Kellerman, Jonathan - The Theatre

"Ahlan Bek," he replied. The same welcome will be extended to you when you visit my home.

"Sit, please," said Rashmawi, and he allowed his son to lower him.

The detectives settled in a semicircle. The old man barked an order and Anwar crossed the room, opened the wooden door, and spoke into the opening. Two young women hurried out, dressed in dark robes, their hair covered, their feet bare. Averting their faces, they padded quickly to the cooking area and began a rapid ballet of pouring, scooping, and filling. Within moments the men were presented with demitasses of sweet, muddy coffee, platters laden with dishes of olives, almonds, sunflower seeds, and dried fruit.

Rashmawi waved his hand and the women danced away, disappearing into the room on the right. Another wave sent Anwar back with them. Almost immediately, an insectile buzz of conversation filtered through the thin wood of the door.

"Cigarette," said Rashmawi, holding out his pack. The Chinaman and Daoud accepted and lit up.

"You, sir?"

Daniel shook his head and said, "Thank you for your kind offer, but today is my Sabbath and I don't handle fire."

The old man looked at him, saw the kipah on his head, and nodded. He raised a dish of dried figs from the platter and waited until Daniel was chewing enthusiastically before settling back on the mattress.

"To what do I owe the honor of this visit?"

"We're here to talk about your daughter, sir," said Daniel.

"I have three daughters," said the old man casually. "Three sons as well, and many fat grandchildren."

One daughter less than Daoud had mentioned.

"Your daughter Fatma, sir."

Rashmawi's face went blank, the dry, well-formed features settling into paralytic stillness.

Daniel put down his demitasse, took out the picture, and showed it to Rashmawi, who ignored it.

"She was found yesterday," said Daniel, watching the old man's reaction.

Rashmawi made a tent of his fingers. Picked up his demi-tasse but put it down without drinking.

"I have three daughters," he said. "Sahar, Hadiya, and Salway. None are idle. Three sons as well."

The buzz behind the door had grown louder, solidifying into conversation-urgent, frightened female chatter. A tentative male response. Then a low moan rising steadily in pitch.

"How long has she been missing?" Daniel asked.

Rashmawi dragged deeply on his cigarette, drank coffee, and cracked an almond with long, knobby fingers. Removing the nut, he put it in his mouth and chewed slowly.

The moan behind the door escalated to a high-pitched wail.

"Silence!" thundered the old man and the wail dissipated into an artificial hush, broken once by a muffled sob.

Daniel showed him the photo again, caught his eye, and for a moment thought he saw something-pain, fear-pass across the weathered face. But whatever it was vanished instantaneously and Rashmawi folded his arms across his chest and stared past the detectives, as silent and unmoving as a stone idol.

"Sir," said Daniel, "it pains me to be the one to tell you this, but Fatma is dead."

Nothing.

Smoke from three untouched cigarettes ribboned lazily toward the ceiling.

"She was murdered, sir. Violently."

A long, maddening silence, every creak and exhalation, thunderous. Then:

"I have three daughters. Sahar, Hadiya, and Salway. None are idle. Three sons as well. Many grandchildren."

The Chinaman swore softly and cleared his throat. "It was a very brutal murder. Multiple stab wounds."

"We want to find the person who did it," said Daniel.

"To avenge her," added the Chinaman.

The wrong thing to say, thought Daniel. Revenge was the prerogative of the family. To suggest that an outsider could accomplish it was at best ignorant, at worst an insult. He looked at the Chinaman and gave his head a barely perceptible shake.

The big man shrugged and started gazing around the room, restless and eager for action.

Rashmawi was smiling strangely. He'd placed His hands on his knees and had started to sway, as if in a trance.

"Any information you can provide is essential, sir," said Daniel. "About anyone who could have done this to Fatma. Why anyone would have wanted to hurt her."

Anyone other than you or your sons

"A bad influence, perhaps," said Daoud. "Someone who tried to corrupt her."

That, too, seemed the wrong thing to say, for the old man's face compressed with anger and his hands began to shake. He pushed down harder on his knees to avoid the appearance of feebleness. Clamped his eyes shut and continued swaying, further out of reach than ever.

