“The Touqan Palace,” Awwadi said. “It used to be home to one of the greatest families in Nablus. But like all the other rich people they moved up the hill.”
Omar Yussef glanced above the laundry to the grand mansions on the ridge of Mount Jerizim.
“Now this is the home of the poorest people, a dozen families living in the space once occupied by a single rich man, his wife and children and servants.” Awwadi shook his head. “The palace has become a slum.”
“That’s the story of our people, my son.”
Awwadi shook his head and rubbed his beard. He looked at Omar Yussef as though he had expected better of him. “This isn’t a sentimental line from the work of our national poet, ustaz. This is where I live.”
The imitation American clothing flapped in a gust of warm air. To Omar Yussef, it seemed as if the casbah wished to blow away this cheap, foreign fashion, so the red, white and blue logo would no longer blight its exquisite architecture. The big families which once dwelled in these palaces had fled to modern homes on the mountain. They neglected their heritage, leaving it to crumble in the penniless, desperate hands of the poor. Probably they also wear American clothes, he thought. But expensive, genuine ones, not the Chinese-made fakes on that washing line.
A barefoot child stumbled across the courtyard in a grubby white T-shirt. Awwadi lifted her high, laughing with her. “My eyes,” he called in a playful falsetto, nuzzling the two-year-old’s cheek and rubbing her toes.
Omar Yussef smiled. “Your girl?”
“I wish, ustaz. She’s my brother’s child. My favorite niece.” Awwadi placed the girl on the steps and sent her tottering up them with a gentle tap on the backside and more falsetto, urging her to find her mother. “I’m not married. Not until tomorrow.”
“You’re taking part in the big Hamas event, the joint wedding?”
Awwadi clapped his hands. “I’m marrying a girl who’s also from here in the casbah.”
“A thousand congratulations.” Omar Yussef knew better than to ask for details of Awwadi’s bride. The name and habits of a religious man’s wife were a secret to all but himself and his close family. To anyone else, she would be known only as the wife of Nouri Awwadi and prying questions would be treated with the same hostility as if someone had reached out to stroke her skin.
A cockerel strutted past the chickens in the old fountain. He lifted his ugly leg and screeched before stepping forward, his red comb and gold neck flashing bright across the stone. Omar Yussef felt the rooster’s black, cruel eyes follow him to a delicately carved doorway barred by a gate of old planks. Awwadi cooed to the darkness within. Omar Yussef flinched as a massive white head emerged from the shadows.
“He’s beautiful, isn’t he, ustaz?” Awwadi said. “The only pure Arabian stallion in the casbah. His name is Sharik. Partner. A good name for the horse I’ll ride in the wedding procession to meet my wife.”
“Yes, a good name.” Omar Yussef stroked the horse’s muscular neck. Its hair was rough like the stubble on a man’s cheek. The horse twitched and glared down its long face at Omar Yussef. “He doesn’t seem to like me. That’s all right. He’s your partner, not mine.” He ran his hand down the horse’s neck again, this time with the grain of the hair, and it was as smooth and firm as polished wood.
“The other grooms will ride horses provided by Hamas. Arabians, like Sharik. But from villages outside Nablus. I’ll be the only one on a true Nablus mount.” Awwadi bent to pull a handful of grass from between the floor slabs and fed it to the horse from his open hand.
The horse stamped and shifted to the side. Omar Yussef glanced beyond him to the back of the stable. A low doorway appeared to lead to a cellar, the dull light of a single bulb glimmering up through its old stone arch. As Omar Yussef peered toward the light, Awwadi stepped in front of him, yanking the bridle so that his movement might seem to have been dictated by a toss of the horse’s head. What does he have down there that’s so secret that he doesn’t want me to see? Omar Yussef thought.
Awwadi gave Sharik a slap on the back, made his assault rifle comfortable across his shoulders, and guided Omar Yussef toward the entrance of the Touqan Palace. “We should go back to the mosque,” he said. “Sami will think you’ve been kidnapped by Hamas.”
Chapter 6
Omar Yussef found Sami in a corner of the mosque, leaning close to a sheikh who stood stiff and straight in his camel-colored robe and tarboosh. As Omar Yussef crossed the green carpet in his stockinged feet, the sheikh turned an imperiously immobile face toward him. He had a frown like a thousand fatal fatwas.
“Let me introduce you to Sheikh Bader,” Sami said. “Abu Ramiz is a schoolteacher in Dehaisha Camp and a neighbor of my family. He’s in Nablus for my wedding.”
Omar Yussef greeted the sheikh, who briefly dipped the point of his gray beard in acknowledgement. His black eyebrows pulled toward each other like baleful rainclouds. When this man frowns and those two clouds meet, Omar Yussef thought, there’ll be thunder.
Nouri Awwadi bowed his head and whispered respect-fully to the sheikh. He stuffed his worry beads into the pocket of his jeans and smiled at Sami. “Did you finalize all the arrangements for your wedding?”
“Our Honored Sheikh has been very accommodating,” Sami said, “despite the much bigger wedding he’s organizing for tomorrow.”
Awwadi lifted a finger. “In two days, Sami, I invite you to join me at the baths. I’ll relax after my wedding and you can get a massage to prepare yourself for your own happy day.” He turned to Omar Yussef. “You, too, ustaz. After all, you’re a history teacher. What better way to relax than to enjoy the steam in a historic bathhouse.”
“Where is it?” Omar Yussef asked. “It’s been years since I went to a good Turkish bath.”
“Just along the street. The Hammam as-Sumara.”
“The Samaritan bathhouse? Do they run it?”
“No, but it’s in what used to be their ancient quarter of the casbah. The neighborhood still bears the old name, even though everyone who lives there today is Muslim.” Awwadi smiled. “I’m going to the baths now to relax before my wedding tomorrow. But I’ll meet you there in the morning two days from now.”
“Thank you, Nouri. I have a lot of work and the preoccupation of my own wedding, so I won’t have time,” Sami said. He raised one eyebrow at Omar Yussef. “But I’m sure Abu Ramiz would be delighted to meet you at the baths. He seems to be very interested in the Samaritans, and he’s not busy.”
Omar Yussef held Sami’s gaze a moment before he put his hand over his heart and smiled his assent. “If Allah wills it,” he said.
Awwadi headed for the door, shaking hands with two brawny men as they removed their muddy boots. They wore black and carried M-16s at the ready across their chests. Once inside the mosque, they slumped in a corner with their heads against the wall and closed their eyes. Tired from a nighttime operation, Omar Yussef thought. The house of prayer is the safest place for them to rest.
After Awwadi left, Omar Yussef smiled at the sheikh. “Nouri showed me the horse he’ll ride in the wedding procession tomorrow,” he said. “A beautiful Arabian stallion.”
The sheikh inclined his head with deliberate graciousness. “All the grooms will ride like this.”
“The event must be expensive,” Omar Yussef said.
“The Chastity Committee takes care of it all.” Sheikh Bader snapped his fingers.