The Collaborator of Bethlehem

“But who else would want him dead? A Palestinian, maybe?”

Khamis Zeydan was silent. His face was blank and cold. He drank the rest of the whisky in a single pull and crushed his cigarette in the crystal ashtray on the coffee table. “I really must go, Abu Ramiz.”

“Wait, there’s something you aren’t telling me.”

“The only thing I have to tell you, Abu Ramiz, is this: whoever fired this bullet whose casing you found is sure to have many more bullets, and he probably doesn’t care who he has to shoot to get what he wants. Do you understand?” Khamis Zeydan stood.

Omar Yussef rose, too. “Give me that bullet. I want to keep it anyway.”

Khamis Zeydan pressed the cartridge casing into Omar Yussef’s palm. “You’re a determined man, and I know you can be stubborn. But I’m your friend, and I really must tell you that this is not a matter for a schoolteacher to get involved in.”

“A schoolteacher? You said I’d be a good detective.”

Khamis Zeydan stopped in the doorway. “In Palestine, there’s no such thing as a good detective.”

Chapter 7

Hurrying along Dehaisha’s main street, Omar Yussef headed for the UN school. The cold dawn wind lanced sharply through the valley, north toward Jerusalem, carrying the taint of diesel fumes. Omar Yussef had woken with a headache that grew worse now as he walked. He didn’t doubt that it was the result of the stress brought on by Khamis Zey-dan’s warnings. He had barely slept that night after the policeman left his home.

Omar Yussef considered himself an independent thinker, a man who challenged the way most people in his community saw the world. But that night he had doubted himself. He lay awake thinking, You’re all talk, Omar. When it comes time for action, you’re paralysed by worry, bullied by the thought that someone will hurt you. When he did fall asleep, he jolted upright in fear. He thought Hussein Tamari was in the room. His heart was thundering, even as he told himself that there was no one there, no sound except Maryam’s wheezy, light snoring. Did he really think Hussein Tamari had been present when Louai was killed, just because of the cartridges he had found? Why would the leader of the resistance in Bethlehem collaborate with the Israelis? Why would he want Louai dead? Khamis Zeydan had told him that Israeli soldiers used that big machine gun, too. Perhaps Louai Abdel Rahman was mistaken when he spoke to a man he believed was named Abu Walid. Maybe Louai only thought he recognized the person lying in wait for him. It had been dark already, according to Dima. It could just as easily have been a soldier from some Israeli hit squad, lying in wait between the pines.

When the first light came and Omar Yussef got out of bed, he returned to that thought. If I get close to finding out who Abu Walid is, there’s a danger he might try to stop me, even to hurt me, no matter how much protection I have from my clan and its connections with tough guys in Hamas and Fatah. But if there’s no Abu Walid, if Louai Abdel Rahman simply made a mistake, then there’s no one out there who’ll feel threatened by me. I could be placing myself in danger, but only if I’m on the trail of the man who truly has framed George Saba, in which case I’m doing the right thing and this man deserves to be unmasked.

That moment clarified for Omar Yussef what he must do. He tried to keep those thoughts foremost in his mind as he walked to the school.

A Blackhawk chopped southward above Omar Yussef’s head. The Israeli helicopter flew in and out of the low, dark clouds on a reconnaissance mission over the camp. The resonant thudding spooked a mentally handicapped boy in his early twenties whom Omar Yussef often saw when he was on his way to the school. Usually the boy, whose name was Nayif, bounded along the street with exaggeratedly long strides, talking animatedly to himself and wagging an admonitory finger at approaching taxis. When he heard the baritone flutter of the helicopter, the boy panicked. He put his hands on his elongated, egg-shaped head and wailed incoherently. Omar Yussef approached him. He smiled at the boy and held out his hand with the palm upwards, as if testing for rain. The boy did the same, looking up at the clouds. After a moment he grinned and, in his slurred speech, said, “It’s only raining, uncle.”

Omar Yussef nodded and put his hand on Nayif’s shoulder reassuringly before he walked on.

It was true that it would rain soon from the clouds that licked the Blackhawk. It would come hard. The streets would be mud where the tanks had cut them up. The dusty topsoil would tinge the rain the color of urine and, where it gushed down the slopes, it would ride over the top of Omar Yussef’s wing tips and leave them sprinkled with grit that would take him careful hours to polish away. Omar Yussef was not a believer, he usually had trouble remembering Koranic quotations, but the words of that book on the subject of rain came to him as he left the handicapped boy: “Know that Allah restores the earth to life after its death.” Allah, of course, claimed that he would perform the same restoration to the believers on the Day of Judgment. Omar Yussef looked about him as he approached the UN school. The dirty alleys of the camp seemed most desolate in the first, flat light of a winter’s day. Allah didn’t restore life to earth. He multiplied the number of lives on earth, but allowed their quality to diminish and their essence to drain away. Omar Yussef had never thought that life was a waste—what true educator could think that way? He wondered when it would be that Allah would restore life to him. Hell, he would have to do it for himself, and the case of George Saba would be his vehicle.

A tall black stone cut to the shape of the map of Palestine stood on a plinth outside the school. Its dimensions marked the complete area of Palestine, from the squiggle of the Lebanese border down to the long V of the Naqab Desert, the scope of the state to which the camp’s leaders insisted its refugees would return. The statue was intended to make those aspirations firm and real and enduring, like stone. Every time Omar Yussef passed it, he felt as though the block might topple onto him, crushing him with the hopeless rigidity of his people’s politics. His eye picked out the spot on the smooth stone map where his village once stood. His father’s village, he corrected himself. Omar Yussef had no village.

Omar Yussef heard the light rap of rain on the cashmere of his flat cap. He looked up and a drop landed on his lips. He remembered the hand he held out for rain before the handicapped boy. I made it rain, he thought, mocking himself.

Omar Yussef entered the UN school. He walked down the corridor, greeting the other teachers as he passed them. He went to Christopher Steadman’s office, knocked and entered.

The UN director didn’t stand and Omar Yussef didn’t sit. The smell of body odor was gone. Someone must have found a way to tell Steadman that the history teacher had played a trick on him, or perhaps the American simply decided that he must wash, even if it violated Ramadan. Omar Yussef stood before the desk and said, “I’m ready to consider retirement.”

Omar Yussef detected the barely disguised smile that nibbled at the edges of Steadman’s lips before the American made a serious face. “I think that’s a wise decision, Abu Ramiz.”