skin was a light brown, like her melancholy, preoccupied eyes. Her black eyebrows were raised, as though she had taken a breath and was about to sigh. Her features were small, despite the thickening of age around the jaw. Omar Yussef thought she was in her mid-thirties. She carried a thin manila folder in front of her upper belly like a clutch bag, tapping it edgily with the finger which bore her simple gold wedding ring. She sat on the edge of the unoccupied couch, holding her neck erect and her back straight, with her palms flat on the folder she now placed in her lap. Her ring finger made tiny nervous circles on its surface.
The woman behind her was a few years older and dressed similarly, though her headscarf was plain, her gown was gray and her body beneath it was bulkier. Her mouth was wide and shapeless and pouting. When she moved, her fleshy cheeks quivered with each step. She smiled at the guests and sat on the same sofa as the first woman. Her plumpness reminded Omar Yussef of his neighbor Leila back in Bethlehem and, with a shiver of shame, he recalled the sexual attraction he had often felt for her. He experienced a similar physical curiosity about the thick-set woman on the couch. He caught himself holding his breath as he watched her stroke her friend’s shoulder blade reassuringly.
That comforting gesture gave Omar Yussef his clue. He spoke to the woman in black. “You’re the wife of Eyad?”
She nodded and lifted her head a little higher.
“I’m Abu Ramiz, Omar Yussef Sirhan, from Bethlehem. These are my colleagues from the UN.” Omar Yussef introduced Wallender and Cree, then addressed them quietly in English. “I’ll ask her what happened during the arrest?”
“There’s no need for you to translate, Abu Ramiz,” the woman said. “I’m a teacher of English.”
Cree and Wallender smiled with appreciation. “Where do you teach?” Wallender asked.
“Sometimes at the same UN school where Eyad teaches. I give lessons to the local children here, too.” She turned to the woman beside her. “This is my friend, Umm Rateb. She works at the university as secretary to the president.”
The chubby woman smiled, showing big teeth along the wide mouth, and looked a long time at Omar Yussef with an expression of amused curiosity.
“Eyad was arrested because of something that happened at the university, not because of his work at the UN school,” Masharawi’s wife said.
“Why do you say that, Missus Masharawi?” Cree asked.
The woman paused. That form of address must have sounded as odd to her as it did to Omar Yussef. “I am Salwa Masharawi. You are welcome to call me Umm Naji-the mother of Naji. This is Naji, my eldest boy.” She gestured to the lanky kid, folded on the armchair in the corner.
Cree nodded, with a hint of impatience.
“Fourteen armed men came to our house very early this morning, when everyone was asleep,” Salwa said.
“Israeli soldiers?” Wallender asked.
“Palestinian security agents.”
“What did they want?” Wallender took out a small notebook and a pen.
“The agents asked my husband for his papers.”
“His identity papers?”
“No, his papers from the university. There have been exams at the university recently and he kept the test papers here.” Salwa pointed at the bookcase in the corner. “They took all the papers from that empty shelf.”
“Why did they want these papers?”
“There has been trouble at the university, Mister Wallender.” Salwa closed her eyes and touched her forehead. “Well, at least, Eyad has done things which, as I believe one says in English, are asking for trouble.”
“What kind of trouble?”
“Three days each week, Eyad teaches at your UN school. He likes to be there, because he is from an old Gaza City family, and he often says that we should work with the refugees to show that they are always welcomed here. It seems silly, perhaps, because they are just as much Gazans as anyone else, after sixty years in their camps, but they are still the poorest people in town and Eyad thinks it’s his duty to work on their behalf. The other two days each week, he works at the university. He teaches in the Education Department.” Salwa hesitated and glanced at her friend, who gave her a nod. “Unlike his UN job, the work at the university is no longer a source of pleasure for Eyad. It is a battle.”
“Against whom?” Omar Yussef asked.
“Perhaps you think that the corruption of Palestinian life should not infect the university, Abu Ramiz? That academia should be above such dirtiness?” Salwa shook her head. “Sadly, this is not so.”
Cree drank the last of the coffee in his tiny cup, wiped the thick dregs that clung to the tips of his mustache, and put the cup down on the side table with a rattle.
“Naji, make tea, now,” Salwa said. She puckered her lips and blew out a breath, as though in relief that her son would be spared her story.
“He’s a good boy,” Omar Yussef said, after Naji left the room.
“He looks just like his father, even down to the ear. You saw, it sticks out?” Salwa said. “But he’s quiet and calm. Not like Eyad.”
“What went wrong for Eyad at the university?” Omar Yussef asked.
“Eyad discovered that the university is selling degrees to officers in the Preventive Security.”
“Preventive Security?” Wallender frowned. “What’s that?”
“The plainclothes police force,” Cree said.
Salwa nodded.
“Why would a policeman need a degree?” Omar Yussef said.
Umm Rateb put her hand on Salwa’s wrist and took over. “To be promoted quickly, these policemen need to show that they have studied law or had some other higher education. It puts them on what you’d call the fast track to the highest posts. Of course, that means a better salary and more power.”
“So the university gives them the degree in exchange for payment?” Omar Yussef said.
“Yes, they have to show up to a couple of classes, but they don’t really study,” Umm Rateb said.
Salwa clicked her tongue and her tone edged into anger for the first time. “They couldn’t study if they tried. They aren’t qualified to be at the university. These men didn’t even graduate high school. They were on the streets making trouble when they should have been in class. But now the troublemakers are the law in Gaza and they want to receive something valuable without working for it.”
“What did Eyad do when he discovered this?” Omar Yussef said.
Salwa shook her head. “My husband is not a calm man. If he sees something he dislikes, he has to act against it. I always say to him, ‘Please, Eyad, slow down. Let us live in peace.’ But that isn’t what he wanted. Three weeks ago, he set an exam for his class at the university.”
“The exam that was confiscated this morning?” Omar Yussef said.
Salwa handed him the folder. “They didn’t get this copy of the exams. Eyad left it on his bedside table.”
Omar Yussef translated from the first page: “ Write an essay about corruption in the government.” He looked at Cree, whose face was measured and unreadable. Wallender bowed over his notebook.
Umm Rateb spoke up. “The head of the university, Professor Adnan Maki, was very angry. He called Abu Naji to his office and they did a great deal of shouting. When Abu Naji left, he forgot even to say goodbye to me at my desk outside Professor Maki’s office, though I am a good friend of his family. For the rest of the afternoon Professor Maki was extremely irritable.”
“Did the university punish Eyad?” Omar Yussef asked.
“My husband didn’t wait to be punished,” Salwa said, with a sad laugh. “He went straight to his classroom that afternoon and set another exam for his students. Have a look.”
Omar Yussef turned to the second page in the file and read: “ Write an essay about corruption at the university.”
“All the students wrote about the university selling degrees to the plainclothesmen,” Salwa said. “Professor Maki immediately suspended Eyad.”
Wallender looked up from his notebook. “If the students already knew about the selling of the degrees, why would Eyad be punished?”
