The Butcher's Theatre (23 page)

“Did you report this to your father?”

“I had to! It was my duty. But …”

“But what?”

Silence.

“Tell me, Anwar.”

Silence.

“But what, Anwar?”

“Nothing.”

“What did you think your father would do to her once he knew?”

The brother moaned, leaned forward, hands outstretched, eyes bulging, fishlike, behind the thick lenses. He smelled feral, looked frantic, trapped. Daniel resisted the impulse to move away from him and, instead, inched closer.

“What would he do, Anwar?”

“He would kill her! I knew he would kill her, so before I told him I warned her!”

“And she ran away.”

“Yes.”

“You were trying to save her, Anwar.”

“Yes!”

“Where did she go?”

“To a Christian place in Al Quds. The brown-robes took her in.”

“Saint Saviour’s Monastery?”

“Yes.”

“How do you know she went there?”

“Two weeks after she ran away, I took a walk. Up to the olive grove where you found me. We used to play there, Fatma and I, throwing olives at each other, hiding and looking for each other. I still like to go there. To think. She knew that and she was waiting for me—she’d come to see me.”

“Why?”

“She was lonely, crying about how much she missed the family. She wanted me to talk with Father, to persuade him to take her back. I asked her where I could reach her and she

told me the brown-robes had taken her in. I told her they were infidels and would try to convert her, but she said they were kind and she had nowhere else to go.”

“What was she wearing, Anwar?” .

“Wearing?”

“Her clothing.”

“A dress … I don’t know.”

“What color?”

“White, I think.”

“Plain white?”

“I think. What does it matter?”

“And which earrings was she wearing?”

“The only ones she had.”

“Which are those?”

“Little gold rings—they put them on her at birth.”

Anwar began to cry.

“Solid gold?” asked Daniel.

“Yes … no … I don’t know. They looked gold. What does it matter!”

“I’m sorry,” said Daniel. “These are questions I have to ask.”

Anwar slumped in his chair, limp and defeated.

“Did you talk to your father about taking her back?” asked Daniel.

A violent shake of the head, trembling lips. Even at this point, the fear of the father remained.

“No, no! I couldn’t! It was too soon, I knew what he would say! A few days later I went to the monastery to talk to her, to tell her to wait. I asked her if she was still seeing the lying dog and she said she was, that they loved each other! I ordered her to stop seeing him but she refused, said I was cruel, that all men were cruel. All men except for him. We … argued and I left. It was the last time I saw her.”

Anwar buried his face.

“The very last?”

“No.” Muffled. “One more time.”

“Did you see Abdelatif again, as well?”

The brother looked up and smiled. A wholehearted grin that made his ravaged face glow. Throwing back his shoulders | and sitting up straighter, he recited in a clear, loud voice: “He

who does not take revenge from the transgressor would better be dead than to walk without pride!”

Reciting the proverb seemed to have infused new life into him. He balled one hand into a fist and recited several other Arabic sayings, all pertaining to the honor of vengeance. Took off his glasses and stared myopically into space. Smiling.

“The obligation … the honor was mine,” he said. “We were of the same mother.”

Such a sad case, thought Daniel, watching him posture. He’d read the arrest report, seen the reports from the doctors at Hadassah who’d examined Anwar after the assault arrest, the psychiatric recommendations. The Polaroid pictures, like something out of a medical book. A fancy diagnosis—congenital micropenis with accompanying epispaedia—that did nothing but give a name to the poor guy’s misery. Born with a tiny, deformed stump of a male organ, the urethra nothing more than a flat strip of mucous membrane on the upper surface of what should have been a shaft but was only a useless nub. Bladder abnormalities that made it hard for the guy to hold his water—when they’d stripped him before booking him he’d been wearing layers of cloth fashioned into a crude homemade diaper.

One of God’s cruel little jokes? Daniel had wondered, then stopped wondering, knowing it was useless.

Plastic surgery could have helped a little, according to the Hadassah doctors. There were specialists in Europe and the United States who did that kind of thing: multiple reconstructive surgeries over a period of several years in order to create something a bit more normal-looking. But the end result would still be far from manly. This was one of the severest cases any of them had ever seen.

