Chapter 9
When Omar Yussef reached his car, the sullen, young gunman who had tried to intimidate him glared suspiciously. Omar Yussef wondered how long this kid would last. The youngster surely would run as soon as he heard the growl of a tank coming over the hill from the settlement, but the soldiers might get him anyway. Or he might become lazy and step out where a sniper could pick him off. It was no wonder he was aggressive and tense, but that didn’t make Omar Yussef any more sympathetic toward him. He started his old Peugeot and spun the car around on the narrow road. The gunman jumped out of the way. Omar Yussef watched him step off the curb and glower after the car as it dropped down the hill.
Before he left Beit Jala, Omar Yussef pulled into a parking lot fronting a row of shops. A group of gunmen clustered before the grilled chicken restaurant on the corner. The restaurant was shuttered and wouldn’t open until the end of the day’s Ramadan fasting. Omar Yussef gave the gunmen a scornful glance and mounted the steps to the platform that ran along the shopfronts. As he passed through the clutch of gunmen, they stepped aside politely. “Joyful morning, uncle,” one of them said.
Before Omar Yussef could think, he returned the greeting: “Morning of light.”
The gunmen went on talking quietly. Omar Yussef wondered at himself. He was so angry with their general rudeness that his resentment was particularly acute at a rare moment such as this when they behaved well. Do I need so much to blame them for all the things that are wrong in our society that I can’t even see them as human beings any more? Perhaps they’ve been up all night on patrol, he thought. Some of them, at least, are willing to sacrifice their family lives for what they consider to be their duty. Some of them die for it, too.
Omar Yussef came to a dingy storefront. The picture window was covered by a gray venetian blind. He opened the door. A middle-aged woman rose from behind her desk when she saw him. She was thick around the middle, but well dressed. She wore an Yves St. Laurent scarf around her neck, and earrings by the same designer gleamed from her fleshy lobes.
“Welcome, Abu Ramiz,” she said. She reached out her hands to hold his shoulders and kissed Omar Yussef on each cheek.
“Nasra, you have a new haircut,” Omar Yussef said.
The woman’s hair was short at the sides, blow-dried and combed back. It was a deep red, though Omar Yussef knew that this was not her natural color.
“Do you like it, Abu Ramiz? I have to keep looking young or Abu Jeriez will fire me and hire a pretty little girl.”
“That will be the day his business fails. He always tells me you run everything.”
Nasra gave a deep, smoky laugh and guided Omar Yussef to the office at the back of the room. The door opened and Charles Halloun looked out.
“Abu Ramiz, I knew it must be you. No one makes Nasra laugh as you do,” he said. He grasped Omar Yussef’s hand and pulled him into the office. He nodded at Nasra to prepare coffee.
Charles Halloun seated Omar Yussef on the couch and only then did he sit at its other end. His hair was black and trim. He had a long, shapeless nose and thick, agile eyebrows. He wore a check tweed sport coat, a brown cardigan, and a brown woolen tie. He looked like a bumbling old Oxford don.
Halloun’s father had been accountant to Omar Yussef’s father. The sons now kept the same relationship.
“You just missed your son, Abu Ramiz. He was here to deliver some papers. His account is fast becoming one of my biggest jobs.” Halloun rubbed the bulbous end of his nose. “Ramiz inherited your brains, I must say. Mobile phones are an amazing business.”
“Ramiz is very smart. But I can’t claim so much credit for that. I don’t understand at all how these phones work.”
“As long as the cash isn’t counterfeit, who cares where it comes from?” Charles Halloun laughed, twirling the pointed end of his eyebrow.
Nasra brought in two coffees and a glass of water. Like the Sabas, Nasra and Halloun were Christians who knew that Omar Yussef didn’t observe Ramadan and would enjoy a drink.
“God bless your hands,” Omar Yussef said.
“Blessings. How is Umm Ramiz?” Nasra asked.
“Well.”
“And Zuheir and Ala?”
“Zuheir is visiting us later this month. He’s coming in from Wales to celebrate the Eid with us. Ala just changed his job and is selling computers in New York.”
“Tell them I want to see them when they visit.” Nasra smoothed her skirt and closed the door behind her.
“Double-health and well-being in your heart,” Charles Hal-loun said as Omar Yussef began to drink his coffee.
Omar Yussef put the coffee on the table. “Abu Jeriez, I will ask you a direct question. How is my family provided for?”
Charles Halloun sat forward. The dense eyebrows drew close to the bridge of his nose in concern. “Is something wrong with your health, Abu Ramiz?”
“No, not really.” Not yet. “I’m considering retirement. If I were to stop earning at the school, would I be able to continue to live as I do?”
“Well, you have the income from the investments your dear father made. There are some shares in the Arab Bank, some Egyptian bonds, and there is the rent from the land Abu Omar purchased in Beit Sahour shortly before he passed away. Most of this has been reinvested, because you live on your UN salary. But you could draw an income from it. I think retirement probably wouldn’t alter your lifestyle too much.” Charles Halloun cocked his head. “Are you sure it is only retirement that’s on your mind, Abu Ramiz? You’re a young man.”
“I’m fifty-six.”
“But you’re in good health, thank God.”
“Yes and no. I no longer consume alcohol, but I drank enough for a lifetime before I quit ten years ago. It’s only five years since I stopped smoking, and I sometimes feel a little short of breath even today. I don’t exercise, except for walking to the school in the morning. And, well, there are some things that I won’t go into except to say that they cause me a great deal of worry, which I’m sure is something of a stress on my heart.”
“No alcohol, no cigarettes? Your life is one long Ramadan.”
“But for almost fifty years, it was a continuous Eid.” Omar Yussef laughed. “Rest assured that my retirement will preserve my health. I only want to know all the facts about my financial situation before I make any final decisions.”
“I shall prepare a report for you with some projections of the income that you would be able to live on.”
“All I need is food and money to treat my grandchildren to presents. I don’t travel very much, just once a year to Amman with Maryam to visit my brother, and once a year a vacation in Morocco by myself.”
“This should be no problem, Abu Ramiz. You will be able to afford to continue with those trips.”
The two men drank their coffee.
“I spoke to Ramiz this morning about something delicate,” Charles Halloun said. “I thought perhaps you might discuss it with him, too. He wants to expand his business, to open several more mobile phone shops around the Bethlehem area. The problem is that expanding businesses tend to attract the attention of some disreputable types these days. There are a number of them that have been taken over rather suddenly by the Martyrs Brigades.”
“You mean protection money?”
“No, that’s old hat. I mean, they take over. Just like that.” Charles Halloun snapped his fingers. “These days they come to the house of the owner with a contract and say, ‘Sign it over to us or we’ll kill you and take the business anyway.’”
“You’re worried this might happen to Ramiz?”
“All the gunmen use mobile phones. They can see that it’s a real business. That attracts them. Look how they just took over the Abdel Rahman auto shops.”