The Collaborator of Bethlehem

“You haven’t eaten since the fast?” Maryam was shocked. “Come to the table. There’s plenty of ma’alubeh left. You have to eat.” She turned to Omar Yussef and added, firmly: “Particularly if you are diabetic.”

“No, I had something with the guys up at the station just now, thank you.” There was embarrassment in Zeydan’s voice. Omar Yussef understood that his friend needed no food so long as his hip-flask was full.

The Brigadier looked undernourished, thin. His face was almost as white as his hair, so that one might not notice the neat moustache against the puffy paleness of his cheeks, if it weren’t for the streak of nicotine that stained it below the nostrils. He lit a cigarette with his good hand. His left hand, a delicate prosthesis, rested on the arm of the chair, inside the tight shiny black leather glove that he kept over it at all times. Omar Yussef had once called on his friend at home in the morning and surprised him before he had dressed. He saw then that the false hand was made of a strangely washed-out green plastic, as though it were a bar of medicated soap or the flimsy limb of an alien creature. If he hadn’t seen the ugly evidence of his friend’s debilitation, Omar Yussef often thought, the glove would seem somehow sinister on a policeman, as though it were there to protect Khamis Zeydan’s knuckles when he beat a suspect. Instead, it struck him that the glove undercut the toughness his friend needed to do his job, a reminder that he was less than a man of full power. Sometimes when Khamis Zeydan was very drunk, he would stare at the false hand, full of hate. When sober, he was self-conscious and would place the hand unobtrusively in his lap. So with the prosthesis now unregarded in its glove on the armrest, Omar Yussef figured Khamis Zeydan must be only half drunk.

Maryam brought the coffees and a plate of baklava for the guest.

“I didn’t make it sa’ada for you, Abu Adel. I know you prefer it masbuta, so here it is, with a little sugar, just right.” She glanced at Omar Yussef, as though he had been rude to bring up Khamis Zeydan’s diabetes.

“Maryam is very generous. She will also pay for your medical fees when the diabetes gets worse,” Omar Yussef said.

“Maryam’s baklava is the best medicine,” Khamis Zeydan replied.

“I prescribe a long course of treatment,” Maryam said, with a gracious lowering of her head.

“Thank you, Doctor Maryam. Now please, I have to talk with our friend about something very important,” said Omar Yussef.

Maryam stared at him. She knows I intend to discuss George’s case, Omar Yussef thought. Khamis Zeydan was a policeman as well as a friend. Omar Yussef was about to make his concerns somehow official and his wife stood, stumped, unsure how to stop him now that the Brigadier was in the room.

“Abu Adel,” she said, “how are your wife and children in Amman?”

That’s all she can come up with? Omar Yussef was not impressed.

“They’re doing all right, thank you.”

“Maryam.” Omar Yussef glanced at the door.

“I’ll leave you alone,” she said. “But Abu Adel, don’t let my husband do anything foolish.”

“These days, I believe it is Abu Ramiz who prevents me from foolishness,” Khamis Zeydan said.

Maryam closed the door.

Khamis Zeydan held out his good hand, palm upwards. “What was that about?”

“She thinks I don’t want to be a schoolteacher any more.”

“Did that bastard American persuade you to retire?”

“No, it’s worse than that. She thinks I’d rather be a detective.”

“You’d make a very good detective. No one would ever be scared of you. They’d trust you, because you’re like the wise, honest uncle everyone wishes they had.”

“Then why don’t you hire me?”

“There’s no place for honesty in our police force.”

Khamis Zeydan nodded conspiratorially toward the sideboard. Omar Yussef stood and took out a bottle of Johhny Walker Black Label. He poured a big tumbler for Khamis Zey-dan and put the bottle away. He handed the tumbler to his friend, who immediately took a stinging gulp and cleared his throat, clamorously. Omar Yussef sat and drank his coffee.

“I want to talk to you about George Saba,” he said.

Khamis Zeydan paused with the glass already on its way to his lips for a second slug. He looked hard at Omar Yussef. “Are you going to tell me he’s innocent?”

“Yes.”

“Well, you don’t need to be a detective to know that.”

“You know?”

“Come on, he’s a harmless guy.”

“But he’s in your jail.”

“Preventive Security brought him in. He’s in my jail, but he’s not my prisoner.”

“How can you keep an innocent man in jail?”

“The jail is in Bethlehem, Palestine. It’s not in Copenhagen or Amsterdam. I hope that answers your question.”

“There’s something else. Look at this.” Omar Yussef took the bullet casing from his pocket and handed it to