tolerate. The case was important and he was determined to push himself. To prove himself to the Jews. Working under Sharavi was a stroke of good luck. The Yemenite had a reputation as a fair one, basing his decisions on merit, not religion. If a guy produced, it would be worth something. But there would be obstacles-the old guy, Shmeltzer, who'd be dogging him, waiting for a chance to show he was inferior. No way would Daoud give him anything to work with.
And the hostility of the Muslims.
Walking the tightrope, as usual.
As evening approached he was sour with impatience, bathed in his own sweat, marching forward on swollen feet, but remembering the girl's face as she washed clothes, then the death photo, knowing he had to continue.
An hour into Silwan he received his first smile of the day.
He'd just spent a fruitless five minutes with a gang of youths loitering near a disabled tractor and had climbed to the middle level of the village, walking along a dirt path barely wide enough for two people to pass. All the houses he passed were locked and quiet, the only sound the clucks of chickens and brays of goats. But at the end of the path he saw human movement on the steps of a tiny box of a building with turquoise shutters. A man sitting, swaying back and forth.
He walked toward the house and saw that it was cell-like, with a single window to the right of the door. The shutters were splintering and in need of paint, the steps framed by a rusty pipe arbor wrapped with the stiff brown tendrils of a dead grapevine. And the man was a boy. About seventeen, swaying as he peered closely at a book in his lap. Another surly one, no doubt.
But then he noticed that this boy looked different. Soft and slovenly. Hunched over, as if his spine were made of some pliable material. An undersized bullethead shaved to bristle length, sooty smears of peach fuzz on cheeks and chin. A weak chin. Moist, drooping, sheeplike eyes. The swaying, stiff and arrhythmic, punctuated by random finger flutters.
The boy continued reading, unresponsive to the presence of a stranger. Puzzled, Daoud stepped forward and cast a shadow over the book. The boy looked up and smiled. A smile of such innocence and warmth that the detective found himself smiling back.
'Good afternoon.' Daoud's fingers drummed against the envelope that held the photo of the murdered girl.
More smiles, no answer. Thinking the boy hadn't heard, he repeated himself.
A blank stare. Another smile. Loose-lipped and gap-toothed.
Daoud looked at the book in the boy's spreading lap. The Arabic alphabet. A child's primer. Filthy, fluttering fingers held it awkwardly. A smell arose from the boy's homemade clothing. The stink of someone who didn't know how to wipe his ass properly.
An idiot. Figured.
'See you later,' Daoud said, and the boy continued to stare, intensely, as if committing the detective's face to memory. But when Daoud stepped away the boy suddenly grew alarmed. Dropping the primer, he pulled himself clumsily to his feet and held on to the pipe arbor for support. Daoud saw that he was a tall one, with heavy, sloping shoulders, and wondered if he was dangerous. He tensed in anticipation of trouble, but the boy showed no signs of aggression, only frustration. Eyes rounding, he moved his lips furiously, churning soundlessly, until finally a croak emerged, followed by garbled noise that Daoud had to strain to understand:
'Hellosir. Nie-niceday!'
'An idiot who could speak. A meager blessing, but maybe the poor guy had enough sense to be of some help.
'Good book?' he asked, looking at the fallen primer, shielding his nose with his hand to block out the stink. Trying to make conversation, establish rapport.
The boy was silent, staring at him, uncomprehending.
'Learning the alphabet, my friend?'
More blank stares.
'Want to look at something?' Daoud tapped the envelope. 'A picture?'
The boy craned his neck, gawked at him. Rolled his eyes. Idiotically.
Enough of this, thought Daoud. He turned to leave.
The boy rocked on his feet and started gurgling and gesturing wildly. He pointed to his eyes, then to Daoud's lips, reached out suddenly to touch those lips with a grubby finger.
Daoud stepped nimbly away from the contact and the boy pitched forward, adding shouts to his gestures, slapping his own ears so hard it had to hurt.
Definitely trying to communicate, thought Daoud. He strained to understand.
'Seedwords! Seedwords! No ear, no ear!'
As the boy kept up his singsong, Daoud played it back in his head. Seedwords? Words? See dwords. See the words. No hear-
'You're deaf.'
The boy's smile lit up his face. Gapping his hands, he jumped up and down.
Who was the real idiot? Daoud castigated himself. The poor kid could read lips but he-the brilliant detective- in his attempt to keep his nostrils unsullied had been hiding his nose and mouth when he talked.
'Seedwords, seedwords!'
'Okay.' Daoud smiled. He came closer, made sure the boy had a clear view of his lips. Overenunciated:
