Omar Yussef hung his blazer on the back of the door and went to the window. “He’ll never be all right.”
His wife layered a final smear of cream around her lips and raised her eyebrows, questioningly. “What is it?”
“Why did you stay with me, Maryam?”
“Omar?”
“It isn’t so many years ago that I was like our dear friend Abu Adel.”
“You were never quite like that.”
“I was a drunk. I was easily angered. I couldn’t believe that anyone really liked me and I suspected everyone of mocking me behind my back.”
“But I never allowed you to be lonely, as he is.” Maryam linked her hands behind Omar Yussef’s neck.
He smelled the rosewater in her lotion and kissed her. When he came away from her, there was cold cream in his mustache. She smoothed it into the white hairs and twisted the ends upwards.
“I would never leave you, Omar,” she giggled. “Not even if you oiled your mustache like a stuffy old Turkish pasha.”
Chapter 17
In the alley outside the baths, Khamis Zeydan blew loudly through pursed lips, rubbed his bloodless gray forehead and swallowed hard. “I don’t know if I’m up for this,” he rasped. “If I go into the steam room, I might pass out.”
“What about all the sweating you need to do?” Omar Yussef followed his friend up the steps.
“If I sweat those things out, they’ll leave traces of my dirty history all over the tiles in the baths for people to read.”
Someone has already unearthed those secrets, my friend, Omar Yussef thought. He wondered if he ought to tell Khamis Zeydan that they were about to meet Awwadi in the bathhouse. By introducing them, he hoped to persuade Awwadi that Khamis Zeydan was a good man and to prevent him using his dossier of dirt against the police chief. With his friend irritable and hungover, though, he wasn’t sure Awwadi would take to him.
“Never mind,” Khamis Zeydan said. “The sooner I get some hot water on my head, the quicker we’ll know if this is the hangover that’s finally going to kill me.” He labored toward the doorway.
The main hall of the Hammam al-Sumara centered on an old fountain of scalloped limestone. Water spouted softly from a stone column in the middle of the fountain into a pool tiled turquoise. The window at the peak of the high domed ceiling was sectioned into blue, green and orange triangles. Long vines grew around the glass and emerald mold streaked the white plaster. The room was light, but the dampness gave it the scent of an old cellar.
Nouri Awwadi lay on a divan by the entrance. When he noticed Khamis Zeydan, he raised his eyebrows and pushed his chin forward at Omar Yussef, as though complimenting a host on a finely prepared dish. He played his thumb across the keypad of his cellular phone and pointed it at a bulky man beside him, who directed his own phone at Awwadi. They laughed as the handsets sounded the refrain of a cloying Lebanese love song. Omar Yussef recognized the tune from the music video channel to which Nadia some-times danced about the living room.
Awwadi gave his companion’s heavy shoulder a slap. He turned to Omar Yussef. “We’re swapping ringtones.”
Omar Yussef frowned. He resented their loud laughter and the intrusion of the idiotic jingle into this traditional place. “When they built these baths five hundred years ago, cell phones were one annoyance they didn’t have to suffer,” he said.
Awwadi’s friend smiled. His thick black hair was slicked back from a low forehead and his beard shone with oil. “This was always a place for meetings, ustaz. If you return later in the day, this hall will be filled with men smoking the nargila and playing backgammon.”
“In that case, I’m glad we came early.”
“Do you think in Paradise there are no people?” The dark-haired man lifted his arms wide. Under his black-and- white checked shirt, his chest expanded and he rolled his neck. “People are part of Paradise.”
“If everyone made it to Paradise, you’d be correct.” Omar Yussef wagged his finger and smiled. “But I hope that Allah, the King of the Day of Judgment, will weed out anybody who tries to take their cell phone into Paradise.”
“If Allah wills it.” The heavy man laughed, reaching out to give him a big, slapping handshake. “I apologize for some mess you may find here and there around the baths. An Israeli special forces unit came last night.”
“Why?”
“Looking for something.”
“For what?”
“I failed to qualify for the Israeli special forces, so I’m not privy to such information. My name is Abdel Rahim Dadoush. I’m the manager of the baths.”
“And the best masseur in Nablus, too.” Nouri Awwadi stood up and greeted Omar Yussef with three kisses. He took Khamis Zeydan’s hand.
“Good, I need a massage,” Khamis Zeydan said. “My body’s as stiff as a donkey’s cock in midpiss.”
Awwadi clapped his hands and laughed.
“Only the pain of a rough massage can free you from this stiffness,” Abdel Rahim said. “I will kill you with my massage and make you feel alive again. But first, the baths.”
In the narrow changing room, Omar Yussef pulled a thin white towel around his slack waist. Khamis Zeydan took an extra towel and draped it casually over his arm to disguise his prosthetic hand.
Awwadi smiled as they entered a wide room filled with steam. “Once a man has been in the baths with another man, they have no need for secrets,” he said.
Khamis Zeydan glanced at the towel over his lost limb, but Omar Yussef knew that Awwadi wasn’t referring to the prosthesis. He’s telling me that Khamis Zeydan’s file won’t be used against him, Omar Yussef thought.
The three men lay on the floor of the steam room. Colored light radiated out of the vaulted ceiling, passing through small circular shafts each with a pane of stained glass at the top. Omar Yussef felt the mulberry scent of the steam opening his lungs.
“When you experience the warmth of this air, it’s like a drug,” Awwadi said. “You feel that nothing can harm you.”
“Steam can’t protect you from a bullet,” Khamis Zeydan murmured.
“What can make a man bulletproof?”
“Money.”
“Perhaps I will soon have enough of that to deflect every bullet in the arsenals of all the Palestinian factions, and the Israelis, too.” Awwadi winked at Omar Yussef.
He’s close to finding the secret account documents, Omar Yussef thought. Or perhaps he already has them. How am I going to persuade him not to use the money for Hamas operations? He has to turn it over to Jamie King.
Awwadi rose and slapped his palms on his smooth pectoral muscles. “Excuse me for a while, please. I like to have my massage when I’m sweating like this,” he said.
“Nouri, there’s something you ought to know,” Omar Yussef said. “On Friday, the World Bank-”
“In a few minutes, Abu Ramiz. I’ll rejoin you later for the hot water.”
The steam closed behind him.
Omar Yussef and Khamis Zeydan went to the next chamber. The walls were divided into cubicles as wide as a man is tall. In each cubicle, a cinder block lay on the floor on either side of a low stone basin. Khamis Zeydan sat on an upturned block and ran the hot water.
Omar Yussef stared at the black mold surrounding the basin and creeping along the grouting between the cream-colored tiles. Higher up the wall, the plaster was streaked with a lime green mold so bright that at first it looked like paint. “Why don’t they clean this off? It’s disgusting.”
“Don’t be a pansy,” Khamis Zeydan said. “Sit down and pour.” He lifted a red plastic beaker, scooped hot water from the basin and tipped it over his head. He shuddered and bellowed.
Omar Yussef lowered himself onto the other block. Khamis Zeydan handed him a beaker and he doused himself. The long strands of white hair he combed over his baldness washed down across his brow and his glasses fogged. The warmth sank deep into him and he scooped the hot water again and again, until he wondered if he would ever be able to stop.