“Every house has its sewers, Abu Ramiz.”
“Don’t quote proverbs at me. You have to help me.”
“I’m telling you: Hussein Tamari is untouchable. By you, and by me. The only thing that’s going to happen if you speak up now is that you’ll get yourself lynched. There’s already a crowd here that you can probably hear in the background and they’re very angry. If they find someone they want to accuse of collaboration, they’ll beat him to death on the spot. So I don’t advise you to speak ill of the dead tonight.”
“We only have until tomorrow at noon to prove Tamari’s guilt and to save George.”
Khamis Zeydan waited a moment, took a breath. “No, George Saba only has until tomorrow at noon. We don’t have such a deadline.”
“You’re right. Your time was up a long time ago.” Omar Yussef punched the button on the phone that terminated the call.
In the quiet of the night, Omar Yussef strained to hear the sound of the army helicopter. He recalled the noise of its engine, reverberating above him all week. It rained a deafening rotor thump onto the handicapped boy Nayif. It mirrored the beating of Omar Yussef’s anxious heart when he came out of the school to toss his old personnel reports into the puddle. It must be there now again, the blaze of Hussein Tamari’s destroyed vehicle a flickering spot below it in the blackness of the earth. It hovered above Bethlehem like the famous star that announced the birth of Jesus. It doomed each man it tracked, just as surely as that ancient messianic sign destined the child born in the manger to crucifixion. The sky was silent, but Omar Yussef knew the chopper was up there. Not even if George Saba could fly like a bird would he find escape and safety.
Omar Yussef couldn’t give up now. He must find someone who would refuse to let an innocent man die just for the sake of preserving the memory of this scum Tamari. No one in the police or the judiciary or the government would take that risk. He had to think of someone who might be even more powerful than the memory of Tamari. There was only one person who could possibly chance slurring the martyr’s image. It was risky. Khamis Zeydan was right: they might lynch him. Well, then he would die before George Saba’s execution and his worries would be over. He would go to Jihad Awdeh.
Chapter 23
At the door of Jihad Awdeh’s apartment building, there were two guards. One of them tucked his cigarette into the corner of his mouth to free his hands and, with his eye squinting against the smoke, patted down Omar Yussef. As he was searched, Omar Yussef glanced back across the street at his own house. Silhouetted in the window of the living room he recognized his granddaughter Nadia. It was the stillness of the outline that told him it was her, watchful and tense as her grandfather went into danger. A few moments before, it had seemed to him that he had nothing to lose by this desperate attempt to influence the new head of the town’s most wicked gang of killers. That silent, unmoving shadow in the window of his home gave him a pang of doubt. Perhaps he ought to make an excuse, tell the gunman searching him that he had forgotten something and head home. The search concluded. The guard took a long drag on the cigarette and told him to go up the stairs. If he turned to leave now, they would be suspicious.
On the staircase, it occurred to Omar Yussef that the Israelis might try to assassinate Jihad Awdeh tonight, just as they had killed Hussein Tamari. He wondered if the helicopter missile would blast through the window even as he sat with the new chief of the Martyrs Brigades. From the window, Nadia would see the streak of orange from the tail of the missile as it roared in to kill her grandfather, and then the puff of gray smoke from the window, the vaporized remains of the glass and concrete and of Omar Yussef’s body. He breathed deeply as the door of Jihad Awdeh’s apartment opened for him.
The boy who held the door for Omar Yussef was about Nadia’s age. He pulled the laquered cherrywood door back and stepped aside, giving Omar Yussef a brief glance of contempt and hostility. Across the living room, Jihad Awdeh sat on a sofa. He was surrounded by Martyrs Brigades men. There were at least a dozen and the room seemed very crowded. Omar Yussef was surprised and relieved that Jihad Awdeh appeared to be in good spirits. He had expected that the death of Hussein Tamari might have made Awdeh fearful or angry. Instead, he seemed to be enjoying his new status as the boss of the gang. He laughed loudly at a joke, took a small square of baklava from a tray his daughter carried around the room, and scooped a handful of sunflower seeds from a bowl on the coffee table.
Jihad Awdeh glanced across the room at the open door. His eyes darkened for a moment when he noticed his visitor, but the smile remained in place and he beckoned Omar Yussef forward. You are my brother. I would have to kill you free of charge. Omar Yussef wondered if that generous offer remained valid. As he approached, Jihad Awdeh whispered to the man on the couch next to him, who vacated his seat. Jihad patted the sofa and the man who had stood came to usher Omar Yussef to his place next to the chief.
“I’m happy that you have come, and I wish your welcome to be a good one,” Jihad Awdeh said. He moved very close to Omar Yussef, who sat on the edge of the couch.
“I’m happy to be welcomed at your home,” Omar Yussef muttered. It seemed strange to speak the formulas of politeness in these circumstances.
Jihad Awdeh picked a piece of baklava from his daughter’s tray and handed it to Omar Yussef, dripping honey and syrup. The sweetness seemed deceptive, excessive, sickly. He told himself to be on his guard against this man’s sudden charm.
Jihad Awdeh smiled and spat the empty pods of sunflower seeds into his hand. He dropped them in a crystal ashtray and stuffed another couple of seeds into his mouth. His jaw worked on the seeds, pressing their edges between his molars to open the pods, so that his sustained smile seemed to want to consume, like the threateningly bared fangs of an aggressive dog.
Omar Yussef tried to ease the memory of their confrontation at Hussein Tamari’s headquarters two days ago. “My condolences on the death of the brother Hussein,” he said. “May Allah be merciful to him.”
Jihad Awdeh nodded and let his smile fade into seriousness for a moment. Then he put his hand on Omar Yussef’s knee and leaned close. “You didn’t like him, Abu Ramiz, did you?” he whispered.
Omar Yussef stared at the powerful hand on his leg. The nails were long and yellow, like the claws of a wild animal. He said nothing.
Jihad Awdeh laughed. “Neither did I.” He nodded. “I didn’t like him at all. Now what do you want, Abu Ramiz? My time is limited, as the funeral of the martyr Hussein and his bodyguards is to be held in half an hour.”
It surprised Omar Yussef that Jihad Awdeh would admit to his dislike of Hussein Tamari, even in a hushed voice. He remembered that Khamis Zeydan had told him Hussein’s men would often scorn Jihad, even to his face, as a member of a small clan of refugees. Hussein had born the confidence of a man who belonged, whose entire village would back him against any threat. Jihad Awdeh’s clan was not powerful, even in the refugee camp on the northern edge of Bethlehem where most of his relatives lived. Omar Yussef wondered if Jihad Awdeh might not be less aggressive toward him tonight because he finally had Tamari’s clan where he wanted them. In that instant, he thought of the Abdel Rahmans, who lost their protection with the death of Louai in the pine grove. Jihad Awdeh still needed to make a show of bereavement, because most of the Martyrs Brigades men belonged to Tamari’s clan, but he had taken over the gang just as surely as Hussein Tamari had robbed the defenseless Abdel Rahmans of their autoshops.