“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.
“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
“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.”
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
