Omar Yussef straightened in surprise. “I smell corruption on your breath.”
“Don’t be dramatic. Abu Alam’s hummus just has too much garlic,” Sami grinned. “Corruption makes me choke just as hard as you.”
“Then what’s the problem?”
Sami picked at his thumbnail. “The sheikh warned me not to pursue this case.”
“Then start your investigation with him. Why would he want the case of a dead Samaritan to be dropped? He must be involved.”
“Abu Ramiz, I was just transferred back to the West Bank after five years in Gaza, in exile,” said Sami. “I’m about to be married to the woman I love and I want to have a family. My deportation already delayed these things and I can’t afford to take risks.”
“Risks?” Omar Yussef’s hands shook. He gripped the edge of the table to steady them.
“This isn’t just a case of the murder of some anonymous Samaritan.”
“Are you saying you don’t care about his death because he was homosexual?”
“I’m saying I care very much about his death and I certainly don’t intend to drop the case completely. But there may be limits to how far I can take my inquiries.” Sami picked up a strip of cheese and pretended to roll it in the dish of khilta. He spoke quietly, urgently. “The case isn’t simple. It’s obvious to me that it reaches far into the politics of Nablus. It’ll surely concern influential people.”
“I agree,” Omar Yussef said. “After all, Ishaq managed the Old Man’s money.”
“The money suggests this wasn’t just a crime of passion, even perverted passion. Someone powerful was after all that cash. If they have the money now, they won’t be happy with anyone who investigates it, and if not, they may kill again to find it.” Sami squashed the spongy finger of cheese onto his plate as though it were a cigarette. “The political leaders of Nablus are violent, ruthless men. I can’t go up against them.”
“You fear the sheikh will kill you, if you ignore his warning?”
“Someone might have Meisoun’s permit revoked, sending her back to Gaza. They could even harm her, or have me posted to Gaza again.”
“Who are they?” Omar Yussef brought his hand down on the table. The plates rattled. He looked about him, but the noise of cooking and conversation went on as before.
Sami lit a cigarette and called to Abu Alam for two glasses of tea. He expelled twin streams of smoke from his nostrils. “You know me well enough to understand that I uphold my principles as much as possible, Abu Ramiz. But in this society, where does it get me?”
“Am I wrong to stand up for my principles?”
“With respect, Abu Ramiz, lecturing the little girls at the UN school isn’t as tough as confronting the corrupt polit-ical establishment of Nablus.”
“How do you know you’d have to go up against the entire political system? What did the Sheikh tell you?”
“You saw the photograph on Ishaq’s wall. The Old Man was kissing him.”
The tension in Sami’s jaw betrayed his shame to Omar Yussef. He’s a fine boy and a good policeman, he thought. He has sacrificed so much for a rotten system. He only wants to do something for himself now.
Omar Yussef wondered whose side his friend, Bethlehem’s police chief, would take, when he arrived for the wedding. Probably he’d defer to Sami, he thought. He’d tell me that Sami has an instinct for danger, knowing when to charge the guns and when to take cover. My instincts, on the other hand, are less practical.
“If I help you identify the killer, will you arrest him?” he said.
Sami puffed out his cheeks. “If Allah wills it, of course. I’ll even pay for your tombstone.”
“My sons can cover that.”
Omar Yussef knew that Ramiz, his eldest, would agree with Sami. He always avoided trouble. Zuheir, however, was principled and combative, like Omar Yussef. He would want his father to seek justice, even when the law failed. Omar Yussef noticed that Zuheir’s approval was important to him.
“A good tombstone is expensive,” Sami said.
“I’ll tell my boys to start saving.”
“For some things, you never finish paying.”
Sami’s mobile phone vibrated on the tabletop. Abu Alam set their tea beside it. Sami put his finger on the phone to stop it wandering across the Formica. His tired, yellowy eyes stared hard at Omar Yussef and his lips were tight with irritation. He picked up the phone.
Chapter 8
Sami whispered into his cellular and the muscles of his face relaxed. With the tiny silver phone pressed to his ear, he rose, dropped some coins on the counter and gave Abu Alam a light handshake. He crooked a finger for Omar Yussef to follow and moved into the flow of people through the souk.
Omar Yussef sipped at his tea, but the glass was too hot for him to hold and the mint stuck to his teeth. He put it down before it burned his fingers and picked a flaccid leaf from his lip. The hummus felt heavy in his stomach.
“Did you enjoy the food, ustaz?” Abu Alam shouted above the sizzling of falafel in a blackened frier. He flattened a green ball of mashed fava beans between his palms and slid it into the hot oil.
“Your plan to bring peace to the town by making the gunmen sleepy with hummus may work. It has succeeded with me,” Omar Yussef said. “Leave a big plate outside your door at night and in the morning you’ll find a group of contented Israeli soldiers snoozing in the street.”
“I could poison the hummus, but I doubt the soldiers would notice the difference. Have you ever tasted Israeli hummus, ustaz? You can tell it’s made industrially. There’s not enough lemon and the chickpeas are ground too fine, as though it was meant to be eaten by little babies.”
“Whereas your hummus merely makes me want to sleep like a baby.” Omar Yussef turned to the street. Sami was edging away through the crowd, waving to someone over the heads of the shoppers. “Thank you for your food. The avocado was very good.”
“To your double health, ustaz. Thank you.” Abu Alam smiled. “May Allah grant you good health.”
Omar Yussef peered along the passage, looking for Sami. Dusty pillars of sunlight from ventilation grates in the ceiling illuminated the crowd, but all the men had identical short, black hair and every woman covered her head in a cream scarf.
A stocky tradesman with gray stubble and a dark mustache leaned over his handcart and lifted a quartered watermelon. “Come on, watermelon, watermelon, it’s almost free,” he bellowed. Omar Yussef flinched at the volume of the man’s sudden call and glared at him. The vendor caught Omar Yussef’s indignant eye, but only raised his chin and his volume: “O Allah, it’s free.”
A hand reached up out of the crowd, and another next to it. Someone was waving to him. Then he saw Sami’s face below the raised hands, and he started through the throng.
His wife emerged from the crowd of Nablus women in their long gowns and headscarfs. Maryam’s head was uncovered and she wore black slacks and a thin black sweater. On her shoulder, she carried a dark blue handbag with gold clasps that Omar Yussef had bought for her in Morocco. She lifted her arms and hugged Omar Yussef, her plastic shopping bags slapping his back.
Sami guided him out of the flow of the crowd and into the entrance of a shop selling gaudy housecoats for women. He opened his palm to present a slight young woman. “Abu Ramiz, you remember Meisoun?”
Though her head was draped with the scarf of a religious woman, Meisoun dropped her chin to one side coquettishly and fluttered her long, delicate lashes at Omar Yussef. When they had first met, Meisoun had been working at a hotel in Gaza and was kind enough to respond with good humor to Omar Yussef’s innocent flirting. I’m sure she considered me just a harmless old man, Omar Yussef thought, and she probably still does. He felt more regret than he would have expected for the passing of the days when women might have described him as charming, handsome and even dangerous. Now I’m only charming-provided I’m in a good mood.