The Collaborator of Bethlehem

by Matt Beynon Rees

  “I no longer wish to retire.”

  “You have until the end of the month to decide,” Stead-man said.

  “I don’t need that long. I already decided.”

  “I would prefer that you take until the end of the month. In any case, I’ve taken on a replacement. She has been paid until the end of the month, so you have nowhere to come.” Stead-man lifted his head so that it was straight and jutted forward on his neck. “Until then, at least.”

  Omar Yussef could see that he would have to wait a few weeks before he could take over his classroom once more. He decided on a delaying tactic. “I must insist that you do not tell people that I have retired. It is damaging to my reputation.”

  “I haven’t told anyone.”

  “I believe you have.”

  “I have not.”

  “Perhaps you forgot.” Omar Yussef paused and looked very hard at Steadman. He forced himself to approach the American constructively, with the kind of argument that might overcome Steadman’s apparent dislike of his history teacher. “You have to understand something about Arab culture, Christopher. If you allow me to retire on my own terms, it’s quite possible that I will decide to go. If, through no intention of your own, you make it appear as though I have been forced out, I shall have to remain in my job to counter that impression.”

  Steadman looked thoughtful, rolling his tongue about his mouth. Omar Yussef saw that the director understood he had made a tactical error.

  “It’s a cultural matter, Christopher. You see, it would reflect badly upon me. But I don’t expect that to concern you. No, the important thing from your point of view is that it would make you look very culturally insensitive and other people would find it hard to trust you. You know, I have many friends and my clan is one of the most prominent in Dehaisha camp.”

  “Are you saying that you want to retire, after all?”

  “I am tending toward that course.” Omar Yussef enjoyed the sound of the English words. It made him happy to talk his way around Steadman in the American’s own language. “I can’t say anything definitive. I only ask that you consider the cultural implications of my position. I know that you are sensitive to these things. Your reputation in the camp is for exactly this kind of sensitivity. I wish to help you protect that good name.”

  Steadman took off his glasses. Omar Yussef had him confused but not yet beaten. Now was the time for his ace.

  “To appear to force me out of the school during the holy month of Ramadan . . . Well, this would be a great insult to all the Muslims of the camp.”

  Steadman looked up with the hint of a frown. Got him, Omar Yussef thought.

  “Very well, Abu Ramiz. I shall wait until the end of the month,” Steadman said. “Until then, I shall tell everyone that you continue to teach here.”

  “Actually, it would be wiser to wait for the end of Ramadan itself.”

  “That’s three more weeks.”

  “Then there’s the Eid. The Eid al-Fitr.”

  “The holiday after Ramadan?”

  “Yes, it marks the new moon.”

  “I know that.” Steadman flipped his eyeballs upward in irritation. “So you won’t decide until the new moon?” His voice was sarcastic.

  “It would not be appropriate for a Muslim to make such a decision during the holy month. It is a time for communing with the Master of the Universe, not for trivial, earthly matters like employment or retirement decisions.”

  You can look that up in the hadith of the Prophet titled Fuck You, Steadman.

  Wafa gave him a knowing nod as he passed her desk on his way out. Omar Yussef left the school. He had arrived only a few moments earlier and experienced a nostalgia for the sound of children reciting in unison. He had been determined to take up his old job and abandon his investigation, but the hiring of a replacement teacher forced him to reconsider. Now there were three weeks before he would have to tell Steadman what he wanted to do about retirement.

  Omar Yussef came out onto the muddy street and turned past the black granite statue of the map of Palestine toward his home. He wasn’t sure that he could just sit around the house brooding on his decision. To retire or to continue in his work? He would know the answer when the moment came. Until that time, there was something else that he must decide. He remembered the murdered body of Dima Abdel Rahman. He still couldn’t tell if his overwhelming feeling was of determination to expose her killer or fear that by investigating he had already exposed himself to too much of the reality of life in his town, too much danger.

