The Collaborator of Bethlehem

“It’s more than that.”

“Why are you so obsessed with death?”

“I’m waiting for my own murderer.”

Khamis Zeydan threw up his hands and stared at Omar Yussef. “This is crazy,” he said, walking away. “I’ve got an investigation to conduct. I have a lot of interviews with potential witnesses here. I’ll have one of the men take you back to Dehaisha.”

Omar Yussef’s head, which had felt so hot, was cold now. His shock at seeing Dima’s dead body was replaced by a determination not to let go of Khamis Zeydan now that he had him rattled. He put on his cap and followed him across the grass.

“You’re not really investigating, are you? You know something and you won’t tell me what it is. It’s a charade, asking these people questions. There’s something they know, and you know it, too. What is it?”

Khamis Zeydan turned. “I heard that you retired from teaching. I think you ought to reconsider. I think you ought to go back to work, so you don’t have so much time on your hands. It’s making you crazy to be a prematurely retired guy. I shouldn’t have let you see George Saba, but it was a humanitarian gesture for an old friend who I sensed was in distress. Well, I’m sorry I let you into the jail. Now go back to the school and leave this to a professional.”

Omar Yussef grabbed Khamis Zeydan’s shoulder. “You told them, didn’t you? You told Hussein Tamari.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You’re the only person I told about what Dima said to me. You’re the only one who knows she told me about Abu Walid. You passed it on to Tamari and he came here and killed her. You’re in with them.”

“Now you’re making me angry, Abu Ramiz.”

“Why should I be surprised? Ever since we finished university, you’ve made your living by terrorism. You said so yourself.”

Khamis Zeydan pushed Omar Yussef’s hand from his shoulder. His jaw was tight and he growled out his words. “Believe me, I wish I was finished with all that. But maybe it’s not possible. Life is terrorism, so spare me your indignation. Life is one big infiltration of our secure defenses. Some people put bombs on buses and blow them up: those are terrorists. Some people speak to you and their words blow you up: what would you call those people? Life is a condemned cell. If your friend George Saba finds himself locked up on death row today, it’s only because he never had the brains to realize that he lived his whole life there. That’s the only way to protect yourself, Abu Ramiz—to understand that you’re always under sentence of death and to try to get a temporary remission.”

Omar Yussef was shocked. “I can’t believe you think this way,” he said, quietly.

“Well, I certainly hope you didn’t believe I was operating on high moral principles. I assume you know me better than that.”

“This wasn’t how you used to be.”

“Things have changed. I discovered that our people’s struggle is run like a crappy casino, and after forty years gambling in it the only chip I have left is the one on my shoulder.” He swung his arm with its gloved prosthesis to take in Dima’s dead body under the white sheet, the armed policemen, the hostile glare of Muhammad Abdel Rahman and his son Yunis. “I lost the bet, as you can see. I fucking lost.”

Khamis Zeydan pushed his beret back and rubbed his forehead. His anger seemed to leave him and Omar Yussef thought he looked pained, sad, lonely.

“There’s more to this business with the Abdel Rahmans than you know, Abu Ramiz,” Khamis Zeydan said. “Excuse me.” He walked quickly to the Abdel Rahman family. He beckoned Muhammad to follow him to the salon and told the women to go back into the house and await questioning.

After the family entered the house, no one remained by the cabbage patch except the police cordon and Yunis Abdel Rah-man. Omar Yussef felt his ankle seizing up where he’d twisted it descending from the jeep. He limped over to Yunis.

“May Allah bless her,” Omar Yussef said.

Yunis barely nodded his head. He’s a handsome man, Omar Yussef thought. A handsome boy, really. His face had a fine, almost feminine jaw and light hazel eyes. His neck was thin, a skinny teenager’s neck. Omar Yussef read an arrogance in him of the kind that the young so often wore these days, full of the sense that their elders had failed to fight hard enough for the freedom of Palestine, convinced that they would be the ones to make the great sacrifices that would liberate their land. It was the pity for their humiliated elders and the anticipation of surpassing them in a hurry that made young men like Yunis Abdel Rahman insufferable to Omar Yussef. How many times had he faced the same aloof, defiant expression he now saw on this boy’s face, in the UN schoolyard or on the streets of Dehaisha? But there was something else here, something more hostile, reckless, guilty. That was it, Omar Yussef thought, as he looked closely at the boy: I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone who looked more ashamed of himself and more desperate to hide it.

“May this sadness end all your sadnesses,” Omar Yussef said, offering another formula of condolence. “Who would have imagined that I would be back here again so soon after your brother’s death?”

Yunis looked over to the corpse and back to the cabbage patch. He seemed to be imagining that other body, his brother’s, clad in denim and splayed across the green leaves on the ground.

Omar Yussef decided to test Yunis. “Where will you work now?”

Yunis looked puzzled.

“Now that the Martyrs Brigades have taken over your family autoshops,” Omar Yussef explained. “Where will you work?”

“It’s not your business.”

“Your employment? No, perhaps it’s just that as an old schoolteacher I always worry about young people.”