The Samaritan's secret

“Jamie, they say this salad makes a man vigorous in bed,” Omar Yussef said with a laugh. “Which is why Maryam hasn’t given me any.”

Maryam dropped the dish of jarjeer on the table in front of Omar Yussef. “Eat it all, and see if I care,” she said.

Nadia sniggered and blew some of the cola she had been drinking out of her nose, which made her fall to the table in a fit of giggling. Omar Yussef watched her and chuckled. He stroked the back of Maryam’s hand and smiled at her until she, too, laughed.

Zuheir picked at a few spoonfuls of baqdounsiyya on his plate. The seething intensity with which he avoided looking at King seemed to draw the American to him.

“And what kind of salad is that one?” she asked him.

Zuheir barely looked up as King pointed to his plate.

“Chopped parsley and sesame paste,” he mumbled.

Maryam leaned toward him. “And what else?”

Zuheir gave a reluctant smile. “Salt and olive oil and lemon juice, Mama.”

Maryam bowed, proudly.

“Zuheir, when we spoke earlier over coffee, our conver-sation was all about politics,” King said. “I forgot to ask if you also live in Bethlehem.”

Zuheir sucked on his bottom lip and glanced at his father. “I’ve been living in Britain for some years, studying and teaching,” he said. “But I’m returning to the Middle East now. I’m going to teach in Beirut.”

“I love Beirut. It’s a wonderful city,” King said.

“Westerners always love Beirut. That’s its problem.” Zuheir pushed his plate away. “In reality, it’s full of all different kinds of extremists. I hope that by teaching there, I can do something to reduce their fanaticism.”

“Why not do the same thing here?”

“My father is the one who’ll have to deal with the Palestinian extremists.”

Sami looked sharply at Zuheir.

“What are you trying to say, Zuheir?” Omar Yussef said, through a mouthful of baqdounsiyya.

Zuheir lifted his eyebrows. “The Palestinians have isolated themselves once again, and you’re the only one who wants to lie down in the filth so they can step to safety on your back.”

“If we’re dependent on the strong back of our dear father to save the Palestinians, then may Allah protect us all,” Ramiz said. “He’s no bodybuilder.” He laughed and reached for the hummus.

Zuheir and Omar Yussef watched each other silently, as the waiter removed the salads and brought the grilled meats of the main course.

“Do you have any vacancies for a business graduate at the World Bank?” Maryam touched Jamie King’s arm and pointed at Meisoun.

Ramiz shook his head. “Mama, don’t let the World Bank steal away my new partner.”

“I’m going to open a franchise of Ramiz’s cell phone business in Nablus, after my wedding,” Meisoun told King.

“Great. Where did you study?”

“In Cairo. I intended to obtain a higher degree, but the border between Egypt and my family home in Gaza was closed because of the intifada. I had to find work in a hotel in Gaza City.”

“That’s too bad.”

Meisoun smiled. “Not so bad. That’s how I met my future husband. Otherwise, I might have married some puffed up little Pharaoh in Cairo.”

“But at least Cairo’s not a war zone.” Ramiz slapped Sami on the shoulder.

“If a woman doesn’t choose the right husband, she creates her own war zone.” Meisoun lifted a finger to scold Ramiz. “Sami and I will have peace, no matter what troubles engulf Nablus.”

“So when’s the big day?” King asked.

“Friday. But it isn’t a big day quite like the American weddings I’ve seen on the television,” Meisoun said. “It’s a big party.”

“But no religious ceremony?”

“Some religion, but we already made our vows to each other.”

“The main thing was getting her father to agree,” Sami said.

“Evidently her father said yes.” King raised her glass of juice as if in a toast.

“Well, he didn’t actually say yes. He gave Sami sweetened coffee.”

Nadia took Meisoun’s hand to signal that she wanted to explain. “When a man goes to ask permission to marry a woman, the host serves coffee at the end of the visit. If the coffee is sweetened with sugar, it means the family agrees to the marriage. If it’s bitter, the answer is no.”

“I guess that’s an effective signal.”

“Everyone prefers sweet coffee. Except Grandpa. He always drinks his coffee bitter.” Nadia made a sour face at Omar Yussef.

King excused herself after the coffee at the end of the meal. As the American left the dining room, Omar Yussef noticed Khamis Zeydan crossing the lobby. The police chief swayed and rested his shoulder against the door of the restaurant. He took a big, rasping intake of breath through his nose, coughed up some phlegm and spat on the floor. The waiter glanced at him nervously.

Omar Yussef touched Maryam’s arm. “I’ll see you upstairs, after you’ve finished dessert,” he said. He raised his eyebrows toward Khamis Zeydan. Maryam followed his sign and her lips parted in pity.

Sami stood and rounded the table. Omar Yussef rose. “Sit with your fiancee a little longer,” he murmured. “This is one thing that I hope you’ll allow me to take care of.”

“Just this one thing,” Sami said stiffly.

Meisoun beckoned for her fiance to sit. The skin of the young man’s face grew tight until it looked stony and inhuman.

Chapter 16

The waiter headed reluctantly for the drunk at the door, but Omar Yussef shook his head and gestured for him to return to his station by the kitchen. “Let’s go to your room,” he said, catching Khamis Zeydan by the arm.

“I haven’t had a proposition like that in years, darling,” Khamis Zeydan said. He slurred his words and laughed bitterly with an exhalation that smelled like a dirty ashtray doused in scotch. Omar Yussef held his breath.

At the elevator, Khamis Zeydan needed two hands to get his lighter to the end of his cigarette and, in the corridor to his room, he leaned so hard on Omar Yussef that the schoolteacher’s knees almost buckled.

“Amin Kanaan’s a fucking bastard,” Khamis Zeydan said. He dropped his keys outside his door.

Omar Yussef held his listing friend against the doorjamb with one hand and bent to pick up the keys. He opened the door and maneuvered Khamis Zeydan inside.

The room smelled of cigarettes and urine. Khamis Zeydan pulled a pint of scotch out of a tubular olive kit bag on the bed. He propped himself against the headboard and drank. Omar Yussef flushed the stinking toilet and glanced with distaste at the cigarette butts floating in a mug by the sink.

“Kanaan stole your girlfriend twenty-five years ago,” he said, sitting in an uncomfortable desk chair at the foot of the bed. He leaned back in it. It creaks almost as much as me, he thought. “Isn’t it time you put all that behind you?”

“Everything’s behind me. Everything good.” Khamis Zeydan wiped his mustache with the back of his hand and stared with hate at the glove covering his prosthesis. “They’re all fucking bastards.”

“Who?”

“All of them, the whole fucking bunch.”

When you’re sober, no one is more boring than a drunk, Omar Yussef thought. He had never seen Khamis Zeydan this far gone and he wanted to get out of the room.

“My wife is a bastard,” Khamis Zeydan said. “My sons, my daughters, everyone. Fucking bastards.” He shook his head and drank. He considered the bottle for a moment and his eyes became teary. “Not Sami. Sami’s like a son