The hotel lobby hid behind smoked-glass doors smeared with splashes from a dirty rain. Despite the brightness of the day, Omar Yussef could feel a dust storm’s approach in the building air-pressure and the tiniest of headaches threading like a burning needle from his right eye to the center of his ear. The hotel workers didn’t bother fighting the elements: there would always be another dust storm and it would end by settling in a layer of filth, no matter how much they cleaned.
The reception desk was cut in dark, stained wood. Beyond another set of smoked-glass doors on the far side of the lobby, Omar Yussef saw the white tablecloths of the breakfast room. To the right of the reception desk, an open staircase of polished stone led to the rooms. The landings on the stairs overlooked the front desk and each was decorated by a pair of crossed scimitars mounted on the wall above a small, crimson carpet in a thick Bedouin stitch.
The woman behind the reception desk turned from her computer. She was small, slim and young. She wore a blue headscarf and her eyes were big and dark and long-lashed. She took Wallender’s passport and Omar Yussef’s ID card.
“You’re lucky to find a room, gentlemen,” she said, as she photocopied their documents. She handed them forms to fill out with their names and addresses. “The Revolutionary Council is meeting here in two days. Many of the most important Fatah men and their staffs have come to town already. They like to stay at our hotel.”
“What do they like so much about it?” Wallender clearly had seen more attractive lobbies. “Not that it isn’t a fine hotel.”
Omar Yussef turned to the Swede. “Fatah’s the biggest faction in the PLO, which owns all kinds of things, from airlines to chemical plants. And hotels. I’d guess that this hotel’s owned by the PLO and that the party hacks like to stay here because, as the owners, they can behave as badly as they like.” He laughed.
“Is that so?” Wallender said.
“Of course, only the PLO has enough money to afford the most polite, educated and beautiful staff.” Omar Yussef smiled at the receptionist.
The woman laughed. “ Ustaz, you should tell that to my poor father. He has a simpler way of judging his daughter. A woman with good, wide hips brings a dowry of seven camels, because she will bear many children. I am small and I have narrow hips. So even though I have my degree in Business Administration, my father complains he will receive only one camel for me.”
Magnus Wallender joined the joke. “Abu Ramiz, you can surely afford a single camel.”
“Let’s go,” Omar Yussef said. “We’ll come back with a camel.”
The receptionist laughed again.
“How much could a camel cost, after all?” Wallender said, pretending to count the cash in his wallet.
A voice called from the door of the breakfast room. “Sir, put away your money. Your friend is a Palestinian. He will steal the camel.”
Omar Yussef turned from the reception desk. Brigadier Khamis Zeydan came out of the breakfast room, laughing. He wore a checked sports coat and a cream shirt open at the neck. His thinning, white hair was cropped short and combed forward. His scalp, usually protected from the sun by a military beret, was starkly paler than his face. He stubbed his cigarette into a glass ashtray on the reception desk, breathed the smoke over his nicotine- stained mustache and kissed Omar Yussef three times on the cheeks.
“Magnus, this is Bethlehem’s police chief,” Omar Yussef said. “Abu Adel, this is Magnus Wallender, from the UN.”
Khamis Zeydan shook hands with Magnus Wallender. He lit another cigarette.
“Have you known Abu Ramiz a long time?” Wallender said. He pointed to his cheeks, to show that he asked because of the kisses.
“We go way back and, then, even a little further back than that,” Khamis Zeydan said, with his hand on Omar Yussef’s shoulder. “I’ve known him since we were at university in Damascus together. I remember him when he had nice, curly black hair and a little black mustache. He looked like Charlie Chaplin.”
Omar Yussef noticed Wallender squinting with curiosity at the black leather glove tight on Khamis Zeydan’s left hand as it rested on his own shoulder. He wished he’d had an opportunity to tell the Swede about the prosthetic hand beneath that glove. He thought of the hatred Khamis Zeydan felt for the plastic limb when he was drunk and miserable. He didn’t want the Swede’s glance to draw his friend’s attention to it and infect his mood with memories of the grenade that had maimed him during the Lebanese Civil War.
“I didn’t recognize you without your uniform,” Omar Yussef said.
“Am I so scary that you can’t imagine me in human clothing?” Khamis Zeydan said. “Actually, it’s simply less hassle to pass through the Israeli checkpoint into Gaza without a uniform. But I’m wearing blue socks so that you can tell I’m a policeman.”
“Are you in Gaza for the Revolutionary Council meeting?” Omar Yussef asked.
“Yes. Come and drink a coffee with me.” Khamis Zeydan pulled Omar Yussef’s elbow. “You, too, Magnus. I invite you.”
“That’s very kind,” Wallender said. “But I ought to call the office in Jerusalem. To update them.”
Khamis Zeydan protested, but Omar Yussef squeezed his shoulder. “All right,” the police chief said, “I’ve lived in Europe. I’m not going to be one of those provincial Arabs who takes offense when his hospitality is rejected.” He winked at the smiling receptionist. “Anyway, Magnus, come down and drink coffee after you’ve made your phone call.” He lowered his voice. “Or perhaps you’d like to come to my room later. I have a bottle up there that’s very much against the laws of Islam.”
Omar Yussef frowned, but not out of respect for the proscriptions of the Prophet. Though he had foresworn alcohol a decade ago, he kept some Scotch in his home, just for Khamis Zeydan’s visits. Lately, he had noticed that the police chief emptied those bottles faster than usual. He cleared his throat and glanced at the receptionist.
Another volley of gunfire crackled down the street.
“What’s that shooting?” Wallender asked.
“Don’t worry. They’re burying a soldier who was killed in Rafah last night,” Khamis Zeydan said. “The funeral is along the beach at the president’s compound. You just missed the main part of the parade. It left the house of General Moussa Husseini a few minutes before you arrived.”
“Who’s that?” said Wallender.
“The head of Military Intelligence. He lives directly across the street from the hotel. Now his soldiers are firing into the air. Gunfire is the sound of Palestinians in mourning.” Khamis Zeydan gave a little punch to Wallender’s arm. “Of course, if you go to a wedding, you’ll discover that gunfire is also the sound of Palestinians celebrating. Gunfire is the music of the Palestinians.”
Omar Yussef recalled the coffin they had seen transported by the military convoy on their way into town. That must have been the soldier whose funeral was the source of this gunfire.
“What’s the difference between these Military Intelligence people and the other lot-Preventive Security?” Wallender rubbed his beard.
Khamis Zeydan took a long drag on his cigarette. “Imagine you wanted to set up a police state, Magnus. You’d need a uniformed force to do the day-to-day brutalizing and intimidation-that’s Military Intelligence. Then you’d have your secret police, plainclothesmen who’d be involved in sinister, shady operations-that’s Preventive Security.”
“Gaza is a police state?” Wallender frowned.
“It was meant to be a police state, but it ended up more of a banana republic.” Khamis Zeydan laughed and gave a phlegmy cough. He lowered his voice and moved close to Wallender. “Military Intelligence is a private army for General Husseini. His rival, Colonel al-Fara, the head of Preventive Security, has bigger ambitions than Husseini. He’s very close to the CIA.”
“Hell,” Wallender said. He glanced at Omar Yussef.
He’s thinking of Salwa’s husband in al-Fara’s jail, Omar Yussef thought.
“Don’t worry about the different names of these organizations, Magnus,” Khamis Zeydan continued. “The only thing a foreigner like you needs to remember is that they’re all bastards and nothing they do is in the interests of ordinary Palestinians.”
“I’ll bear that in mind.”
They left Wallender at the reception desk filling out more registration forms and went into the breakfast room.
