The Butcher's Theatre (6 page)

“The doctors’ first names, please.”

“Richard Carter, Hassan Al Biyadi, Walid Darousha.”

“Thank you. Any others?”

“Ma’ila Khoury, our secretary; Zia—whom you’ve met; and myself.”

Daniel consulted his notes. “Dr. Carter is an American?”

“Canadian. Dr. Al Biyadi is a native of Jerusalem.”

Daniel knew an Al Biyadi family. Greengrocers with a stall in the Old City, on the Street of Chains. He wondered about a connection.

“Ma’ila is Lebanese,” Baldwin was saying, “Zia’s a Palestinian, and I’m from the great Lone Star State of Texas. And that’s it.”

“What about patients?”

Baldwin cleared his throat.

“There are no clinics today, in honor of Muslim Sabbath.”

“I mean hospitalized patients.”

Baldwin frowned. “I explained before, we function primarily as an outpatient center and outreach facility. Our goal is to make contact with those who wouldn’t ordinarily have access to health care. We identify problems and direct them to the appropriate source of treatment.”

“A referral center.”

“In a sense, but we do administer primary treatment at our clinics.”

“So patients are never admitted here?”

“I wouldn’t say never, but rarely.”

Such a huge building, thought Daniel, housing only a handful of people. Vacant wards, empty beds. All that foreign money so that poor Arabs could see doctors who told them to go see other doctors. It seemed foolish, symbolism posing

as function. Typical of the U.N. But that was neither here

nor there.

“Mr. Hajab,” he said. “What is his job?” “Watchman, custodial work, general repairs.” “This is a large building to be maintained by one person.” “A cleaning crew—some women from East Jerusalem—do

the daily mop-up. Zia helps with odds and ends.”

“Both Mr. Hajab and Dr. Darousha are from Ramallah.

Did they know each other before Mr. Hajab began working

here?”

“Dr. Darousha recommended Zia for the job. More than

that, I can’t tell you.”

“Mr. Hajab told me his first contact with the hospital was

as a patient. Was Dr. Darousha his physician?” “You’ll have to talk to Dr. Darousha about that.” “Very well,” said Daniel, rising. “I’d like to do just that.”

Baldwin made a phone call and, when no one answered, took Daniel across the hall, to the source of the typing. Ma’ila Khoury was a lovely-looking woman of about twenty-five, with full pale lips, curly hennaed hair, and widely spaced khaki eyes. She wore smart Western clothes and her nails were long and polished. An emancipated woman of old Beirut. Daniel wondered why and how she’d come to Israel to work and received his answer a moment later when a quick look—something that implied more than boss and secretary—passed between her and Baldwin. The American spoke to her in poor Arabic and she answered in a cultured Lebanese accent.

“Did Dr. Darousha sleep here last night, Ma’ila?”

“I don’t know, sir.”

“Is he here in the hospital?”

“Yes, sir. In examining room four, with an emergency patient who just arrived.”

“Come with me, Officer Sharavi.”

The examining rooms were on the other side of the staircase, on the west wing of the building, five numbered doors that had once been servants’ quarters. Baldwin knocked lightly on number four and opened it. The room within was peacock-blue paint over lumpy plaster, relieved by a

single grilled window just below the arch of the ceiling. An olive-wood crucifix and a white metal first-aid box adhered to one wall. Filling most of the floor space was a chipped white examining table next to a chipped white cabinet. A hanging white lamp swung from the ceiling, emitting cold bluish light.

On the examining table lay a man—from the looks of his dusty clothing a farm laborer—stolid and unmoving, one arm by his side, the other resting limply in the grasp of a second man in a long white coat. The man holding the arm looked up at the intrusion.

“Good morning, Dr. Darousha,” said Baldwin.

Darousha gave a wait-one-minute gesture and returned his attention to the arm, which Daniel saw was as red and glossy as boiled sausage. The doctor was short, dark, fiftyish, froglike, with coarse, bushy hair and sad, drooping eyes behind black-rimmed glasses. His coat was starched and spotless, and he wore it buttoned, over a white shirt and dark tie and razor-pressed black slacks. A stethoscope hung scarflike around his neck. His feet were small and narrow in woven black loafers and, as he rocked from one to the other, seemed barely to touch the ground.

