“Tell them I want to see them when they visit.” Nasra smoothed her skirt and closed the door behind her.
“Double-health and well-being in your heart,” Charles Hal-loun said as Omar Yussef began to drink his coffee.
Omar Yussef put the coffee on the table. “Abu Jeriez, I will ask you a direct question. How is my family provided for?”
Charles Halloun sat forward. The dense eyebrows drew close to the bridge of his nose in concern. “Is something wrong with your health, Abu Ramiz?”
“No, not really.”
“Well, you have the income from the investments your dear father made. There are some shares in the Arab Bank, some Egyptian bonds, and there is the rent from the land Abu Omar purchased in Beit Sahour shortly before he passed away. Most of this has been reinvested, because you live on your UN salary. But you could draw an income from it. I think retirement probably wouldn’t alter your lifestyle too much.” Charles Halloun cocked his head. “Are you sure it is only retirement that’s on your mind, Abu Ramiz? You’re a young man.”
“I’m fifty-six.”
“But you’re in good health, thank God.”
“Yes and no. I no longer consume alcohol, but I drank enough for a lifetime before I quit ten years ago. It’s only five years since I stopped smoking, and I sometimes feel a little short of breath even today. I don’t exercise, except for walking to the school in the morning. And, well, there are some things that I won’t go into except to say that they cause me a great deal of worry, which I’m sure is something of a stress on my heart.”
“No alcohol, no cigarettes? Your life is one long Ramadan.”
“But for almost fifty years, it was a continuous
“I shall prepare a report for you with some projections of the income that you would be able to live on.”
“All I need is food and money to treat my grandchildren to presents. I don’t travel very much, just once a year to Amman with Maryam to visit my brother, and once a year a vacation in Morocco by myself.”
“This should be no problem, Abu Ramiz. You will be able to afford to continue with those trips.”
The two men drank their coffee.
“I spoke to Ramiz this morning about something delicate,” Charles Halloun said. “I thought perhaps you might discuss it with him, too. He wants to expand his business, to open several more mobile phone shops around the Bethlehem area. The problem is that expanding businesses tend to attract the attention of some disreputable types these days. There are a number of them that have been taken over rather suddenly by the Martyrs Brigades.”
“You mean protection money?”
“No, that’s old hat. I mean, they take over. Just like that.” Charles Halloun snapped his fingers. “These days they come to the house of the owner with a contract and say, ‘Sign it over to us or we’ll kill you and take the business anyway.’”
“You’re worried this might happen to Ramiz?”
“All the gunmen use mobile phones. They can see that it’s a real business. That attracts them. Look how they just took over the Abdel Rahman auto shops.”
Omar Yussef felt his heart draw an extra pulse. “What?”
“When the Israelis killed Louai Abdel Rahman, the family lost its protection within the resistance factions. So long as Louai was alive, no one could touch the Abdel Rahmans, unless they wanted to fight the part of the militia that was loyal to him. Their auto shops became very successful. They have one in Irtas, two in Bethlehem and one in al-Khader. But as soon as Louai was killed, the Martyrs Brigades went to his father and told him to hand over the keys to the business. Now it’s all in the hands of Hussein Tamari’s brother.”
“I’m shocked,” Omar Yussef said. “Louai has only been dead two days.”
“Nothing Hussein Tamari does could shock me.”
Omar Yussef thought back to the mourning tent for Louai Abdel Rahman. When Hussein Tamari came along the path firing his MAG in the air, it wasn’t just a noisy sign of tribute: it was a threat. He remembered how Louai’s father had looked disturbed by something Hussein Tamari said to him, even as he was supposed to be offering his condolences.
“No,” said Charles Halloun. “The resistance-hero pose doesn’t fool me. I’ve known that bastard Hussein Tamari for exactly what he is ever since he jailed me for tax evasion.”
Omar Yussef looked perplexed.
“Oh, I didn’t evade any taxes, Abu Ramiz,” Charles Halloun said. “It was a racket. Tamari pulled the same trick on a dozen other businessmen here and in Hebron, too. Six years ago, he came here with a squad of Preventive Security officers. They were disrespectful to Nasra, and they took me away. They didn’t confiscate any of our files or records. There was no investigation. They just took me to the jail in Jericho and locked me up. Tamari told me, ‘Look, you haven’t paid your taxes. Give me thirty thousand dollars or I’ll have you accused of collaboration with the occupation and you’ll sit in this cell until you rot.’”
“What did you do?”
“I told him to fuck himself and demanded to see a lawyer. Pardon my language, Abu Ramiz.”
“That’s all right. And so?”
“He laughed in my face. Then he slapped it.” Charles Hal-loun gasped at the memory. “He tortured me, Abu Ramiz. I don’t like to tell you everything he did to me, but let me just say that every time I stand up I still get a shooting pain through my back and it reminds me of my time with Abu Walid.”
