As if it were up to the Jews to solve the problem the Arabs had created-to eat the shit that nobody else had an appetite for. And the goddamned government fell into it, playing the liberal game-putting the refugees on the Israeli welfare rolls, giving them houses, schooling, free medical care. Since '67 their infant mortality had dropped way down. More little pissers to contend with.
Far as he was concerned, the people in the camp were cowards and the descendants of cowards. They'd run away from Jaffa and Lod and Haifa and Jerusalem because the Arab Legion had scared the shit out of them with those hysterical radio broadcasts back in '48. He'd been a wet-eared kid of eighteen, remembered it well. Harsh voices screaming that the Jews ate babies alive, would cut the tits off their women, grind their bones, fuck their eye sockets, and drink their blood.
Jihad had begun, the voices promised. A Holy War to end all wars. The infidels have been attacked and will soon be routed and driven into the Mediterranean. Leave at once and return soon with the victorious forces of the United Arab Armies. Not only will you reclaim your homes, noble brothers, but you will be privileged to confiscate everything the filthy Zionists have accumulated.
Thousands of them listened and believed, falling over one another to escape. Swarming up into Syria and Lebanon and Gaza, pouring into Jordan in such numbers that the Allenby Bridge sagged under their weight. And when they got there, what did their Arab brethren with the strong family ties to do for them? Built camps and locked them up. Just temporary, Ahmed. Wait in your nice little tent. Paradise is coming soon-dead Jews and endless virgins to fuck.
Still waiting, he thought, eyeing a shriveled old woman sitting in the dirt and pounding chickpeas in a bowl. The door to her hovel was open; inside was an equally shriveled old man, lying on a mattress, smoking a narghila. Fucking political footballs.
The educated ones had found jobs, settled all over the world. But the poor ones, the defective and stupid ones, stayed in the camps. Living like barnyard animals-breeding like them too. There were 400,000 of them still penned up in Lebanon and Jordan and Syria, another 300,000 dumped in Israel's lap after '67, with 230,000 in Gaza alone. Far as he was concerned, you build a wall around the Strip, stash them all there, and call it Palestine.
Three hundred thousand wretches. The spoils of victory.
The location the Norwegian had given them was midway through the camp, a mud house that looked as if it were melting. Empty oil drums were stacked along one side. Lizards ran over them, chasing insects.
Maksoud, the brother-in-law, sat at a card table in front of the house in a greasy white shirt and snot-shiny black pants, playing sheshbesh with a kid of about twelve. The firstborn son. Privileged to sit with the old man and piss his life way.
Not that the old man was so old. A sleepy-looking guy, pasty-faced, maybe thirty, with a ratty-looking mustache no better than Abdelatif's, skinny arms, and a potbelly. A livid worm of scar tissue ran the length of his left forearm. Nasty-looking.
He shook the dice, looked at their Uzis, rolled, and said, "He's not here."
"Who's not here?" asked Shmeltzer.
"The pig, the leech."
"Does the pig have a name?"
"Abdelatif, Issa."
A thick-skinned lizard ran up the side of the building, stopped, bobbed its head, and climbed out of sight.
"What makes you think we're looking for him?" asked the Chinaman.
"Who else?" Maksoud moved two backgammon discs. The kid picked up the dice.
"We'd like to look inside your home," said Shmeltzer.
"I have no home."
Always polemics.
"This house," said Shmeltzer, letting him know by the tone of his voice that he was in no mood to take any shit.
Maksoud looked up at him. Shmeltzer looked right back, kicked the side of the house. Maksoud gave a phlegmy cough and yelled, "Aisha!"
A short, thin woman opened the door. In her hand was a grimy dish towel.
"These are police. They're looking for your pig brother."
"He's not here," said the woman, looking scared.
"They're coming in to see bur home."
The boy had rolled double sixes. He moved three discs into his home zone and removed one from the board.
"Ahh," said Maksoud, and he rose from the table. "Put it away, Tawfik. You learn too well."
There was an overtone of threat in his voice, and the boy complied, looking frightened, just like his mother.
"Get out of here," said Maksoud and the boy ran off. The brother-in-law pushed the wife out of the way and went inside. The detectives followed him.
Just what you'd expect, thought Shmeltzer. Two tiny rooms and a cooking area, hot, filthy, smelly. A baby on the floor wearing a skullcap of flies, a chamber pot that needed emptying. No running water, no electricity. Crawling bugs decorating the walls. Administered.
The wife busied herself with drying a dish. Maksoud sat down heavily on a torn cushion that looked as if it had once been part of a sofa. His paleness had taken on a yellowish cast. Shmeltzer wondered it it was the light or jaundice. The place felt dangerous, contagious.
"Have a smoke," he told the Chinaman, wanting something to burn away the smell. The big man pulled out his pack of Marlboros, offered it to Maksoud, who hesitated, then took one and let the detective light it for him.
"When's the last time you saw him?" Shmeltzer asked when the two of them were puffing away.
Maksoud hesitated and the Chinaman didn't seem interested in waiting for an answer. He started walking through the room, looking, touching things, but lightly, without seeming intrusive. Shmeltzer noticed that Cohen seemed lost, not knowing what to do. One hand on the Uzi. Scared shitless, no doubt.
Shmeltzer repeated the question.
"Four or five days," said Maksoud. "Insha'Allah, it will stretch to eternity."
The woman gathered enough courage to look up.
"Where is he?" Shmeltzer asked her.
"She knows nothing," said Maksoud. A glance from him lowered her head just as surely as if he'd pushed it down with his hands.
"Is it his habit to leave?"
"Does a pig have habits?"
"What did he do to piss you off?"
Maksoud laughed coldly. "Zaiyel mara," he spat. "He is like a woman." The ultimate Arabic insult, branding Abdelatif as deceitful and irresponsible. "For fifteen years I've been putting him up and all he creates is trouble."
"What kind of trouble?"
"From the time he was a baby-playing with matches, almost set the place on fire. Not that it would be a great loss, eh? Your government promised me a house. Five years ago and I'm still in this shithole."
"What else besides the matches?"
"I told him about the matches, tried to knock sense into him. Little pig kept doing it. One of my sons got burned on the face."