A grave in Gaza oy-2 Page 3

  “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.

  Khamis Zeydan headed for a table by the long window that faced the beach. He wiggled his open hand to call a waiter.

  Omar Yussef stood at the window and watched the waves come in to the narrow beach. It was a long time since he had seen the Mediterranean from the coast of Palestine. The sea rippled a deep turquoise, as though it were a tide of gemstones. Its motion was so beautiful and free that his eyes filled with tears.

  He looked along the sand. There was trash on the beach, burned out oil drums and plastic bottles protruding from shiny black sprays of kelp. Two boys were throwing stones at another kid as he untangled his fishing net.

  Khamis Zeydan ordered coffee, sweet for him and bitter for Omar Yussef, and dropped his pack of Rothman’s on the white tablecloth. “What’re you doing here, Abu Ramiz?” He put another cigarette in his mouth.

  Omar Yussef looked again at the sea. The boy with the net threw it angrily at one of the stonethrowers and wrestled him to the sand.

  “The Swedish fellow is my boss,” he replied. “We’re supposed to be inspecting the UN schools here.”

  Khamis Zeydan cocked an eyebrow. “Supposed to be?”

  “One of our teachers has been arrested. Magnus wants to help get him released.”

  “You know the proverb: It’s the business of the muezzin to make the call to prayers. In Gaza, it’s safest to stick to your own tasks and not to go freelance.”

  “Oh, so it’s time for proverbs, Abu Adel? How about this one: Every knot has someone to undo it. Maybe fate brought us to Gaza to help this poor man.”

  “You’re not going to undo the knot. You’re going to get tied up.”

  The waiter brought the coffee. Khamis Zeydan lit his cigarette. “I want to tell you something, as one who cares about his dear old companion from university days, Abu Ramiz. Don’t get involved in the case of this schoolteacher.”

  “You don’t even know why he was arrested.”

  “I’ll bet you don’t, either. Not really. In Gaza, nothing is what it seems. The truth will be far below the surface. You can’t predict how deep it will go, but you can be sure that it will reach out to touch other victims and other crimes. You can’t solve all the crimes in Gaza.”

  “Perhaps I can solve this single crime.”

  “There is no single, isolated crime in Gaza. Each one is linked to many others, you’ll see. When you touch one of them, it sets off reverberations that will be felt by powerful people, ruthless people.” Khamis Zeydan squeezed his prosthesis with his good hand, thoughtfully. “By Allah, it’s dangerous here, Abu Ramiz. Do you think, for example, that I wander around unprotected?” The police chief gestured toward the corner of the room. A young man sat at a table smoking and nursing a glass of mint tea. He nodded to Omar Yussef. He was about twenty-five, lean and powerful. His hair was short and tightly waved. He had high cheekbones in his spare, bronzed, clean-shaven face. He sat with the absolute self-contained stillness Omar Yussef had observed in men who had spent time confined in Israeli jail cells. “You know who he is?”

  “Isn’t that Sami Jaffari?” Omar Yussef asked. “From Dehaisha?”

  “The Israelis deported him to the Gaza Strip, because he was a gunman in Bethlehem. Even the Israelis consider Gaza adequate punishment for a bad guy.”

  “His father is my neighbor. Is Sami really a bad guy?”

  “Sami was my best officer. He was only involved with the gunmen because I sent him undercover to keep tabs on them. Now he works for me in Gaza.”

  “As a bodyguard?”

  “During my visits, yes. But when I’m not in Gaza, he’s my eyes and ears here. Being a deportee earns him a lot of credibility with the local gangs and he gets a good deal of information that way. He also has friends in the security forces.” Khamis Zeydan leaned toward Omar Yussef. “Listen, I’ve told you in the past to keep your nose out of dirty business-you’re not suited to it. You didn’t pay attention to me then, and I have to admit you were right to ignore me in that case.”

  Omar Yussef grimaced and waved his hand.

  “No, it’s true,” Khamis Zeydan said. “I can only assume you won’t listen to me this time, either. If you’re determined once more to dig into things best left untouched, you should do so with Sami’s help. Gaza is a minefield and Sami knows where to step.”

  Omar Yussef didn’t think Wallender would take to the idea of working with a man deported by the Israelis as a terror
ist, no matter how innocent Khamis Zeydan said he was. “Thank you. But I think I’ll be okay. I’m not alone here. I’m with the UN.”

  Khamis Zeydan inhaled smoke through his nostrils and stared at Omar Yussef, shaking his head. His pale blue eyes were sad and incredulous.