The whore had thought so too.

After years of conflict and deliberation, propelled by cloudy motivations that he ill understood, Anwar had walked, late one night, toward the Green Line. To a place near Sheikh Jarrah where his brothers said the whores hung out. He’d found one leaning against a battered Fiat, old and shopworn and coarse, with vulgar yellow hair. But warm-voiced and welcoming and eager.

They’d come quickly to terms, Anwar unaware that he was being blatantly overcharged, and he’d climbed into the backseat of her Fiat. Recognizing the terror of inexperience, the whore had cooed at him, smiled at him, and lied about how cute he was, stroking him and wiping the sweat from his brow. But when she’d unbuttoned his fly and reached for him, the smiling and cooing had stopped. And when she’d pulled him out, her shock and revulsion had caused her to laugh.

Anwar had gone crazy with rage and humiliation. Lunging for the whore’s throat, trying to strangle the laughter out of her. She’d fought back, bigger and stronger than he, pummeling and gouging and calling him freak. Screaming for help at the top of her lungs.

An undercover cop had heard it all and busted poor Anwar. The whore had given her statement, then left town. The police had been unable to locate her. Not that they’d tried too hard. Prostitution was a low-priority affair, the act itself legal, solicitation the offense. If the whores and their customers kept quiet, it was live and let live. Even in Tel Aviv, where three or four dozen girls worked the beaches at night, making plenty of noise, busts were rare unless things got nasty.

No complaint, first offense, no trial. Anwar had walked free with a recommendation that his family obtain further medical consultation and psychiatric treatment. Which the family was about as likely to accept as conversion to Judaism.

Pathetic, thought Daniel, looking at him. Denied the things other men took for granted because of missing centimeters of tissue. Treated as something less than a man by family and culture—any culture.

Sent in with the women.

“Would you like something to eat or drink now?” he asked. “Coffee or juice? A pastry?”

“No, nothing,” said Anwar, with bravado. “I feel perfect.”

“Tell me, then, how you avenged Fatma’s honor.”

“After one of their … meetings, I followed him. To the bus station.”

“The East Jerusalem station?”

“Yes.” There was puzzlement in the answer. As if there was any other station but the one in East Jerusalem. To him the big central depot on the west side of town—the Jewish station—didn’t exist. In Jerusalem, a kilometer could stretch a universe.

“What day was this?”

“Thursday.”

“What time of day?”

“In the morning, early.”

“You were watching them?”

“Protecting her.”

“Where was their meeting?”

“Somewhere behind the walls. They came out of the New Gate.”

“Where did she go?”

“I don’t know. That was the last time.”

Anwar saw Daniel’s skeptical look and threw up his hands.

“It was him I was interested in! Without him she’d come back, be obedient!”

“So you followed him to the station.”

“Yes. He bought a ticket for the Hebron bus. There was some time before it left. I walked up to him, said I was Fatma’s brother, that I had money and was willing to pay him to stop seeing her. He asked how much money and I told him a hundred dollars American. He demanded two hundred. We haggled and settled on a hundred and sixty. We agreed to meet the next day, in the olive grove, before the sun rose.”

“Wasn’t he suspicious?”

“Very. His first reaction was that it was some kind of trick.” Anwar’s face shone with pride. His glasses slid down his nose and he righted them. “But I played him for a fool. When he said it was a trick, I said okay, shrugged, and started to walk away. He came running after me. He was a greedy dog—his greed got the better of him. We had our meeting.”

“When?”

“Friday morning, at six-thirty.”

Just shortly after Fatma’s body had been discovered.

“What happened at the meeting?”

“He came ready to rob me, with the knife.”

“The knife we found you with tonight?”

“Yes. I arrived first and was waiting for him. He pulled it out the minute he saw me.”

“Did you see from which direction he’d come?”

“No.”

“What did he look like?”

“A thief.”

“His clothes were clean?”

“As clean as they’d ever be.”

“Go on.”

