She took the elevator to the group’s seventh floor offices.

  “I was wondering,” she said to the receptionist in passable Arabic, “if you might need any computer help.”

  Half an hour later, she walked out with a disk containing the files from their website, which she had agreed to redesign. After her lunch with Rania, she would call Tina and see if it was okay for her to go back to the apartment and start her work. When she stepped into the art café called Ziryab, Rania was already sitting at a table near the little gas fire, reading an Arabic newspaper.

  “You look happy,” Chloe said.

  “I am,” Rania said. “I am pregnant.”

  “That’s wonderful,” Chloe said. She had thought Rania wasn’t so sure she wanted another kid right now. But, if her friend was happy, she was happy for her.

  The waiter appeared to take their order. “I will have a cappuccino and an omelet,” Rania said. “And some fries. I am very hungry,” she added to Chloe.

  “Sounds good,” Chloe said. “I’ll have the same. So, what did you want to talk to me about?” she asked when the waiter had gone to place their orders.

  “It is not important,” Rania said.

  Chloe felt her face fall. Silence sat between them for some seconds.

  “I had planned to ask you,” Rania said, playing with the fringes of her headscarf, “if you knew how to end an unwanted pregnancy.”

  Chloe’s mouth dropped open, and she snapped it shut, her teeth clacking against one another. “I don’t, at least, not here,” she said. “Though I’m sure I could have found out. What…what changed your mind?”

  The waiter brought their coffees and Rania stirred two sugars into hers.

  “I went to the mosque,” she said. She cradled the cup in both hands, though the café was warm and they were seated by the fire. “Somehow, it all became clear to me. I have been thinking that I needed to choose between my work and my family. But when I knelt down to pray, I saw that I can have everything I want.”

  “That’s great,” Chloe said. She wanted to ask if Rania normally drank coffee while she was pregnant, but she decided that would be crossing the intimacy line. Khaled was perfectly healthy, so Rania clearly knew how to take care of herself during pregnancy. One espresso was not going to hurt the baby.

  “I had thought maybe…” Chloe said, then stopped.

  Rania looked up from her drink, which she had been studying as if to learn its secrets.“…you wanted to tell me about Tina and her friend Yasmina.”

  Rania looked startled, then abashed. “I was not sure there was anything to tell,” she said.

  “Did it seem to you,” Chloe asked, the words coming one by one like stray olives at the end of picking season, “that they were more…natural…together than Tina and I are?”

  Rania looked down at her coffee. She swirled it in her hand, making the froth jiggle. She lifted it to her lips but did not really drink. “Honestly, no,” she said at last. “They spoke Arabic together, and perhaps they spoke less. But that may not mean they are more comfortable together. It could mean they have less to say.”

  Chloe thought about that. She remembered the conversation she and Tina had had about Rania. She is Palestinian but not lesbian; I am lesbian but not Palestinian, Chloe had said then. She had thought that since Yasmina was both, she would be a more perfect fit for Tina, who was both as well. Now she thought, Yasmina is Palestinian but not Western; I am Western but not Palestinian. She thought about how difficult it must be for Tina to find one person who could comprehend her complex identity. But could Chloe share Tina with another woman? Would that be better or worse than living without her?

  The waiter put steaming plates of eggs and fries before them. It had been hours since their breakfast. Chloe realized how hungry she was. She ate half the fries on her plate before she slowed down. Rania was taking one bite every few minutes. Chloe wondered if she had a little morning sickness—or afternoon sickness, since it was nearly one.

  “I’ve been thinking about something,” Chloe said. Rania looked down at the food on her plate, no doubt wondering what uncomfortable subject Chloe was going to bring up next. “Why did Yusuf think that Elias might be involved in Khaled’s kidnapping?” she said. She hoped it was not a mistake to bring up the kidnapping. But Rania seemed intrigued.

  “I did not ask him,” she said. “I was so thankful to have my son back, I forgot.”

  “Do you think Elias killed Daoud?” Chloe asked.

  “I do not know what to think,” Rania said. “I thought he told us the truth. But he told us Issa found them together, and Issa says that he did not. One of them is obviously lying. After yesterday, I am not sure who to trust.”

  They ate in silence for a few minutes more. “I must call Yusuf and ask him about thi
s,” Rania said suddenly. She rummaged in her purse and pulled out a folded napkin. When she unfolded it, it revealed some smudged writing. Upside down, Chloe could not begin to read the Arabic, but she could see that it contained numbers. Rania took out her mobile phone and started to punch in the numbers. She stopped after four digits.

  “Elias,” she said and jumped up. She fumbled in her purse for her wallet and extracted a twenty shekel note. She signaled frantically for the waiter.

  “What’s going on?” Chloe asked. She swatted Rania’s hand away from the waiter, who had arrived at their table, and thrust at him a fifty of her own.

  “I must warn him,” Rania said. She was speeding out of the café, and Chloe had no choice but to run after her.

  “I don’t understand,” she said breathlessly, when she caught up to her friend. Rania was about to jump into a taxi. Chloe climbed in after her, nearly landing on top of her.

  “This note,” Rania waved the little piece of paper she had taken from the stuffed dog in Chloe’s face. She must have been carrying it in her purse. She took it out of her friend’s hand. She couldn’t read it; it was in Arabic. She sounded out the words letter by letter, but for what? She knew what it said.

  “I believe the person who wrote this note,” Rania said, “also wrote this one.” She handed Chloe the napkin with Yusuf’s phone number. “Yusuf wrote this to tell me how to get to his class,” Rania explained. “And that means he wrote this one as well.”

  “I understand,” Chloe said, though she did not exactly. “But why then are we going to Elias’s house?” She assumed that was where they were headed.

  “I told Captain Mustafa that Yusuf had implicated his brother,” Rania said. “The police may come to arrest him. I am sad to say it, but our interrogation methods can sometimes be unpleasant.”

  Chapter 52