“How many wasps bit you?” he asked in a deep, authoritative voice.

“Hundreds. Maybe thousands.”

Darousha scowled and laid the arm down gently. Inserting the prongs of the stethoscope in his ears, he placed the disc on the man’s still-clothed chest, listened, and put the instrument away. Lifting the arm again, he said, “This is nasty. Very nasty.” He stared down sternly at the farmer, who smiled weakly.

“Very well. I’m going to give you an injection of something that will fight the infection, as well as some pills. Take them twice a day for ten days and then come and see me again. If this isn’t any better, I’ll have to cut it open to drain it, which will hurt badly. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Doctor.”

“Take every one of those pills, do you understand?”

“Yes, Doctor.”

“How often must you take them?”

“Two times a day, Doctor.”

“For how long?”

“Ten days.”

“Roll over, facing the door.”

Darousha pulled a hypodermic syringe out of the cabinet, went through the routine of filling, checking, and expelling air bubbles, and tugged down the waistband of the man’s trousers, which were so loose they didn’t need to be unfastened. Aiming the needle like a dart, he jabbed it into the fanner’s buttocks. The man blinked at the pain, smiled at Daniel and Baldwin.

“Go on now. The nurse in number two will give you the pills.”

“Thank you, Doctor.”

When the farmer had gone, Darousha stepped out into the hallway and lit up a Rothmans. Daniel’s presence didn’t seem to bother him, when Baldwin introduced him as a policeman, Darousha nodded, as if the visit had been expected.

“I’ve got a few things to look into,” said Baldwin, taking a step. “Be back in a minute, okay?”

There was furtive tension in the American’s eyes and Daniel wondered what he planned to do. Warn the others of impending interrogation? Sneak a drink? Flirt with Ma’ila?

“Okay,” he said and watched Baldwin lope down the hallway, then turned back to Darousha, who was smoking the cigarette as if it were his last.

“What can I do for you?” asked the doctor. Daniel had expected to converse in Arabic but the man’s Hebrew was perfect.

“A serious crime has been committed in the vicinity of the hospital, Doctor. I’m questioning the staff of the hospital about unusual occurrences.”

Darousha remained placid. “What kind of unusual occurrences?”

“Sights, sounds, anything out of the ordinary.”

“I saw and heard police cars. Otherwise, nothing.”

“And you were here all night?”

“Yes.”

“What time did you go to bed?”

“Shortly before midnight.”

“When did you awaken?”

“Seven.”

“How often do you sleep here, Doctor?”

“That depends upon my schedule. If it’s late when I complete my obligations and I feel too tired to drive, I stay over.”

“By ‘obligations’ you mean patients?”

“Or other matters. Yesterday, for example, I attended a day-long seminar at Hadassah. Emergency crises in children—anaphylaxis, choking. My afternoon patients were delayed until evening and I didn’t finish until after eleven.”

“Did the other doctors—Carter and Al Biyadi—attend the seminar as well?”

“Dr. Carter, yes. Dr. AI Biyadi, no.”

“He remained here?”

“I have no idea.” Darousha put the cigarette to his lips, inhaled, and added a millimeter of ash to the tip.

“You live in Ramallah.”

“That’s correct.”

“Zia Hajab is also from there.”

A nod. The ash tumbled.

“How well do you know him?”

“Our families are entwined. His grandfather worked for my grandfather, his father for my father.”

“What kind of work did they do?”

“We owned orchards. They were field hands.”

“Does that relationship persist?”

Darousha shook his head. “I’m my father’s only son. After his death I decided to study medicine, and the orchards were leased to another family who had no need for Zia’s services. I was gone at the time, studying medicine in Amman. Otherwise I would have intervened. As it turned out, he found part-time work at a petrol station.”

“Until another family transaction edged him out.”

“That’s correct.”

“Difficult for him and his family.”

“For him, yes. There is no family. Both parents and a sister died of tuberculosis thirty years ago. His three brothers were inducted into the Arab Legion. All were killed in ‘67.”

“Did he fight too?”

“Yes. He was taken captive.”

“What about wife and children?”

“None.”

Daniel found his interest in the watchman growing. For the picture Darousha was painting was one of chronic failure, habitual abuse by the fates. Why did Hajab have difficulty holding on to a job? And why, with bachelorhood virtually unknown among the Arabs, had he never purchased a woman, never spread his seed? It indicated social problems, the kind of downtrodden, isolated life that could lead to self-hatred. Or the resentment that sometimes blossomed into violence.