  “Let’s not argue, Abu Adel.” Omar Yussef tried a light, raspy laugh. “Tell me, what’s the big Revolutionary Council meeting about?”

  Khamis Zeydan clicked his tongue bitterly. He crushed his cigarette and warmed his fingertips on the coffee cup. “I hate this air-conditioning. It’s so fucking cold in here.”

  “It’s your diabetes. It’s messed up your circulation. You should cut back on the cigarettes and watch the sugar.”

  “Now you know what’s good for me?”

  Omar Yussef’s jaw stiffened. He raised his voice. “Why is the Council meeting? To decide who should be killed next?”

  “It’s more appropriate to wonder who’s not going to be killed.” Khamis Zeydan swept his arm to indicate the whole of Gaza beyond the hotel walls. “This place is at war. Not with the Israelis-the only people fighting them any more are the Islamists. We’re at war with ourselves. The meeting is a hopeless attempt to stop us all from killing each other.”

  “Why are you killing each other?”

  “Colonel al-Fara wants to be the next president and has the CIA behind him. General Husseini wants to overtake him in the favor of the Americans. So far, Husseini and al-Fara are each trying to force the other into a corner, to cut off their sources of power in the party. As soon as that’s done, the victor will strike. The loser and his supporters will be wiped out.”

  “That’s what the Council meeting’s really about, right? To decide which of these two wins.”

  “Perhaps.” Khamis Zeydan rubbed his eyes. “No one knows which of them to get behind. It isn’t a bet you’d want to lose, after all.”

  “Who’re you supporting?”

  The police chief squinted at Omar Yussef. He lit another cigarette and looked toward the sea.

  “Why won’t you tell me? Don’t you trust me?” Omar Yussef said.

  “The less you know about all this, the safer you are. It’s going to get very ugly, believe me.”

  “Are you in danger?”

  “Everybody’s in danger,” Khamis Zeydan said. “This is Gaza.”

  Omar Yussef touched his friend’s hand and smiled. “I’m going to get settled into my room.”

  Khamis Zeydan leaned across the table and held Omar Yussef’s fingers between his hands. Omar Yussef felt the cold leather of the gloved prosthesis against his knuckles. “Remember what I said about Sami’s help. May Allah protect you.”

  “May Allah lengthen your life.”

  Omar Yussef waved at Sami Jaffari as he left. The young man smiled and cut a slow salute.

  Omar Yussef climbed the staircase to the second floor of the hotel. His knees ached. Perhaps Khamis Zeydan was right and Gaza was too dangerous for him. Ruthless people like al-Fara struggled for the grand prizes of the presidency and absolute power here. A vital, cunning young man like Sami Jaffari could infiltrate their networks and negotiate the dark relationships within. How could a history teacher in his mid-fifties, slowed by the effects on his body of youthful dissipation, hope to encounter such a dirty world and retain his decency, even his life?

  He entered his room. The porter had placed his overnight bag on the bed. Omar Yussef drew back one of the curtains. Like the hotel entrance, the window was streaked by the marks of the rain that had broken the last dust storm.

  The empty room made Omar Yussef feel lonely. He picked up the phone. It took him a few attempts to get an outside line. Then he dialed his wife.

  “Maryam, it’s me,” he said.

  “Omar, my darling, how are you?”

  “Fine, may Allah be thanked.”

  “How is Gaza?”

  “I think there’s a dust storm coming.”

  “Stay inside and drink a lot of mint tea. And don’t forget to put on a jacket, or the sand will get to your chest.”

  “I will. How’re the children?”

  “Nadia is here. She’s reading stories to Dahoud and Miral.”

  Omar Yussef smiled. His eldest grandchild was twelve and so much like his own mother had been that he couldn’t help but favor her over his other grandchildren. He imagined her sitting now with Dahoud and Miral. He had taken in the two children last year, at Nadia’s suggestion, after the deaths of their parents, who were friends of his. He could hear her voice in the background, modulated and expressive, not droning and bored like the children in his classroom at the UN Girls’ School in Dehaisha when they read aloud. “Let me speak to her, Maryam.”

  While the line was quiet, Omar Yussef thought of Salwa and Eyad Masharawi, separated by a sudden arrest. He wondered what it would be like for Maryam if she didn’t know when he would return to their old, stone house on the edge of Bethlehem. Or for him, if he were unsure when next he would eat her food and listen to her good-humored scolding. He felt lonely and cold. He looked about for the control to the air-conditioning to turn it off, but he didn’t see it.

