Khamis Zeydan danced behind Sami, snapping his fingers above his head. His foot must be feeling better, Omar Yussef thought. The police chief turned his smile toward Omar Yussef. He noticed Liana, who dropped her eyes to the potted plant, rubbing one of its leaves between her fingers. Khamis Zeydan followed Sami into the men’s hall, as the women led Meisoun next door. He glanced over his shoulder, but Omar Yussef avoided his eye.
“I couldn’t wait for him,” Liana said. “When I saw Abu Adel in the hospital after he was wounded, the doctors told me he would die. I wanted to tell him I was pregnant, but he was too drugged up to recognize me and, in any case, he was already married. All my silly fantasies about escaping to Europe or America disappeared. You understand the disgrace I faced? My family would have disowned me. Amin had been courting me and I convinced him the child was his. I accepted his offer of marriage.”
“Did you try to think of a way to raise the child as your own?”
“Even if we married in a hurry, he would have been born too soon afterward. My father was a prominent diplomat and there was Amin’s career to think about-and my honor. Despite all my supposed radicalism, I realized that I was ashamed to go against our traditions. I couldn’t allow people to think I had such intimate relations with my fiance.”
“You had no other choice, dear lady.” Omar Yussef glanced toward the men’s hall. “Do you still love him?”
The foyer was almost empty. The final guests were entering the halls to celebrate with the bride or the groom.
“It’s different now,” Liana said.
Her love for Khamis Zeydan was passionate in Beirut, Omar Yussef thought, but its memory has been made melancholy by years of lies.
“I hate Amin like a donkey hates the man who rides it, no matter how well fed and watered its master keeps it,” Liana said. “But I’m afraid to leave my husband.”
“Why?”
Liana split a leaf from the stem of the potted plant. “He knows too many of my secrets,” she said.
She caught another streak of kohl and smiled so that her tears would end. Omar Yussef looked into her brown eyes, and he remembered the sky blue irises in the dead face of her son. Why are all our eyes colored with one of these two sad hues? he wondered.
As she went into the women’s hall, Liana pulled her shoulders back and lifted her chin. The canary yellow suit merged with the somber robes of the other women. Omar Yussef crossed to the men’s hall.
The dance moved around Sami. Ramiz and Zuheir laid their arms across Sami’s shoulders and the three men stepped side to side, shaking their hips and rolling their necks. At the fringe of the crowd, Sheikh Bader stood, sullen and still. Across the hall, Amin Kanaan wiggled his head to the music, though it would have been beneath his dignity to dance with the mob. The sides of his mouth lifted in a smooth grin, accepting the greetings of those who approached him.
The music came to an end and Sami climbed onto a dais. He smiled at the faces in the crowd, holding each man’s eyes a moment. He sat in a comfortable armchair, as Khamis Zeydan ascended the platform and reached down for a radio microphone. The police chief tapped the head to be certain it worked and waved his hand for the men’s attention.
“Peace be with you,” he said. “May you experience abundance from Allah, O Sami.”
Some in the crowd returned the wish loudly. “With the protection of Allah,” said the man next to Omar Yussef.
“Sami Jaffari has a wonderful family,” Khamis Zeydan said, “and Hassan is an admirable father.”
Sami’s father raised his hand near the front of the crowd to acknowledge the cheers.
“But I’ve always felt Sami to be like a son to me, because I’m the father of Lieutenant Sami the policeman,” Khamis Zeydan said.
The laughter was warm. Khamis Zeydan waited for quiet. “Sometimes I worry about the risks Sami takes.”
Sami grinned and raised his broken arm.
“But I know that he faces these dangers because he wants to enforce the law and protect our community. I’m proud of the way he carries out his duty.”
Omar Yussef thought of the boy Khamis Zeydan had sired in Beirut. A son is linked to his father as the Turkish buildings of the casbah are bound to the Roman remains far underground, he thought. Even when they’re unaware of each other’s existence, the blood beneath the skin is shared. Though he had never known his true father, Ishaq had moved in the same treacherous circles as Khamis Zeydan. After Ishaq’s death, the police chief had unwittingly avenged his boy with the bullet that killed the priest in the synagogue. A war separated this father and son. A murder reunited them.
“Sami, when you went to Our Honored Sheikh Bader to begin the process of marriage, he required you to say a prayer,” Khamis Zeydan went on. “Sometimes we pray without thinking about what we say, but let’s remember the words of that prayer. It required you to request a chaste wife who would ‘from her womb bestow a pure son who will be my sweet reminiscence in my life and after my death.’ Sami, may your son one day bring to you the same sweetness that you have brought to me, for whom you are like a son.”
Sami rose so that Khamis Zeydan could kiss his cheeks. The police chief came down from the dais and moved across the dance floor, taking the slaps of congratulation and the handshakes.
Amin Kanaan nudged one of his acolytes, pointed at the departing police chief, said a few words and smirked. For someone who just missed out on three hundred million dollars and lost the boy he believed to be his son, he’s pretty cheerful, Omar Yussef thought.
Sheikh Bader watched the wealthy businessman with a glower so savage that it seemed to clear a space around him in the crowded hall. It was then that Omar Yussef knew Kanaan had double-crossed the sheikh. Kanaan lured him into a fight so that he could take control of Nablus, he thought. He planted a fake autopsy in the dirt files, which Ishaq intended to give to Hamas. He knew the sheikh would publicize the autopsy’s finding that the Old Man died of that shameful disease, giving him a pretext to confront Hamas.
“You’re not dancing, Dad?” Zuheir slapped his hand onto Omar Yussef’s shoulder, smiling.
“When I was a student, I danced with ladies at a cafe in Damascus. It’s no longer the fashion,” Omar Yussef said, gesturing toward the crowd of men on the dance floor, “but I developed a taste for it and I simply don’t like to dance any otherway.”
“You’d better keep that quiet, or Sheikh Bader will issue a fatwa against you.”
“We all have our secrets.”
Zuheir stopped smiling. “I’ve been keeping a secret myself.”
“What is it, my son?”
“I’m getting married, too.”
Omar Yussef blinked.
“I met a Lebanese woman on a research trip to Beirut. We’re hoping to marry. That’s why I’m leaving Britain to live in Lebanon.”
“I thought you were-”
“A crazy religious extremist who hates the West? Well, I’m not crazy and, no matter how we differ on certain things, I’ll always be proud to be your son.”
Omar Yussef felt his eyes grow wet and he reached for Zuheir’s hand. “A thousand congratulations, my dear boy.” He kissed his son five times, moving from cheek to cheek.
“What happened with the woman from the World Bank?” Zuheir asked. “Were you able to help her find the money?”
Omar Yussef nodded. “The bank will continue its aid.”
Zuheir shook his head with admiration. “Thank you, Dad.”
Omar Yussef tried to make his habitual staccato laugh of selfdeprecation, but it caught in his throat. He touched his son’s arm and he turned toward the door.