listened to the blood pumping hard through his temple. He thought of what Charles Hal-loun had told him about his income. It wasn’t retirement he was planning for. He wanted to be sure that Maryam would be comfortable if he came to some harm. He felt determined. Nothing would happen to him, so long as George Saba needed his help. If he didn’t stick to his path, George wouldn’t be the last victim of Hussein Tamari.
I’m not a victim, Omar Yussef thought. He held his hand out before him and laughed. For the first time in years, it wasn’t shaking.
Chapter 10
T he bells in the Church of the Nativity resounded about Manger Square as Omar Yussef crossed to the police station. The tourist shops on the south side would open later, though few pilgrims braved Bethlehem now. There were no buyers for the cherubic newborn Christs, which lay in silent rows along the shelves in the windows of the Giacomman family’s store, gazing blandly at the equally numerous Virgin Mothers. The earthy scent of yesterday’s foule drifted from the shuttered restaurant next door. Omar Yussef never ate breakfast, but the smell of the fava bean mash made him crave a plate. His hunger made him cold and he pulled his coat up at the collar.
Omar Yussef traversed the carefully laid-out expanse of stone paving and tree planters in the square. In the thin light, the dark buttresses of the Armenian monastery that fronted the church were as foreboding as the tolling bells. The liveliness that he remembered of the church in his youth was gone, swamped by the Muslims of the surrounding camps and villages, who came like him as refugees and with swelling numbers soon felt entitled to treat the once-Christian town as their own. The symbol of Bethlehem, the basilica of the birthplace of Christianity, was beleaguered, its massive stone walls a futile bastion against a hostile religion and a declining congregation. It seemed like a place for burial, not birth. George Saba’s cell was in the police station at the corner of the square closest to the church. Omar Yussef imagined George assaulted by the ominous pealing of the bells that reckoned his slow minutes of imprisonment, just as they chimed a doleful countdown to the extinction of the Christians in his town.
At the corner of the square, a voice called. “Greetings, ustaz .” Omar Yussef turned to see a thin priest crossing the empty road toward him with long, bouncy strides. The priest wore a black Catholic robe with a white dog collar. There were gray socks under his open sandals. His skin was olive and speckled with the kind of black whiskers that always need shaving. His black hair was thin and curly, standing above his scalp like the fuzz on a hairy man’s chest. In no more than two years, he would be completely bald. His thick glasses made his eyes seem tiny.
“Elias,” Omar Yussef said. “I’m so happy to see you. George reported that you were back from the Vatican. We spoke proudly of your achievements.”
“Yes, I’m back. Can you believe it? I just couldn’t keep a safe distance,” the priest said. “It’s wonderful to see you, Abu Ramiz. You look so well.”
“I have never trusted the word of religious men, and now I understand why. I am not in such great health, to tell the truth.”
“Perhaps I am just so delighted to see you that I feel everything must be perfect.”
“I wish it were so, Elias.” Omar Yussef looked toward the police station. “I am going to visit George in his jail cell now.”
Elias Bishara pushed his heavy glasses up his nose. “Tell me if there is anything George needs,” he said. “He could have no greater friend than you, Abu Ramiz, but perhaps he will ask for a priest. I would like to minister to him.”
Omar Yussef wondered if Elias Bishara already was thinking ahead to George’s last rites. He wasn’t ready to accept that, yet. “I will let him know.” He shook Elias’s hand.
Khamis Zeydan met Omar Yussef at the door of the police
I’m not a victim, Omar Yussef thought. He held his hand out before him and laughed. For the first time in years, it wasn’t shaking.
Chapter 10
T he bells in the Church of the Nativity resounded about Manger Square as Omar Yussef crossed to the police station. The tourist shops on the south side would open later, though few pilgrims braved Bethlehem now. There were no buyers for the cherubic newborn Christs, which lay in silent rows along the shelves in the windows of the Giacomman family’s store, gazing blandly at the equally numerous Virgin Mothers. The earthy scent of yesterday’s foule drifted from the shuttered restaurant next door. Omar Yussef never ate breakfast, but the smell of the fava bean mash made him crave a plate. His hunger made him cold and he pulled his coat up at the collar.
Omar Yussef traversed the carefully laid-out expanse of stone paving and tree planters in the square. In the thin light, the dark buttresses of the Armenian monastery that fronted the church were as foreboding as the tolling bells. The liveliness that he remembered of the church in his youth was gone, swamped by the Muslims of the surrounding camps and villages, who came like him as refugees and with swelling numbers soon felt entitled to treat the once-Christian town as their own. The symbol of Bethlehem, the basilica of the birthplace of Christianity, was beleaguered, its massive stone walls a futile bastion against a hostile religion and a declining congregation. It seemed like a place for burial, not birth. George Saba’s cell was in the police station at the corner of the square closest to the church. Omar Yussef imagined George assaulted by the ominous pealing of the bells that reckoned his slow minutes of imprisonment, just as they chimed a doleful countdown to the extinction of the Christians in his town.
At the corner of the square, a voice called. “Greetings, ustaz .” Omar Yussef turned to see a thin priest crossing the empty road toward him with long, bouncy strides. The priest wore a black Catholic robe with a white dog collar. There were gray socks under his open sandals. His skin was olive and speckled with the kind of black whiskers that always need shaving. His black hair was thin and curly, standing above his scalp like the fuzz on a hairy man’s chest. In no more than two years, he would be completely bald. His thick glasses made his eyes seem tiny.
“Elias,” Omar Yussef said. “I’m so happy to see you. George reported that you were back from the Vatican. We spoke proudly of your achievements.”
“Yes, I’m back. Can you believe it? I just couldn’t keep a safe distance,” the priest said. “It’s wonderful to see you, Abu Ramiz. You look so well.”
“I have never trusted the word of religious men, and now I understand why. I am not in such great health, to tell the truth.”
“Perhaps I am just so delighted to see you that I feel everything must be perfect.”
“I wish it were so, Elias.” Omar Yussef looked toward the police station. “I am going to visit George in his jail cell now.”
Elias Bishara pushed his heavy glasses up his nose. “Tell me if there is anything George needs,” he said. “He could have no greater friend than you, Abu Ramiz, but perhaps he will ask for a priest. I would like to minister to him.”
Omar Yussef wondered if Elias Bishara already was thinking ahead to George’s last rites. He wasn’t ready to accept that, yet. “I will let him know.” He shook Elias’s hand.
Khamis Zeydan met Omar Yussef at the door of the police
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