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Authors: Dan Fesperman
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completely.”
So she had gone there, anyway, despite all my precautions. And for a harrowing moment I wavered on the precipice, peering down at all those dead faces. They stared up from a great muddy ditch, eye sockets gorged with flies, their mouths gaping, as if daring me to finally tell all.
It took all my restraint to simply shrug and say, “I don’t think they found the audits very convincing. Maybe they’ve bribed someone to make it look worse. Who knows? Either way, going to Jordan seems like the path of least resistance.”
I could tell from her eyes she was disappointed. So was I. But she nodded in grudging assent, then put her arms around me and rested her head against my chest. I could feel her support in the gesture, and also her sorrow. What I couldn’t determine was whether the latter was empathy or pity.
“I should try calling Omar,” I said.
Black had given me the number, but not the country code for Jordan. It had been so long since I’d been there that I had to look it up, which I took as a bad omen. The Middle East wasn’t a place for unsure footing. And even though Jordan’s relative tranquillity made it seem benign to the untrained eye, I also knew that the kingdom’s Mukhabarat, or secret police, would still happily lock you up for the slightest misstep. I couldn’t help but remember a UN human rights report that had come across my desk during the last month on the job, mentioning that a third of all the country’s prisoners were jailed without ever being charged or tried.
On my first try I reached a secretary, who, even though I asked in Arabic, informed me in flawless English that Omar was away for at least an hour. She would soon be my secretary, too, I supposed. When I mentioned my name she seemed to brighten, and told me Omar would call back.
Mila, keeping up appearances, rode her scooter to Kastro to buy more potters’ supplies, and while she was gone I took a walk along the coastal path.
The wind was brisk, bringing with it the earliest trace of what winter might be like, and I zipped up my jacket as shreds of sea foam tore across the thin scalp of grass. A few scrawny goats scurried out of my way, bells clanking, and within half an hour I was chilled to the bone, so I turned away from the breeze and headed for home.
As I neared the door the phone was ringing. I entered in time to see Mila hold out the receiver, a doleful look on her face.
“Omar,” she whispered. “Returning your call.”
His was the voice of my past, and as I heard his warm greeting I supposed he was now the voice of my future. But I couldn’t yet picture him as the well-dressed, graying man in Black’s photo, the one stolen from the posh restaurant. Instead, Omar was still the edgy young man of 1988. There is a photo I have somewhere from those days, even better than the one Black and Gray had. It is of Omar seated on the passenger side of our VW Passat patrol car. His eyes are alert, he is gritting his teeth, and, even though we are at a standstill, his hands are pressed against the dashboard. We were parked on an overlook above Nablus, and I remember the moment as clearly as if it were yesterday because it was one of extreme tension. Below us, on converging streets, were two groups of people in motion, each unaware of the other. On one: noisy Palestinian schoolboys laughing among themselves and swinging book bags. Their dark heads bobbed confidently, the swagger of teens certain that the future had a place for them. On the other: an Israeli Army patrol, six soldiers in loose formation, Galil assault rifles at the ready. They stepped carefully and deliberately. An armored personnel carrier rolled slowly in their wake.
You need only to look at the tension in Omar’s face to realize what was about to take place. Convergence, surprise, then confrontation. Stones thrown and bullets fired. It was like a nightmare unfolding in slow motion, and we were too far away to do anything but watch and, after it
So she had gone there, anyway, despite all my precautions. And for a harrowing moment I wavered on the precipice, peering down at all those dead faces. They stared up from a great muddy ditch, eye sockets gorged with flies, their mouths gaping, as if daring me to finally tell all.
It took all my restraint to simply shrug and say, “I don’t think they found the audits very convincing. Maybe they’ve bribed someone to make it look worse. Who knows? Either way, going to Jordan seems like the path of least resistance.”
I could tell from her eyes she was disappointed. So was I. But she nodded in grudging assent, then put her arms around me and rested her head against my chest. I could feel her support in the gesture, and also her sorrow. What I couldn’t determine was whether the latter was empathy or pity.
“I should try calling Omar,” I said.
Black had given me the number, but not the country code for Jordan. It had been so long since I’d been there that I had to look it up, which I took as a bad omen. The Middle East wasn’t a place for unsure footing. And even though Jordan’s relative tranquillity made it seem benign to the untrained eye, I also knew that the kingdom’s Mukhabarat, or secret police, would still happily lock you up for the slightest misstep. I couldn’t help but remember a UN human rights report that had come across my desk during the last month on the job, mentioning that a third of all the country’s prisoners were jailed without ever being charged or tried.
On my first try I reached a secretary, who, even though I asked in Arabic, informed me in flawless English that Omar was away for at least an hour. She would soon be my secretary, too, I supposed. When I mentioned my name she seemed to brighten, and told me Omar would call back.
Mila, keeping up appearances, rode her scooter to Kastro to buy more potters’ supplies, and while she was gone I took a walk along the coastal path.
The wind was brisk, bringing with it the earliest trace of what winter might be like, and I zipped up my jacket as shreds of sea foam tore across the thin scalp of grass. A few scrawny goats scurried out of my way, bells clanking, and within half an hour I was chilled to the bone, so I turned away from the breeze and headed for home.
As I neared the door the phone was ringing. I entered in time to see Mila hold out the receiver, a doleful look on her face.
“Omar,” she whispered. “Returning your call.”
His was the voice of my past, and as I heard his warm greeting I supposed he was now the voice of my future. But I couldn’t yet picture him as the well-dressed, graying man in Black’s photo, the one stolen from the posh restaurant. Instead, Omar was still the edgy young man of 1988. There is a photo I have somewhere from those days, even better than the one Black and Gray had. It is of Omar seated on the passenger side of our VW Passat patrol car. His eyes are alert, he is gritting his teeth, and, even though we are at a standstill, his hands are pressed against the dashboard. We were parked on an overlook above Nablus, and I remember the moment as clearly as if it were yesterday because it was one of extreme tension. Below us, on converging streets, were two groups of people in motion, each unaware of the other. On one: noisy Palestinian schoolboys laughing among themselves and swinging book bags. Their dark heads bobbed confidently, the swagger of teens certain that the future had a place for them. On the other: an Israeli Army patrol, six soldiers in loose formation, Galil assault rifles at the ready. They stepped carefully and deliberately. An armored personnel carrier rolled slowly in their wake.
You need only to look at the tension in Omar’s face to realize what was about to take place. Convergence, surprise, then confrontation. Stones thrown and bullets fired. It was like a nightmare unfolding in slow motion, and we were too far away to do anything but watch and, after it
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