  The wind came colder along the empty street. Nayif skipped toward Omar Yussef, wearing a filthy white T-shirt. He hugged himself with his bare arms, but smiled at Omar Yussef. “It’s still raining, uncle,” he called out, as he jumped into a puddle.

  Omar Yussef listened. There was the sound of the helicopter, resonating through the clouds still. He wondered if it were the only noise the boy could hear, ringing inside his misshapen head. Omar Yussef smiled back and looked up at the blustery sky. He lifted the collar of his jacket to keep the chill from his neck and wondered if his herringbone coat would be enough to keep George Saba from dying of the cold in his cell.

  Chapter 13

  As he approached his house, Omar Yussef felt filthy. He recalled the touch of Dima Abdel Rahman’s eyelids on his fingertips, delicate and caressing like the wings of a butterfly, but still and dead. The mud of the street sprayed gray-brown splashes on his loafers and the cuffs of his chocolate-brown trousers. He sensed people staring at him and wondered if they were angry parents, resentful that he taught their children to be freethinking outcasts. Perhaps they already knew what Dima’s death and George’s arrest had led him to suspect: to study with Omar Yussef was to make yourself so dangerous that society would have to blot you out. He was so uncomfortable by the time he opened his front door that he had decided to do nothing more about George Saba’s case for that day at least, and perhaps ever.

  “Grandpa, you look very cold.” Nadia came to Omar Yussef as he entered. She took one of his hands and began to rub it and blow on it comically.

  Omar Yussef glanced at the wall mirror. He looked like a vagrant. His hair stuck out spikily from beneath his flap cap. His skin was sallow and, though he was indeed very cold, he seemed to be sweating. His eyes were bloodshot. He wondered if he were sick. He managed to smile for his granddaughter and asked her to bring him some tea. He went into the salon and sat in front of the gas heater. It was like sinking into a warm bath.

  Maryam came to the door. Omar Yussef glanced at her, assuming that she brought the tea he had asked Nadia to make. But there was something else in her hands which made him look up a second time from the soothing, orange glow of the heater.

  “Omar, are you crazy?”

  Maryam brandished the old Webley revolver that Omar Yussef had hidden in the bedroom closet.

  “There are children in this house. You can’t bring a gun in here,” she said. “What on earth do you want it for?”

  Omar Yussef reached out his hand. It shook as it always did, but more so now from the cold and the shock of seeing George Saba’s antique gun in his wife’s small hands. “Give that to me, Maryam.”

  “No, I’m throwing it out. Tell me why you brought it into our house. Imagine if the Israelis came in here and found it. They would take you away. Or Ramiz. They would take away our son.”

  “Stop it, Maryam. You’re overreacting.”

  Maryam looked truly angry now. “Omar, you don’t know what things are like in this town now. You get up every day and you go to the school. You teach the kids about the past. You stop in at one of your friends’ offices for a coffee, and then you come back here and read all night. I go to the market and I hear people, and I see things. And Ramiz tells me of the events he knows you don’t want to hear about.”

  “What does he keep from me?”

  “He doesn’t like to upset you.”

  “Upset me, how?”

  “With reality,” Maryam yell
ed. She waved the pistol at Omar Yussef. “This gun is real, and I found it in our closet. So it’s time for you to tell me what this gun is for.”

  Omar Yussef patted his hand on the sofa. Maryam came, reluctantly, and sat.

  “It was George Saba’s. It is George Saba’s gun.” Omar Yussef thought of telling her about his investigation. He saw how her anger slipped away at the mention of George’s name. But the truth in its entirety would include his decision to investigate, and his present doubts about the dangers of continuing in his detective work. He decided to tell a half-truth. “Habib Saba gave it to me yesterday, when I went to see him. It is an antique pistol that George was going to sell in his shop. Habib gave it to me as a gift. I put it in the closet because I don’t want the children to see a gun around the house, even if it is a gun that no longer works. I’m sorry, Maryam. I should have told you.”

  “I’m sorry that I was angry.” Maryam substituted for her anger with fussiness. “Omar, you’re cold. Where is your coat?”

  He waved away her question.

  “You need to warm up. I’ll make you some tea.”

