Omar Yussef struggled up the lane, sand sifting over the tops of his loafers, and leaned his hand against the graffiti of the Dome of the Rock encased in swathes of black barbed wire. He smiled. Even if the wire were real, it couldn’t have cut his palm any worse than the glass along the wall at Salah’s house already had done. Perhaps death had tracked him through Gaza, as he had imagined, but only as a reminder of his mortality, spurring him to better actions. In any case, it hadn’t caught him. He tightened his bandages, pushed open the gate and went slowly through the lemon and olive trees to the Masharawi house, Maki’s briefcase tapping against his knee with every step.
The sandy yard outside the front door was shaded by a black canvas awning, under which the family would receive mourners. Beneath it, Naji sat on a plastic garden chair with a flask of bitter coffee and some tiny polystyrene cups, ready to greet visitors. The boy didn’t notice Omar Yussef. He was alone, miserably twiddling the ear that, by its odd angle, marked him as his father’s son, the son of a man rubbed out as a collaborator. The boy stared at the tangle of shadow beneath the olive trees. The soft trilling of his doves floated on the hot air. Omar Yussef went quietly into the house.
In the sitting room at the end of the hall, he found Salwa Masharawi and Umm Rateb. The two women sat hand in hand, Umm Rateb staring at her friend’s fingers with the desperation of a parent tending a sick child. Salwa gazed at the photo of her husband on the bookshelf. With her free hand, she touched a small, lace handkerchief to her eyes. Omar Yussef would have left them in peace, but he needed to speak to Salwa. He stepped through the door.
“Abu Ramiz, morning of joy,” Salwa said. Her voice was dreamy and slow. She seemed not to notice Omar Yussef’s dirty clothes and bandaged hands.
“Morning of light, my daughter,” Omar Yussef said. “May Allah be merciful upon your departed husband.”
“Thank you, Abu Ramiz. Welcome, welcome,” she said.
Umm Rateb stood. She lifted her palms as though she held Omar Yussef’s bandaged hands in them and looked at him with concern. He shook his head. “You must have some coffee, Abu Ramiz,” she said. “Didn’t you see Naji in the mourning tent?”
“He’s grieving for his father, Umm Rateb. He’s not a waiter. Leave him be.”
“I’ll make you coffee, ustaz. Sit down with Salwa.” Umm Rateb went to the kitchen.
Omar Yussef lowered himself onto the sofa. His thighs ached and he groaned as he came to rest. “I’m sorry that I wasn’t able to attend the funeral this morning,” he said. “I found my kidnapped Swedish friend and was able to free him. We brought him back from Rafah just now.”
“May Allah be thanked.”
“I want to tell you that, with all my heart, I worked to prevent what happened to your husband.”
“I know, Abu Ramiz.” Salwa dabbed at a tear beneath her eye with the handkerchief. “In Gaza, a man like Eyad can speak his mind and pay a terrible price, or he can ignore the wrongs in the world and his life feels no better than death. Eyad chose his way. That’s why I loved him.”
“You’re right, my daughter.” Omar Yussef lifted the briefcase and laid it on Salwa’s lap. She glanced at him and he nodded for her to open the case.
Salwa unclipped the clasps and gasped. “Abu Ramiz, what have you done?”
“I hope this will help you in difficult times.”
“Where is this money from?”
“This is the nearest thing to a life insurance payment the university is likely to make. Of course, our Swedish friend will be in contact with you about a United Nations pension.”
Salwa caught another tear at the corner of her eye. She opened her mouth to ask another question, but Omar Yussef clicked his tongue. She returned her gaze to the photograph of her husband. “Thank you, Abu Ramiz.” She closed the briefcase and slipped it behind the sofa. Umm Rateb brought in a small cup of coffee.
“Allah bless your hands,” Omar Yussef said.
“Blessings,” Umm Rateb said.
Omar Yussef caught the rosewater scent of the woman’s soap and felt the guilt of his attraction to her once more. And in a house of mourning, too, he thought, shaking his head. But he forgave himself right away. He had no reason to doubt that he was a good man, whatever his less commendable urges.
Umm Rateb lowered herself onto the armchair opposite him, blowing out her cheeks. She cleared her throat. “Abu Ramiz, I hope it isn’t too late, but you remember the leaflet you left in Professor Maki’s office?”
“I know what happened to that.”
“You do? I found it on the floor behind his desk. There was a dirty shoeprint on it. Perhaps he stepped on it without seeing it.”
“He certainly found it, Umm Rateb.”
“I’m sorry. I tried to reach you at your hotel to tell you I had it, but you were out.” Umm Rateb’s look of concern lifted and she smiled knowingly. “The lady who answered the phone at the reception desk laughed and said you were ‘out on a case’.”
Meisoun. Agent O. Omar Yussef felt his neck grow hot and cleared his throat. “I wonder what she meant.” His coffee cup rattled in its saucer.
He said goodbye to the women and went out into the humid shade of the awning. He sat on the plastic chair next to Eyad Masharawi’s lonely, awkward son.
The boy barely looked up. He reached out for one of Omar Yussef’s bandaged hands and laid his skinny fingers across it. Naji’s shoulders shook. The sobs came with the same rhythm as the call of the doves in their cage upstairs. He rested his forehead on Omar Yussef’s chest. The schoolteacher stroked the boy’s dark hair with the fingertips of his other hand. He sat still and firm for an hour, until the boy’s weeping was done.