"Mr. Rashmawi," said Daniel, more forcefully. "No young girl should have to come to such an end."

Rashmawi opened his eyes and Daniel examined them closely. Irises the color of the coffee in his demitasse, the whites soiled an unhealthy shade of gray. If eyes were the mirror of the soul, these mirrors reflected a weary soul beset by illness, fatigue, the pain of remembrance. Or was it guilt he was seeing, Daniel wondered-segregated from the heart by a fortress of silence?

Eloquent eyes. But you couldn't work a case based on unspoken eloquence.

"Tell us what you know, sir," said Daniel, fighting back impatience. "What she was wearing when she left, her jewelry."

Rashmawi's shoulders rounded and his head drooped, as if suddenly too heavy for his neck to support. He covered his face with his hands, swayed some more, then raised himself up, fueled by defiance.

"I have three daughters," he said. "Three."

"Hard-assed old bastard," said the Chinaman. "Didn't so much as look at the picture. Our best bet is to talk to the women."

They stood by the side of the dirt pathway, several yards from the house. The wailing had resumed and was audible at that distance.

"We could try," said Daniel, "but it would be a violation of their family structure."

"To hell with family structure. One of them may have sliced her, Dani."

"The point is, Yossi, that the family structure makes it impossible for us to get information. Without the father's permission, none of them is going to talk to us."

The big man spat in the dirt, pounded his fist into his hand.

"Then haul them in! A few hours in a cell and we'll see about their goddamned family structure."

"That's your plan, is it? Arrest the bereaved."

The Chinaman started to say something, then sighed and smiled sheepishly.

"Okay, okay, I'm talking shit. It's just that it's weird. The guy's daughter is butchered and he's as cold as ice, making like she never existed." He turned to Daoud: "That culturally normal?"

Daoud hesitated.

"Is it?" pressed the Chinaman.

"To some extent."

"Meaning?"

"To the Muslims, virginity is everything," said Daoud. "If the father thought Fatma lost hers-even if he just suspected it-he might very well expel her from the family. Excommunicate her. It would be as if she didn't exist."

"Killing her would accomplish the same thing," said the Chinaman.

"I don't see this as a family affair," said Daniel. "That old man was in pain. And after seeing the way they live, the factors I mentioned yesterday seem stronger-the Rashmawis are old-school, by the book. Had they chosen to execute a daughter, it would have taken place in the village-a swift killing by one of the brothers, semi-publicly in order to show that the family honor had been restored. Removing the body and dumping it for outsiders to find would be unthinkable. So would mutilating her."

"You're assuming," said the Chinaman, "that culture overrides craziness. If that was the case, they would have replaced us long ago with anthropologists."

The door to the Rashmawi house opened and Anwar came out, wiping his glasses. He put them back on, saw them, and went hastily inside.

"Now, that's a strange one," said the Chinaman. "Home when his brothers are working. Father banishes him to be with the women."

"I agree," said Daniel. "You'd expect him to be allowed to remain in the background-if for no other reason than to wait on the old man. Sending him in with the women-it's as if he's being punished for something. Any ideas about that, Elias?"

Daoud shook his head.

"A punitive family," Daniel reflected out loud.

"He wasn't surprised when you showed him the picture," said the Chinaman. "He knew something had happened to Fatma. Why don't we ask him about the earrings?"

"We will, but first let's watch him for a while. And keep our ears open. Both of you, circulate among the villagers and try to learn more about the family. See if you can find out whether Fatma ran away or was banished. And the specific nature of her rebellion. Find out what she was wearing, if anyone can describe the earrings. What about the Nasif woman, Elias? Do you think she's still holding back?"

"Maybe. But she's in a difficult position-a widow, socially vulnerable. Let me see what I can get from others before I lean on her again."

"All right, but keep her in mind. If we need to, we can arrange an interview away from prying eyes-a shopping trip, something like that."

A loud cry came from the Rashmawi house. Daniel looked at the unadorned building, noticed the empty land surrounding it.