  She stopped at the door and held up the gun. “I’ll put this back in the closet. For now.”

  Wearily, Omar Yussef nodded.

  As Maryam turned, Omar Yussef heard the front door open. He saw his wife hide the gun behind her back. Ramiz came in from the street.

  “Hi, Mother.”

  Maryam greeted him as she left the hallway to hide the gun. Omar Yussef noticed guiltily that her voice shook as she said hello to her son.

  Ramiz stood in the doorway, watching the spot where his mother had been with a look of mild contentment. He looked into the salon and, when he saw his father, his expression became serious. He unzipped his parka and joined Omar Yussef on the couch.

  “Dad, I have to talk to you.”

  Omar Yussef sensed a tone of warning in his son’s voice. He must know something about what I’ve been doing, he thought. I’m supposed to be the detective, but everyone’s investigating me. He tried to divert his son. “Halloun the accountant tells me you’re expanding your business. I’m happy that trade is good for you.”

  Ramiz stopped a moment, as though he wanted to address Omar Yussef’s comment, but he shook his head and ignored it. “The Martyrs Brigades people came to my shop this morning.”

  Omar Yussef sat up sharply.

  Ramiz noticed his motion. “I see you know what I’m talking about. They know that you’re trying to clear George Saba. On the one hand, I assume that the fact they want you to stop is a sign that they’re involved in the killing for which George is being blamed. On the other hand, if guys like that want you to stop, you simply have to do so.” He put his hand on Omar Yussef’s forearm. “Dad, these men are really evil. They’ll do anything.”

  Omar Yussef tried to speak, but he needed to clear his throat first. What Ramiz had told him made him more nervous than he would have expected. He coughed. “What did they say?”

  “It was Hussein Tamari who came to see me. The big boss. He made threats, Dad. Threats against my business, that he’d burn it down. Threats that he’d do something to this house.” He paused. “He didn’t say it directly, but I got the impression he would hurt you physically, too.”

  “He said he’d kill me?”

  “No, but he implied he’d beat you up. If those guys beat you, Dad, it’d take you a long time to recover, if you ever did.”

  “At my age, you mean?”

  “I didn’t say that. But you aren’t in the best shape, are you? I’m just worried about you.”

  “If you’re so worried about me, why did you mention the threats to your business first?”

  “Because I know you. I know how stubborn you are. If I said they made threats against you, you’d just say ‘Fuck them.’ If I told you the threats affect the rest of your family, I figured maybe you’d think twice.”

  “In other words, you’re on their side.”

  “No, Dad.” Ramiz sounded exasperated.

  “Yes, you are. You’re trying to make sure that I give in to their threats. That’s how they run this town, isn’t it? They turn up at your shop. They look tough. They sound mean. Then you run off and get me to stop investigating.”

  “Don’t make me sound so cowardly. It isn’t like that. I’m trying to be realistic.

  “Realistic?”

  “Yes, and responsible. We have a big clan. It’s big enough that it gives us more protection than most people might have. Tamari doesn’t come directly to you and hurt you, because he’d be starting a war with the Sirhans in Hamas and Fatah, and with the rest of us, too. But the clan can only protect you so much. If you carry on with your detective nonsense, eventually Tamari will act.”

  Omar Yussef looked down at his hands and pressed them together. They felt powerful. Maybe he didn’t look strong; perhaps he even seemed a little frail for a man of his age, but he knew that there was a force within him that couldn’t be seen by anyone, even the son who knew him best. He sat up straight. “I went to see George Saba this morning.”

  “At the jail? How did you get in there?”

  “It doesn’t matter. Anyway, George doesn’t have your option— of being realistic.”

  “But we have an option. I have a problem, and I’ve come to you. A problem that threatens everything we have. Most of all it threatens to take my father from me.” Ramiz’s voice caught. “I don’t know how I’d live without you, Dad.”

