The Samaritan's secret

waiting for you to come since you arrived in Nablus.”

Omar Yussef glanced over Meisoun’s shoulder. Sami smiled at him through a cloud of cigarette smoke. Khamis Zeydan sat beside him on the couch, his head back, eyes closed and mouth open, dozing.

“Miss Meisoun, I was hoping you would bring some of your sisters to stay in your new apartment,” Omar Yussef said. “You mentioned that they were interested in an intelligent husband. I believe I made a bad impression on Sheikh Bader, so I should like to win him over by taking another wife, as was the custom in the time of the Prophet.”

Maryam came out of the kitchen. “If you’re willing to pray five times a day and to fast during Ramadan, you infidel, you can have four wives, like the Prophet himself, blessings be upon him.”

“My darling, the dowry for Meisoun is one camel.” Omar Yussef lifted his hands to his head. “I could manage that. But how could I afford three new wives?”

Meisoun shook her head. “Sadly, ustaz, the dowry for each of my sisters is seven camels. They’re larger women who will bear many children. That makes them more desirable than me, because of my small build. If it wasn’t for this fact, do you think my father would allow me to marry a troublemaker from the West Bank who has a dangerous job with low pay?”

Sami grinned. “She’s not much of a catch, it’s true. She’s all I could get.”

“They say ‘A fat woman is a blanket for winter.’ Unfortunately, you may have high heating bills, Sami.” Khamis Zeydan lifted his head and waved his hand to diffuse the smoke around the couch. “Abu Ramiz, if you want a second wife, take mine. She’ll turn you to religion. One develops a belief in Paradise, when one lives in Hell. You’ll be on your knees five times a day, imploring Allah to shut her mouth and leave you in peace.”

“Abu Adel, you should be ashamed of yourself,” Maryam laughed.

Omar Yussef coughed and wiped his stinging eyes. “Have you been smoking cigarettes, or setting fire to the sofa?”

Khamis Zeydan beckoned Omar Yussef to the couch and pointed at the television. “Someone has been setting fires, for sure.”

The local station was showing the interview Amin Kanaan had given to the foreign news crew, subtitled in Arabic. When it was over, the anchor announced that he had Kanaan on the phone and the businessman proceeded to confirm the threats he had made against Hamas, in his own language this time.

“This is going to be bad,” Khamis Zeydan said. “Kanaan’s setting up a confrontation with Hamas. I expect he’ll send out a few gunmen to put the frighteners on them.”

Omar Yussef shifted anxiously.

Sami sucked on the last of his cigarette. “It’ll be pretty hard to scare those Hamas guys,” he said. “Particularly just now. They’re angry about the killing of Awwadi. He was their main military chief in Nablus and they’re ready to fight for revenge.”

“Kanaan must be counting on the public to support him because of Sheikh Bader’s nasty claim about the old Chief,” Khamis Zeydan said. “He’ll look like he’s acting on behalf of the outraged public, but in reality he’ll be taking advantage of the sheikh’s strategic error to boost his power in Nablus with a quick fight.”

“Why does there have to be any fighting at all?” Omar Yussef shook his head.

Sami and Khamis Zeydan stared at him in surprise. “Go back to your classroom, ustaz Abu Ramiz, before the real world pollutes you,” the police chief said. “What kind of question is that? Why? When a Palestinian asks ‘why,’ he should spit first, because the answer is sure to be dirty.”

“I’ve felt like spitting in disgust ever since I arrived in Nablus. I’m sure this impending fight is linked to the deaths of Ishaq and Awwadi,” Omar Yussef said. He lowered his voice so the women in the kitchen wouldn’t hear him. “Ishaq was killed after he gave those files of political dirt to Awwadi. Sheikh Bader made an announcement about the president’s death that apparently came from those files. Then Awwadi was killed and the files disappeared.” He gestured at the television. “This new thing with Kanaan is just another round in that dirty sequence.”

“If Hamas doesn’t back off when Kanaan goes up against them,” Khamis Zeydan said, “we might have more than just two dead bodies on our hands.”

You might have had my corpse to bury, too, if I hadn’t been lucky, Omar Yussef thought. Khamis Zeydan had warned him to keep away from the mystery of Ishaq’s death, so he had remained silent about the man who had tried to kill him in the casbah, because he hated to acknowledge that his friend was right. Now he wanted to recount the chase and feel protected by the police chief’s presence. He wished to be told once more to leave the murder case alone-so forcefully this time that he would be compelled to remain in the apartment, safe with his family and friends, until Sami’s wedding.

“I was with Kanaan this morning,” he said.

Khamis Zeydan turned wide, disapproving eyes toward his friend.

“I think he’s after the secret accounts, too,” Omar Yussef said. “He made a show of willingness to help the World Bank woman track down the funds, but you know how easy it is to pull the wool over an American’s eyes.”

The police chief opened his mouth to speak, but held back when Nadia emerged from the kitchen with a small cup of coffee for her grandfather.

“May Allah bless your hands,” he said, as he lifted the cup by its rim.

“Blessings,” Nadia said. She put her hands on her slim hips. “I made it bitter, the way you like it. I’m starting to wonder if that’s why you won’t take me to eat qanafi- because you refuse to taste anything sweet.”

“Give me a chance to rest, my darling, and then I’ll take you for some qanafi,” Omar Yussef said.

“Grandma told me the secret of why the qanafi here in Nablus is so good. They mix cheese made from the milk of local black goats with the sweet cheese of white Syrian goats, which is very expensive. In Bethlehem and everywhere else they use massproduced Israeli cheese.”

“That’s very interesting. I didn’t know that.” Omar Yussef grinned, weakly. He felt confused. Had Awwadi used the dirt files to blackmail Kanaan? He had said there was no file on Kanaan. Was he lying? Had Kanaan and Ishaq had some kind of lovers’ argument?

He realized that he couldn’t sort out the different possibilities. He was too absorbed with fear about the dangers of the case. He chewed on the knuckle of his index finger. Awwadi and Kanaan and Ishaq aren’t my concern, he thought. I can’t face this wickedness on my own. It isn’t my job. I’m a schoolteacher and a grandfather. It’s time I focused on those responsibilities.

He took a long breath to steady himself. “Nadia, you’ve piqued my interest with your fascinating information about the Syrian goats. Let’s go and see about that qanafi.” He drank down his coffee. It burned his tongue, but he wanted to leave quickly and put the whole episode of the Samaritan’s death behind him.

Omar Yussef took his granddaughter’s hand as they stepped out into the darkening alley below Sami’s apartment. Energy and anticipation seemed to pulse along Nadia’s arm and into Omar Yussef’s body, as though she already had consumed the sugary qanafi. He feared that his trepidation about the battle between Fatah and Hamas might be transmitted to her in the same way, so he let go of her hand and put his fingers in his pockets, pretending that the dusk air had chilled them.

“Are you making progress with the book you’re writing, my darling?” he asked.

“I haven’t written much. Mostly I’ve been reading Mister Chandler.”

The evening breeze swept the scent of sesame through the casbah, but the doors of the halva factories were closed. Omar Yussef grew suspicious of the shuttered shops and the silence.

“Uncle Sami told me about the murder of the Samaritan fellow, may Allah have mercy upon him,” Nadia said.

Her pale skin was ghostly in the twilight. Omar Yussef thought of his mother, who had looked so much like this girl. He wondered if Nadia’s youthful enthusiasms would end in the same depression that had gripped his mother after the family had fled their village during the first war with Israel. He took his hand from his pocket and held her fingers, sensing how fragile she was, fearing that he couldn’t protect her from the awful world into which she had been born.