"No neighbors," he said. "They keep to themselves. That kind of isolation breeds gossip. See if you can tap into any of it. Call Shmeltzer and find out if any family member has popped up in a file. Keep an eye out, also, for the other two brothers. Far as we know they're on a job and should be getting back before sundown. Get to them before they reach home. If Anwar leaves the house, have a chat with him too. Be persistent but respectful-don't lean too heavily on anyone. Until we know any different, everyone's a potential source of help. Good luck, and if you need me, I'll be at Saint Saviour's."

Daniel walked west along the southern perimeter of the Old City, passing worshippers of three faiths, locals, tourists, hikers, and hangers-on, until he reached the northwest corner and entered the Christian Quarter through the New Gate.

The Saint Saviour's compound dominated the mouth of the quarter, with its high walls and green-tiled steeple. Double metal doors decorated with Christian symbols marked the service entry on Bab el Jadid Road; the arch above the door was filled by a blood-red crucifix; below the cross strong black letters proclaimed: terra sancta. Above the doors the steeple topped a four-sided pastry-white tower, exquisitely molded, ringed doubly with iron balconies and set with marble-faced clocks on all sides. As Daniel entered, the bells of the monastery rang out the quarter hour.

The courtyard within was modest and quiet. Inset into one of the inner walls was a nook housing a plaster figurine of a praying Madonna against a sky-blue background speckled with gold stars. Here and there were small plaques, repetitions of the Terra Sancta designation. Otherwise the place could have been a parking lot, the back door of any restaurant, with its trash bags and garages, functional metal stairs, pickup trucks, and jumble of overhead power lines. A far cry from the visitors' center on St. Francis Street, but Daniel knew that the plain-faced buildings housed a treasure trove: Travertine marble walls set off by contrasting columns of inlaid granite, statuary, murals, gold altars and candlesticks, a fortune in gold relics. The Christians made a grand show of worship.

A trio of young Franciscan monks exited the compound and crossed his path, brown-robed and white-belted, their lowered hoods exposing pale, introspective faces. He asked them, in Hebrew, where Father Bernardo could be found, and when they looked perplexed, thought: new arrivals, and repeated the question in English.

"Infirmary," said the tallest of the three, a blue-chinned youth with hot dark eyes and the cautious demeanor of a diplomat. From the sound of his accent, a Spaniard or Portuguese.

"Is he ill?" asked Daniel, aware now of his own accent. A Babel of a conversation

"No," said the monk. "He is not. He is… caring for those who are the ill." He paused, spoke to his comrades in Spanish, then turned back to Daniel. "I take you to him."

The infirmary was a bright, clean room smelling of fresh paint and containing a dozen narrow iron beds, half of them occupied by inert old men. Large wood-framed windows afforded a view of Old City rooftops: clay domes, centuries old, crowned by TV antennas-the steeples of a new religion. The windows were cranked wide open and from the alleys below came a clucking of pigeons.

Daniel waited by the doorway and watched Father Bernardo tend to an ancient monk. Only the monk's head was visible above the covers, the skull hairless and veined with blue, the face sunken, near-translucent, the body so withered it was barely discernible beneath the sheets. On the nightstand next to the bed were a set of false teeth in a glass and a large, leather-bound Bible. On the wall above the headboard Jesus writhed on a polished metal crucifix.

Father Bernardo bent at the waist, wet a towel with water, and used it to moisten the monk's lips. Talking softly, he rearranged the pillows so that the monk could recline more comfortably. The monk's eyes closed, and Bernardo watched him sleep for several minutes before turning and noticing the detective. Smiling, he walked forward, bouncing silently on sandaled feet, the crucifix around his neck swinging in counterpoint.

"Pakad Sharavi," he said in Hebrew, and smiled. "It's been a long time."

Bernardo's waist had thickened since they'd last met. Otherwise he looked the same. The fleshy pink face of a prosperous Tuscan merchant, inquisitive gray eyes, large, rosy, shell-like ears. Snowy puffs of white hair covered a strong, broad head, the snowfall repeating itself below-in eyebrows, mustache, and Vandyke beard.