  Omar Yussef put his hand on his son’s shoulder. Ramiz shook slightly and covered his face with his hand. He wiped a fingertip beneath his eyes and tried to smile. He was chubbier than his father. His facial structure made him look like Omar Yussef’s mother. His cheekbones were wide and high, and his eyes had a lazy glibness that concealed his sharp intelligence. The things Ramiz said were the words of a normal, decent man. He’s worried about his kids, about his business, about his own father, Omar Yussef thought. He’s planning for the future by building his phone stores, rather than risking his life for the sake of his legacy, for the way in which people will remember him. I’m trying to find out who killed Dima Abdel Rahman, a person who’s dead and gone, and to save George Saba, a man who’s as good as dead. It’s all so people will look back and see that I was someone who made children into worthy adults. What will they say if I ruin my family in the process?

  It was no good, though; that was how he always had been and he wouldn’t change that, even if he could. He only had to look at the expensive cars driven about town by the dumbest of his ex-pupils to know that integrity and knowledge were worthless in the world. But they were precious to him. If he had a soul, he thought, its core would be warmed by the love of his sons and his wife and his grandchildren. But its fringes were insulated against the slime of Bethlehem by his morality and his principles. If Ramiz didn’t see that now, he would understand in the end.

  Omar Yussef went to the coat rack by the front door. He put on a beige parka.

  “Dad, where are you going?”

  Omar Yussef opened the door and felt the freshness of the cold air. “I’m going to talk this over with someone.” He stepped outside.

  Chapter 14

  Omar Yussef walked up the hill toward the souk. He felt at once furious and calm. These gunmen scum of the Martyrs Brigades threatened him, but they chose not to do so to his face. They went to work on his son, instead. Why was everyone going behind his back? The gunmen went to Ramiz; Steadman connived with the schools inspector. It seemed to Omar Yussef that if anything was to be brought out into the open, it would be up to him to accomplish it. Naturally, he would do so alone.

  In spite of his anger, Omar Yussef felt a sense of composure. It was based on the strength of belonging. He belonged in this town more than these gangsters. Hussein Tamari’s clan was living in filthy tents on the periphery of the desert back when Omar Yussef’s dear father was an admired figure whose opinion the leading families of Jerusalem respected. In his father’s world, there was l
aw and gentility. But in the desert, the traditions by which life was lived were as absolute and harsh as the sun. Tamari’s people now congregated in the village of Teqoa, just south of Bethlehem, but they were still as brutal as their nomadic fathers.

  “Peace be upon you, ustaz.”

  Omar Yussef stopped. “And upon you, peace.”

  “How are you?” The greeting was from one of his old pupils who worked now as an architect. Omar Yussef couldn’t remember the name of the man, who was in his mid-twenties.

  “I’m as well as can be expected,” Omar Yussef said. “How is your business?”

  “Well, not so good. In all this fighting a lot of buildings are being knocked down, but not many are being built.” The man laughed. “Times are bad for architects. And I can’t get into Jerusalem to my office, of course. All the checkpoints are closed and I have no permission to pass through them.”

  Omar Yussef parted with the man and savored the friendly simplicity of the exchange. He remembered his name now— Khaled Shukri. His father had been killed in crossfire outside the hospital two years earlier. He wished he had remembered the name sooner, so that he might have inquired about his former pupil’s mother. He had heard that she became chronically depressed after her husband’s sudden death.

  The calmness Omar Yussef had sensed in himself, the feeling of belonging in Bethlehem, was overwhelmed by his anger at the gunmen. Here was a boy who had worked hard at the Frères School and become a professional. Khaled Shukri’s intention was to build his hometown into something lovely, to replace the neglected refugee slums with functional new homes and to refurbish decrepit Ottoman mansions as hotels and restaurants. The curfews and gunfights had destroyed his career, murdered his father and made his mother suicidal. This was the reward for his goodness. Yet the gunmen thrived, they whose accomplishments and talents were of the basest nature, they who would have been obliterated had there been law and order and honor in the town. Perhaps Bethlehem was their town, after all, and it was Omar Yussef who was the outlaw interloper here, peddling contraband decency and running a clandestine trade in morality.