  Nadia came on the line. “Grandpa, it’s me.” She sounded far away from him.

  Omar Yussef swallowed his loneliness. “No, it’s me,” he said.

  Nadia laughed. “You can try that joke with my little brother, but I know how to use a phone, Grandpa.”

  “Evidently.”

  “In fact, I know how to use a computer, too.”

  “Daddy’s computer?”

  “That’s just for playing. I’m taking a new class at school in computers. I’ve decided to build you a website.”

  “A what? Ah, one of those things. What for?”

  “Daddy has one already for his business, so I can’t make one for him.”

  Omar Yussef didn’t understand computers, but he wanted to be encouraging. “Go ahead. I’m sure it’ll be the best website in Bethlehem.”

  “The best website on the web.”

  “Where?”

  “Grandpa, even Grandma knows about the web.”

  Did she really? Omar Yussef often felt discontented with his wife’s perception of the world. He thought her simple and conventional, though he couldn’t help but treasure the bond that had formed between them over the years. Could Maryam really know of things that were beyond him? It was true that sometimes she seemed to know his thoughts, even when he wanted to hide them from her. He recalled Salwa Masharawi’s friend, the university secretary Umm Rateb, and wondered if Maryam would detect in his voice some trace of the sexual attraction he had felt for another woman.

  Maryam came to the phone. “Omar, did you eat lunch? Make sure you don’t let Magnus work you too hard without eating.”

  Omar Yussef relaxed and sensed his love for his wife as surely as if her voice were a hand caressing his skin. “I’ll look after myself, Maryam.”

  Chapter 4

  The sky was clear blue, but Omar Yussef knew it was filling with dirt. He felt the first grains of the dust storm on his tongue and it left him short of breath. He stopped to blow his nose, then shuffled on through the hot yard of al-Azhar University behind Magnus Wallender and James Cree. The campus was a snaking collection of three-story rectangles, like a giant game of dominoes washed to the color of milky coffee. Palestinian flags twitched on the roof of the administrative building in the brief stirrings of the wind.

  Ahead, Cree held the door open for Wallender, who waited for Omar Yussef to catch up. The door was entirely covered in posters. Most were decorated with the fervent, apprehensive faces of suicide bombers preparing to depart on their missions.

  At the end of the hall, they entered an anteroom with two desks, each seating one secretary. Salwa Masharawi’s friend Umm Rateb rose and welcomed them. She smiled, with her head lilting to the left. “Peace be upon you, ustaz.”

  “And upon you, peace,” Omar Yussef responded.

  “Professor Maki has just arrived from his h
ome after lunch,” she said in English.

  Omar Yussef noticed Wallender glance up at the clock on the wall. It was 4:30 p.m.

  “I will tell him you’re here,” Umm Rateb continued. “Please take a seat.”

  Wallender and Cree sat. Omar Yussef leaned against a filing cabinet. He read the label on the top drawer. Degree Records: Alif to Ha. He thought of Nadia and her computer: Palestinians always want things on paper. Computers will never really catch on here. The other secretary tapped at her keyboard and the printer next to her desk hummed.

  Umm Rateb returned from the inner office. “Please come in,” she said.

  Omar Yussef followed the foreigners into the office. The shades were down, but the overhead light was bright, and the air-conditioning was stealthily effective. Professor Adnan Maki stood behind a desk designed to look stylish and expensive. Varnished to the color of strong tea, it swept in a curve that took it ninety degrees from the flashy black telephone at one end to a computer at the other, its shiny surface uninterrupted by papers or any other sign that work was performed upon it. Behind the desk, a Palestinian flag was draped from an upright pole. On either side of the flag, Maki had hung photographs of himself, smiling with the current president on the left and, on the right, embracing the old president.

  Maki had a long, protruding upper lip and a receding chin that made him look equine, but not thoroughbred. Deep lines ran from his nostrils to the corners of his mouth. He was about the same age as Omar Yussef, but he carried no paunch and moved quickly. His small, greedy eyes were so black and wet, they looked like tadpoles spawning.

  “Welcome, welcome,” Maki said, eagerly, in English.

  He bent forward, almost flat across the desk, to shake hands as they introduced themselves. He smelled strongly of expensive cologne. When he asked Umm Rateb to bring drinks, he leaned still closer to his guests and reached out an arm with the palm quizzically opened. “Tea or coffee?” He looked at his watch. “Or is it late enough for something a little stronger?” He giggled and put his hand to his mouth, exuberant to the point of clownishness.