The Samaritan's secret

“Sami, when you went to Our Honored Sheikh Bader to begin the process of marriage, he required you to say a prayer,” Khamis Zeydan went on. “Sometimes we pray without thinking about what we say, but let’s remember the words of that prayer. It required you to request a chaste wife who would ‘from her womb bestow a pure son who will be my sweet reminiscence in my life and after my death.’ Sami, may your son one day bring to you the same sweetness that you have brought to me, for whom you are like a son.”

Sami rose so that Khamis Zeydan could kiss his cheeks. The police chief came down from the dais and moved across the dance floor, taking the slaps of congratulation and the handshakes.

Amin Kanaan nudged one of his acolytes, pointed at the departing police chief, said a few words and smirked. For someone who just missed out on three hundred million dollars and lost the boy he believed to be his son, he’s pretty cheerful, Omar Yussef thought.

Sheikh Bader watched the wealthy businessman with a glower so savage that it seemed to clear a space around him in the crowded hall. It was then that Omar Yussef knew Kanaan had double-crossed the sheikh. Kanaan lured him into a fight so that he could take control of Nablus, he thought. He planted a fake autopsy in the dirt files, which Ishaq intended to give to Hamas. He knew the sheikh would publicize the autopsy’s finding that the Old Man died of that shameful disease, giving him a pretext to confront Hamas.

“You’re not dancing, Dad?” Zuheir slapped his hand onto Omar Yussef’s shoulder, smiling.

“When I was a student, I danced with ladies at a cafe in Damascus. It’s no longer the fashion,” Omar Yussef said, gesturing toward the crowd of men on the dance floor, “but I developed a taste for it and I simply don’t like to dance any otherway.”

“You’d better keep that quiet, or Sheikh Bader will issue a fatwa against you.”

“We all have our secrets.”

Zuheir stopped smiling. “I’ve been keeping a secret myself.”

“What is it, my son?”

“I’m getting married, too.”

Omar Yussef blinked.

“I met a Lebanese woman on a research trip to Beirut. We’re hoping to marry. That’s why I’m leaving Britain to live in Lebanon.”

“I thought you were-”

“A crazy religious extremist who hates the West? Well, I’m not crazy and, no matter how we differ on certain things, I’ll always be proud to be your son.”

Omar Yussef felt his eyes grow wet and he reached for Zuheir’s hand. “A thousand congratulations, my dear boy.” He kissed his son five times, moving from cheek to cheek.

“What happened with the woman from the World Bank?” Zuheir asked. “Were you able to help her find the money?”

Omar Yussef nodded. “The bank will continue its aid.”

Zuheir shook his head with admiration. “Thank you, Dad.”

Omar Yussef tried to make his habitual staccato laugh of selfdeprecation, but it caught in his throat. He touched his son’s arm and he turned toward the door.

He crossed the foyer of the wedding hall and went into the bathroom, where he found Khamis Zeydan splashing water on his face. The police chief looked at his friend with reddened eyes and a sheepish smile. “I got choked up,” he said.

Omar Yussef pulled a wad of papers from the inside pocket of his jacket, unfolded them and held them out to Khamis Zeydan.

The police chief dried his face with a paper towel. “What’s this?”

“Haven’t you been wondering about the dirt files that went missing from Nouri Awwadi’s basement?”

Khamis Zeydan’s blue eyes opened wide. “By Allah.” He grabbed the papers. “Where did you get these?”

“I made a deal with Amin Kanaan.” The file had been waiting for Omar Yussef when he returned to the hotel, just as Kanaan had promised.

Khamis Zeydan looked up from the documents. “Were you searching for dirt on me?”

“I don’t expect you’d have clean hands, even if you spent the rest of the day scrubbing at that basin,” Omar Yussef said, “but you’re my dear friend, above all else, so you’re in the clear. I didn’t even read the file.”

Khamis Zeydan shuffled the papers, glancing briefly at each one. “There’s not much here,” he said.

“Are you disappointed? Perhaps you’re not as bad as you make out.”

“Perhaps I’m not.”

Omar Yussef smiled. “Put those papers in your pocket. Go and enjoy the wedding.”

Khamis Zeydan kissed Omar Yussef’s cheeks. “You’re a true friend, my brother,” he said. He ran a fingertip beneath his eye. “It’s a day for crying tears of happiness.”

Omar Yussef put his hand on his friend’s shoulder. “Tears? A tough guy like you?”

“No one has more reason to weep than a hard man.” Khamis Zeydan left the bathroom.

From his other pocket, Omar Yussef took a thick sheaf of papers. He went into a toilet stall and locked the door. He ripped the rest of Khamis Zeydan’s file into tiny shreds, dropping them into the bowl and flushing until everything was gone.

When he left the bathroom, Omar Yussef saw his granddaughter at the entrance to the men’s hall. Nadia stood on her toes, searching for someone among the dancing men. He called to her and she came toward him with a smile. She held two small paper plates, each with a square of shredded wheat soaked in lurid orange syrup. She gave one plate to Omar Yussef and handed him a plastic fork.

“I decided not to wait any longer for you to take me to the casbah for qanafi, Grandpa,” she said. “Thankfully Meisoun ordered some for the wedding buffet. Eat it with me, and may you have double health in your deepest heart.”

Nadia’s laughter was musical and light. Omar Yussef cut a small slice of the warm qanafi with the edge of his fork and, closing his eyes, he put it in his mouth. It was sweet.