“Miss Meisoun, I came to Nablus solely to see you,” Omar Yussef said. “The West Bank needs Gazan beauties like you to make life more bearable here. But you betrayed me and agreed to marry another man.”
“I have several unmarried sisters in Gaza, ustaz.” Meisoun smiled at Sami to show that she enjoyed teasing Omar Yussef. “They would be glad to meet an accom-plished man of intelligence like you.”
“He’s not so smart.” Maryam slapped Omar Yussef’s wrist and wagged a finger at her husband. “Omar, it’s only peasant men in the villages who take more than one wife these days. Anyway, why would you want a second wife? You always complain that one is too many.”
“The political power of the Islamists is growing, Maryam,” Omar Yussef said. “It’s important to stay in their good books. If I take a second wife, they’ll assume that I’m religious, and I won’t even have to pray to prove it.”
“Would you agree to let Sheikh Bader officiate at the wedding?” Sami smiled, but Omar Yussef detected a hardness in his friend’s eyes.
“All the grooms at the big Hamas wedding will be mounted on white stallions.” Omar Yussef laughed. “Given the condition of my health, if I tried to ride such a horse, Sheikh Bader might have to arrange a white ambulance to bring me to my new bride.”
“And they’d take you away in a coffin,” Maryam said.
Meisoun laughed. “I certainly wouldn’t want my wedding to be like the big one Hamas is planning,” she said. “You know I’m religious, ustaz, but Sheikh Bader has planned more of a political event than a wedding, from what Sami tells me. Men and women should be separated for the sake of decency, but they shouldn’t be celebrating on different planets, like they will at the Hamas event. The women will be at one end of the casbah and the men at the other.”
“My wedding to Meisoun and our married life together-these are the most important things to me.” Sami spoke to Maryam, but Omar Yussef knew this was aimed at him. “I suffered a long time in Gaza away from my family, but perhaps it was Allah’s will that I be sent there to meet this perfect wife and mother.”
Maryam laid a hand on Meisoun’s arm and smiled. “I don’t think we’ll have to wait long,” she said.
Omar Yussef sighed. After the marriage, people would refer to the couple as Abu Hassan and Umm Hassan-the father of Hassan and the mother of Hassan-because most Palestinians considered Sami obliged to name his first child after his father, Hassan. Of course, it had better be a son, Omar Yussef thought, or there’ll be commiserations all around.
At times like this, Omar Yussef found Maryam utterly conventional, but he was never able to maintain his discontent with her for long. That either means I’m also rather conventional, he thought, or I must love her. He recalled the taxi ride from Bethlehem to Nablus. Maryam had chattered all the way about the lace on the bridal gown, how tall the wedding cake might be, and how many children she expected Sami to sire. As the hot breeze had buffeted Omar Yussef through the taxi window, his irritation at her babble had grown and he had wondered what had ever made him marry her. When the taxi finally approached the Hawara checkpoint at the edge of Nablus, she had tidied the few strands of white hair crossing his bald head and touched his cheek with her palm. With that gesture, his resentment had ceased and he had remembered that there was little enough in her life to bring her joy. His eyes tearing, he had taken her hand and kissed it. Sometimes she seemed like the most average woman alive, but it was too late to wonder why he loved her.
“No, we’re not going to have to wait very long at all for a little one to arrive.” Maryam leaned close to Sami and spoke with an excited quaver. “Are we, Abu Hassan?”
Omar Yussef threw his arms wide and let them slap down against his thighs. “Maryam, allow them to enjoy their marriage. Don’t pressure them.”
“Who’s pressuring them? You don’t think children are the greatest pleasure of marriage?”
“Marriage has many benefits, not only children.”
“If you had your way, I’d have given birth to a shelf full of books, instead of three sons.” Maryam examined Omar Yussef’s shirt. She brushed her hand across his chest. “Omar, is that hummus?”
Omar Yussef glanced hopelessly at Sami.
“It’s my fault, Umm Ramiz,” Sami said. “Abu Ramiz didn’t want to eat, but I was very hungry and I forced him to taste the hummus at my favorite restaurant.”
Omar Yussef touched the tips of his mustache, nervously. “It wasn’t as good as yours, my darling,” he said.
Maryam jerked her head back and opened her dark eyes wide. “Of course it wasn’t. Perhaps you want a second wife so that she can make your hummus. She can wash your underwear, too.”
Omar Yussef smiled and put his hand to his wife’s cheek. “Very well, she can wash my underwear. No one but you will make hummus for me, though.” He looked down at Maryam’s bags. “What have you bought?”
“A nice new shirt for Nadia to wear to the wedding.” Maryam opened one of the plastic bags and Omar Yussef looked inside. The shirt was pink and lacy. Maryam held up the other bag. “I also picked up some American T-shirts for Miral and Dahoud.”
“Nadia will love it.” He smiled approvingly and kissed his wife’s cheek. “So will our newest little pair.” He had adopted Miral and Dahoud after the death of their parents, friends of his, little more than a year ago, and found in them a delight that made him feel young once more. He thought of the Samaritan priest, robbed of his adopted son by a murderer, and shivered at the thought of losing either of his new charges.
“Can I take you both back to the hotel?” Sami asked. He tilted his head and stared hard at Omar Yussef as he spoke. “You must be tired, Umm Ramiz. You too, Abu Ramiz. You’ve done enough for one day.”
He doesn’t want me arguing with him about the investigation into Ishaq’s murder, Omar Yussef thought. I can’t force him to face down the powerful people he says are involved in this case, but I know Sami’s a good policeman. He’ll come around, if I don’t push him too hard.
“Why should Omar be tired? He’s only been loafing around, eating other people’s food.” Maryam wiped at her husband’s stained shirt with the corner of her handkerchief. As they moved into the stream of shoppers, she turned to Omar Yussef. “How was your visit to the Samaritan synagogue? Did they show you their historic scrolls?”
Omar Yussef suddenly felt light-headed and panicky. He thought of Ishaq’s corpse. The busy street around him dissolved into darkness and he slipped on the puddle from the ice melting in the watermelon vendor’s cart. Sami caught him under the arm and maneuvered him into a side alley.
“The car is just here, at the top of the casbah, Umm Ramiz,” he said. “We’d better take your husband to the hotel.”
“I’m fine,” Omar Yussef murmured.
“Sami, I don’t know how you find your way around these alleys,” Maryam said. She looked suspiciously at Omar Yussef.
They rounded a dark corner and pushed into a dim, vaulted stretch, aiming for a bright spot where the tunnel emerged twenty yards away.
“Meisoun, there’s nothing like this in Gaza,” Maryam said. “Are you getting used to it?”
Meisoun wiggled her head. “It’s true, the surviving older buildings of Gaza aren’t as impressive as the casbah here in Nablus. This is one of the most important places in Palestine, historically.”
“Have you been taking lessons from the schoolteacher here?” Maryam jabbed a finger at Omar Yussef.