The Collaborator of Bethlehem

Tamari’s slouching torso, until Omar Yussef’s arrival made him sit up. His tongue was dry, but he wouldn’t let it stop him from talking.

“I came to see you because I want you to know that I am available any time you have anything to say. You don’t need to go to my son. You can come to me at home or at the school.”

The Astrakhan hat lifted. Unlike Hussein Tamari, Jihad Awdeh was not taken aback by Omar Yussef’s appearance in the room. “At the school? I thought you retired.”

Damn Steadman, Omar Yussef thought. “The information about my retirement is as flawed as the story you told my son today.”

Hussein Tamari put a hand on Jihad Awdeh’s shoulder and addressed Omar Yussef. “Don’t be angry, my brother. We only wanted to be sure that everyone understood the situation. Please sit, Abu Ramiz. I wish I could offer you coffee, but in view of the holy month . . . I hope you will sit and talk in friendship.” He stood and held out his hand.

This man surely wants me dead, but he can’t attack me in front of all these people, even if they are his gang, Omar Yussef thought. It would leak out and he would find himself at war with all my relatives among the Sirhans. How real is this handshake, though? What does it mean? Is it really only a sign of hospitality, a formal requirement upon him to welcome a man who has come into his domain, even if he considers him an enemy? Or is he somehow drawing me onto his side? Omar Yussef decided he had defused the immediate threat by his direct approach to Tamari. It had been easier than he expected.

Then it occurred to him that this could be the hand that killed Dima Abdel Rahman. There might be traces of her skin under those dirty fingernails where Hussein Tamari had scratched at her buttocks. But he couldn’t decline to shake that hand without making things worse than they had been before he entered Tamari’s headquarters. He took Tamari’s hand. It was thick and the skin was gritty with dirt, but Tamari’s grasp was mild. It carried no unusual strength, no attempt to intimidate. He asked Omar Yussef to sit beside him on the couch and kept hold of his hand as he questioned him about the effect of the curfews on the school.

As they talked, Omar Yussef saw that Jihad Awdeh watched him keenly. Awdeh slouched low on his sofa, his hips balanced at the front edge and his shoulders nestled deep and flat in the back cushion. He rested his elbow on the arm of the sofa and held his head with his hand, spreading his fingers into the curls of the Astrakhan hat so that his face could barely be seen.

Omar Yussef almost forgot the tension with which he had entered the room. He found it hard to maintain his anger toward Hussein Tamari. The man was stupid and brutal, but he behaved with a traditional politeness that appealed to Omar Yussef. It was as though Omar Yussef came to Tamari’s tent in a previous era, emerging from the desert and begging the hospitality that tribes commanded of each other in emulation of the Prophet’s generosity to strangers.

Tamari repeated the report that Omar Yussef had retired. With an ingratiating smile, he said he hoped it wasn’t so, because Palestine needed to educate its children well and good teachers were in short supply.

“It’s true that I told the American director I might retire, but I haven’t made a decision,” Omar Yussef said.

“Why did you tell him that?” Jihad Awdeh’s voice was low. He spoke without removing his hand from his face, so that the words seemed to come from the dark, hard eyes that looked out from between his fingers.

Omar Yussef realized that he could think of no good excuse for his talk of retirement. He had been carried away by the formal warmth of Hussein Tamari. Certainly he couldn’t say that it was because he wanted time to clear George Saba of the charge of collaboration in murder. “It’s not a matter of any importance,” he said. “Once you have been a teacher as long as I have, you will teach until you die.”

“In that case, if you are planning retirement from teaching, perhaps that means you are planning to die,” Jihad Awdeh said.

Hussein Tamari looked at Awdeh quickly.

“I only meant that once you begin to teach, you will always be a teacher,” Omar Yussef said. He sharpened his voice. “Just as once you have killed, you will always be a killer.”

Jihad Awdeh took the hand away from his face. He smiled, but his eyes were lidded. “You mean that they are both ways of life, teaching and killing? Things that we do for money?”

“Do you kill for money?” Omar Yussef said.

He saw Hussein Tamari sit forward as if to interrupt, but Jihad Awdeh seemed to relish the opportunity to flourish his own nastiness. “I kill for money when it’s strictly a matter of business between strangers.” Awdeh lifted himself out of his slouch and reached a finger toward Omar Yussef. “But you’re my brother, so I’d have to kill you free of charge.”

Hussein Tamari turned aside Jihad Awdeh’s finger. He gave Awdeh a glance of annoyance.

Omar Yussef realized that he couldn’t allow Awdeh to intimidate him. If they saw his weakness, they would soon come after him, in spite of the necessarily pleasant reception tradition demanded Hussein Tamari give him now. He had to punch back.

“I want you to see to it that George Saba is freed,” Omar Yussef said. “I believe you know that he is not a collaborator. He is a friend of mine and I have come to you to ask that you free him.”

“That’s a matter for the courts,” Hussein Tamari said.

“Let’s be realistic, Abu Walid,” Omar Yussef said. “George Saba confronted you and Jihad Awdeh on his roof. Two days later he was arrested. There is a connection that I prefer not to spell out. I ask only that you use the same influence with which you put him in jail to get him out of there.”

Omar Yussef was surprised that Hussein Tamari didn’t respond, nor did he seem upset at the accusation. Perhaps he considered framing George Saba a minor infraction compared to his other activities and thought it was nothing to get angry about.

“How could you know that he’s not a collaborator, unless you were working with the Israelis?” Awdeh said.

“How is it possible that you discovered he is an Israeli collaborator, unless you are working for the Israelis?” Omar Yussef said. He felt the strength that he had sensed in himself earlier when he had sat with Ramiz growing, and he pressed his hands together. “An innocent