“He had the knife, ready to do me harm, but I’d come armed too. With a hammer. I kept it hidden behind the trunk of the tree that had fallen. I pulled out ten dollars. He grabbed it out of my hands and demanded the rest. I said the rest would come in installments. Five dollars a week for every week he stayed away from her. He started adding it up in his head. He was slow-witted—it took him a while. ‘That’s thirty weeks,’ he said. ‘Exactly,’ I answered. There’s no other way to deal with a thief.’ That made him crazy. He started to walk toward me with the knife, saying I was dead, just like Fatma. That she was nothing to him, garbage to be dumped. That all the Rashmawis were garbage.”

“Those were his words? That she was dead? Garbage to be dumped?”

“Yes.” Anwar started crying again.

“Did he say anything else?”

“No. From the way he said it I knew he’d … hurt her. Id come up there with intentions of killing him and knew now that the time had come. He was coming closer, holding the knife in his palm, his eyes on me, beady, like those of a weasel. I started laughing, playing the fool, saying I was only joking and that the rest of the money was right there, behind the tree stump.

“‘Get it,’ he ordered, as if talking to a slave. I told him it was buried under the stump, that it was a job for two men to roll it away.”

“You took a chance,” said Daniel. “He could have killed

you and come back later for the money.”

“Yes, it was risky,” said Anwar, clearly pleased. “But he was greedy. He wanted everything right then and there. ‘Push,’ he ordered me. Then he knelt down beside me, holding the knife in one hand, using the other to try to roll the stump. I pretended to roll, too, reached out and pulled hard at his ankles. He fell, and before he could get up I grabbed the hammer and hit him with it. Many times.”

A dreamy look surfaced behind the eyeglasses.

“His skull broke easily. It sounded like a melon breaking on a rock. I took his knife and cut him. Kept it for a memorial.”

“Where did you cut him?” asked Daniel, wanting a wound match on tape, all the details taken care of. The body had been dug up and sent to Abu Kabir. Levi would be calling within a day or so.

“The throat.”

“Anywhere else?”

“The … the male organs.”

Two out of the three sites where Fatma had been butchered.

“What about his abdomen?”

“No.” Incredulity, as if the question were absurd.

“Why the throat and genitals?”

“To silence him, of course. And prevent further sin.”

“I see; What happened after that?”

“I left him there, went to my house, and returned with a spade. I buried him, then used the spade to roll the log over his grave. Right where I showed you.”

Abdelatif s remains had been lifted from a deep grave. It must have taken Anwar hours to dig it. The trunk hiding the excavation. Which made Daniel feel a little less foolish about sitting for hours, just a couple of meters away. Watching the house, keeping a dead man company.

“The only money you paid him was ten dollars,” said Daniel.

“Yes, and I took it back.”

“From out of his pocket?”

“No. He had it clenched in his greedy hand.”

“What denomination?” asked Daniel.

“A single American ten-dollar bill. I buried it with him.”

Exactly what had been found on the corpse.

“Is that all?” asked Anwar.

“One more thing. Was Abdelatif a drug user?”

“It wouldn’t surprise me. He was scum.”

“But you don’t know it for a fact.”

“I didn’t know him,” said Anwar. “I merely killed him.”

He wiped the tears from his face and smiled.

“What is it?” asked Daniel.

“I’m happy,” said Anwar. “I’m very happy.”

Like a suite at the King David, thought Daniel, walking into Laufer’s office. Wood-paneled and gold-carpeted, with soft lighting and a fine desert view. When it had been Gavrieli’s, the decor had been warmer—shelves overflowing with books, photos of Gorgeous Gideon’s equally gorgeous wife.

In one corner stood a case full of artifacts. Coins and urns and talismans, just like the collection he’d seen in Baldwin’s office at the Amelia Catherine. Bureaucrats seemed to go in for that kind of thing. Were they trying to dress up their uselessness with imagined links to the heroes of the past? Over the case hung a framed map of Palestine which appeared to have been taken from an old book. Signed, inscribed photographs of all the Prime Ministers, from Ben Gurion on down, graced the walls—the pointed suggestion of friends in high places. But the inscriptions on the photos were noncommital, none of them mentioned Laufer by name,

and Daniel wondered if the pictures belonged to the deputy commander or had been pulled out of some archive.

The deputy commander was in full uniform today, sitting