Matt Rees - The Samaritan's secret

“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.

“I would be honored,” Meisoun said. “But actually I studied the ancient commerce of Palestine for my business degree. Nablus was always much more important as a center of trade than Jerusalem.”

They came into the light. Vivid green weeds fell in thick clusters over the wall.

Sami smiled. “My fiancee is much smarter than me,” he said. “I want her to start a business here in Nablus.”

“With her knowledge of history, she could be a tour guide,” Maryam said.

“That’s not exactly a growing business. You may be the first tourists to reach Nablus in five years. But if you like, I can be your tour guide.” Meisoun smiled, lifted her arm, and marched forward. “Follow my finger, come on, my group.”

Sami fell into step behind her, dropping his shoulders like the indolent tourists who shuffled about Bethlehem on organized tours. Omar and Maryam joined, too.

Meisoun halted at the end of the overgrown wall and cupped her hand beside her mouth like a guide with a bull-horn. “Listen, my group, most of the casbah dates from the last eight centuries. But beneath our feet are remains of the Roman town built for veterans of the legions and called Flavia Neapolis. Nablus is a corruption of the name ‘Neapolis.’ ”

Omar Yussef held up his hand. “Miss, miss, what was the town on this site called before it was rebuilt as Neapolis?”

“Quiet, you troublemaker.” Meisoun put her finger to her lips. “The Jews say they lived here two thousand years ago in a town called Shekhem, but I’m not allowed to say any more about that or I’ll lose my official tour guide license.”

“Perhaps you should choose another business that’s less politically sensitive,” Omar Yussef suggested.

“I’m encouraging her to get into cell phones, in partner-ship with Ramiz,” Sami said. Omar Yussef’s son ran a cell phone business in Bethlehem. “You’re right that it’s best to avoid politically sensitive issues.” He angled his neck toward Omar Yussef to emphasize his warning.

Meisoun put her finger on her lips again. “My interest in cell phones, too, is a secret no less explosive than the ancient Israelite history of Nablus.” She smiled. “Someone else might steal our idea.”

“I’m very discreet, Miss Meisoun,” Omar Yussef said. “Unfortunately, my wife is a chatterbox. If you want to prevent Maryam from exposing your secret, you’d better bury her at least as far down as the Roman remains.”

Maryam slapped Omar Yussef’s shoulder. “Then who would make your hummus?”

They laughed, but Meisoun grew quiet. She stepped closer to the wall and peered into the shadows cast by the falling weeds. She ran her hand across the smooth, tan stone and circled three bullet holes with her forefinger. Powdered limestone came away on her nail when she probed one of them. A flattened slug of lead dropped to the floor. “You see, Umm Ramiz. I’m right at home in Nablus. It’s just like Gaza.”

They walked on in silence. Meisoun rubbed the dust from her finger and reached for Sami’s hand. The young man looked into her eyes with a strained smile.

Omar Yussef reached out and pinched Maryam’s earlobe affectionately. She was stroking his hand, when they heard quick footsteps around the corner.

Four men came into the alley. They wore green fatigues and their faces were disguised by black stocking caps. Two of them held thick lengths of wood. A short, bulky man slapped a tire iron into his palm. They barred the alley, poised on their toes, ready to spring.

Sami pulled Meisoun behind him. Omar Yussef looked back along the passage. It was empty and dark.

The short man chuckled, jeering and mirthless. “You’re Sami Jaffari, aren’t you, you son of a whore?” He stepped toward Sami, the men with the timbers at his elbow.

Sami pushed Meisoun away, ducked his head and charged at the short man, hitting him in the chest with his shoulder. The man went down, but Sami took a two by four across his shoulders and dropped to his knees. Another blow flattened him.

Omar Yussef let go of Maryam’s hand. “Stop this, by Allah, stop it,” he shouted. “Shame on you.”

The fourth masked man was tall and trim. He shoved Omar Yussef on the collar bone with the flat of his hand, but the schoolteacher kept his balance and moved forward.

“Calm down, Little Grandpa.” The tall man leaned close. Omar Yussef smelled cardamom on his breath, as though he had been chewing seed pods.

“ Your grandpa would be ashamed of you,” he said, “and I hope he’ll curse you for this.”

The tall man raised his hand and slapped Omar Yussef hard. His glasses fell and he spun toward the wall. He struck it with his shoulder and doubled over.

Maryam spread her arms in front of him. “Don’t touch my husband, you filthy dog,” she said.

Omar Yussef’s myopic eyes were tearful from the blow and his nose was running into his mustache. He saw a blur of green, hooded shapes lifting something from the floor and heard the tall man’s voice: “Consider this a warning, Jaffari, you worthless shit.” An arm swung. Omar Yussef heard a light crunch like cutlery rattling in a drawer, and Sami bellowed.