He needed to know more about the workings of the man’s mind, but sensed that a direct question would put Darousha off. Taking an indirect path, he said, “Hajab told me he had headache problems. Did you treat him for his pain?”

“In a manner of speaking.”

“Please explain.”

Darousha’s sad eyes drooped even further.

“His pain was a pain of the soul that chose to settle in his head. I offered reassurance and chalky syrup. My most effective medical intervention was helping him get a job.”

“It was a psychosomatic disorder, then.”

Darousha stiffened. “These are confidential matters. I cannot discuss them further.”

“Doctor,” said Daniel, “if there’s something in Hajab’s psychological makeup that would predispose him to antisocial behavior, it’s essential that you tell me.”

“He’s a moody man,” said Darousha. “Suffers from depression. But there’s nothing criminal in him. Nothing that would interest you.”

“How often does he get depressed?”

“Infrequently, perhaps once or twice a month.”

“For prolonged periods of time?”

“Two or three days.”

“And what are his symptoms?”

Darousha threw up his hands, impatiently.

“I shouldn’t be discussing this, but if it will simplify matters, I’ll tell you. He develops ambiguous pains—psychosomatic symptoms—the headaches, gets very weak and goes to sleep. There’s no aggressiveness, no antisocial behavior. Now, if you’ll excuse me, please, I really must be going.”

The man’s face was closed tight as a vault. Sensing that any further prodding would be useless, Daniel took down his home address and phone number, thanked him for his time, and ended the interview.

Alone in the hall, he thought for a while about Zia Hajab, was still thinking when Baldwin returned.

“All the others except Peggy are in the dining room,” said the American. “They say they’ve seen or heard nothing.”

“What did you tell them?” asked Daniel.

“Just what you told me. That there’d been a crime nearby. None of them knows anything that can help you.”

“Nevertheless, I’ll need to talk to them.”

“Suit yourself.”

The dining room was an airy blue rectangle furnished with half a dozen circular tables, five of them empty. The ceiling was white and edged with crown moldings. French doors led out to a patio that served as pecking grounds for dozens of pigeons. Their clucks and thrums could be heard through the glass. Each table was surrounded by folding chairs and covered with an aquamarine tablecloth. Arabic music played from a portable radio. A long table at the center of the room bore plates of pastry and fruit, glasses of orange juice. A brass samovar on a wheeled cart hissed coffee-flavoured steam. Next to it stood Zia Hajab, solemn-faced, a white apron fastened over his work clothes, holding a cup under the spout.

Baldwin walked Daniel to a table by the window where the other two doctors and the Swiss nurse, Catherine Hauser, were seated together eating breakfast. After making the introductions, the administrator sat down with them. Before Baldwin’s rump had settled on the chair, Hajab moved in quickly to serve him, filling his plate with dates and apples, pouring steaming coffee into his cup, punctuating the activity with obsequious bows.

No invitation to sit was offered Daniel and he remained standing. Three faces stared up at him. He needed to speak to each individually, and breaking up their klatch made him feel intrusive. He took Catherine Hauser first, drawing her to a table at the far end of the room, carrying her coffee cup for her and setting it down in front of her.

She thanked him and smiled, a plump, elderly woman dressed in a shapeless, colourless smock. Gray-haired and blue-eyed, with the same kind of parchment skin he’d seen on the older nuns at the Convent of Notre Dame de Sion. As he looked at her, coins of color rose on each cheek. She seemed friendly and cooperative but was sure she’d heard or seen nothing. What had happened? she wanted to know. A crime, he said, smiled, and ushered her back to her table.

The Canadian, Carter, he would have pegged for one of the Scandinavian backpackers who traipsed through the city each summer—big-framed and heavy-featured, with curly blond hair, narrow gray eyes, and a full ginger beard. He was in his early thirties and wore old-fashioned round gold-framed glasses. His hair was shaggy and longish and, like the rest of him, seemed carelessly assembled. His white coat was wrinkled and he wore it over a blue work shirt and faded jeans. Slow-talking and deliberate, he appeared to be lost in his own world, though he did express normal curiosity about the crime.