Matt Rees - The Samaritan's secret

They passed a small spice shop. Burlap sacks circled the storefront, standing on end in the street, brims rolled back to display their contents-sandy cumin, garish yellow turmeric, cardamom ground to the color of cement. Above the entrance a dangling hand-painted sign indicated that this was the Mareh family’s establishment. A framed photo of the old president, leering like a lounge lizard beneath his checkered keffiyeh, hung askew on the wall above the sacks. A tall young man in dusty blue overalls came to the door, leaned against a stack of sumac, and sneered at Awwadi.

“Peace be upon you,” Awwadi said.

The man snorted disdainfully. “Upon you, peace,” he hissed.

Not everyone in the casbah will be dancing at the Hamas wedding, it seems, Omar Yussef thought.

Awwadi rolled his shoulders beneath the strap of his M-16 and held the young man’s glare as he led Omar Yussef into a sloping passage, open to the sky. Ornate lattices of olive wood enclosed the balconies above them, so the women of the house could watch the street in seclusion. Awwadi reached for Omar Yussef’s hand and took him through an imposing, carved gateway that extended elegantly to the height of two stories.

Thick tufts of weeds grew through uneven stone slabs in the courtyard. A fountain at the center of the yard had been converted into the base for a wire chicken coop. A few goats were penned into a corner by rotting planks. Above them, cut into the wall in slashy naskh characters, an inscription memorialized the building’s construction. Omar Yussef read that it was two centuries old. On the terrace at the top of a worn flight of steps, gray sweats and baby clothing swung on a washing line. He recognized the trademark design of the American company from the knockoff designer T-shirts he had seen piled outside the store in the souk when he passed through with Sami.

“The Touqan Palace,” Awwadi said. “It used to be home to one of the greatest families in Nablus. But like all the other rich people they moved up the hill.”

Omar Yussef glanced above the laundry to the grand mansions on the ridge of Mount Jerizim.

“Now this is the home of the poorest people, a dozen families living in the space once occupied by a single rich man, his wife and children and servants.” Awwadi shook his head. “The palace has become a slum.”

“That’s the story of our people, my son.”

Awwadi shook his head and rubbed his beard. He looked at Omar Yussef as though he had expected better of him. “This isn’t a sentimental line from the work of our national poet, ustaz. This is where I live.”

The imitation American clothing flapped in a gust of warm air. To Omar Yussef, it seemed as if the casbah wished to blow away this cheap, foreign fashion, so the red, white and blue logo would no longer blight its exquisite architecture. The big families which once dwelled in these palaces had fled to modern homes on the mountain. They neglected their heritage, leaving it to crumble in the penniless, desperate hands of the poor. Probably they also wear American clothes, he thought. But expensive, genuine ones, not the Chinese-made fakes on that washing line.

A barefoot child stumbled across the courtyard in a grubby white T-shirt. Awwadi lifted her high, laughing with her. “My eyes,” he called in a playful falsetto, nuzzling the two-year-old’s cheek and rubbing her toes.

Omar Yussef smiled. “Your girl?”

“I wish, ustaz. She’s my brother’s child. My favorite niece.” Awwadi placed the girl on the steps and sent her tottering up them with a gentle tap on the backside and more falsetto, urging her to find her mother. “I’m not married. Not until tomorrow.”

“You’re taking part in the big Hamas event, the joint wedding?”

Awwadi clapped his hands. “I’m marrying a girl who’s also from here in the casbah.”

“A thousand congratulations.” Omar Yussef knew better than to ask for details of Awwadi’s bride. The name and habits of a religious man’s wife were a secret to all but himself and his close family. To anyone else, she would be known only as the wife of Nouri Awwadi and prying questions would be treated with the same hostility as if someone had reached out to stroke her skin.

A cockerel strutted past the chickens in the old fountain. He lifted his ugly leg and screeched before stepping forward, his red comb and gold neck flashing bright across the stone. Omar Yussef felt the rooster’s black, cruel eyes follow him to a delicately carved doorway barred by a gate of old planks. Awwadi cooed to the darkness within. Omar Yussef flinched as a massive white head emerged from the shadows.

“He’s beautiful, isn’t he, ustaz? ” Awwadi said. “The only pure Arabian stallion in the casbah. His name is Sharik. Partner. A good name for the horse I’ll ride in the wedding procession to meet my wife.”

“Yes, a good name.” Omar Yussef stroked the horse’s muscular neck. Its hair was rough like the stubble on a man’s cheek. The horse twitched and glared down its long face at Omar Yussef. “He doesn’t seem to like me. That’s all right. He’s your partner, not mine.” He ran his hand down the horse’s neck again, this time with the grain of the hair, and it was as smooth and firm as polished wood.

“The other grooms will ride horses provided by Hamas. Arabians, like Sharik. But from villages outside Nablus. I’ll be the only one on a true Nablus mount.” Awwadi bent to pull a handful of grass from between the floor slabs and fed it to the horse from his open hand.

The horse stamped and shifted to the side. Omar Yussef glanced beyond him to the back of the stable. A low doorway appeared to lead to a cellar, the dull light of a single bulb glimmering up through its old stone arch. As Omar Yussef peered toward the light, Awwadi stepped in front of him, yanking the bridle so that his movement might seem to have been dictated by a toss of the horse’s head. What does he have down there that’s so secret that he doesn’t want me to see? Omar Yussef thought.

Awwadi gave Sharik a slap on the back, made his assault rifle comfortable across his shoulders, and guided Omar Yussef toward the entrance of the Touqan Palace. “We should go back to the mosque,” he said. “Sami will think you’ve been kidnapped by Hamas.”

Omar Yussef found Sami in a corner of the mosque, leaning close to a sheikh who stood stiff and straight in his camel-colored robe and tarboosh. As Omar Yussef crossed the green carpet in his stockinged feet, the sheikh turned an imperiously immobile face toward him. He had a frown like a thousand fatal fatwas.

“Let me introduce you to Sheikh Bader,” Sami said. “Abu Ramiz is a schoolteacher in Dehaisha Camp and a neighbor of my family. He’s in Nablus for my wedding.”

Omar Yussef greeted the sheikh, who briefly dipped the point of his gray beard in acknowledgement. His black eyebrows pulled toward each other like baleful rainclouds. When this man frowns and those two clouds meet, Omar Yussef thought, there’ll be thunder.

Nouri Awwadi bowed his head and whispered respect-fully to the sheikh. He stuffed his worry beads into the pocket of his jeans and smiled at Sami. “Did you finalize all the arrangements for your wedding?”

“Our Honored Sheikh has been very accommodating,” Sami said, “despite the much bigger wedding he’s organizing for tomorrow.”

Awwadi lifted a finger. “In two days, Sami, I invite you to join me at the baths. I’ll relax after my wedding and you can get a massage to prepare yourself for your own happy day.” He turned to Omar Yussef. “You, too, ustaz. After all, you’re a history teacher. What better way to relax than to enjoy the steam in a historic bathhouse.”