The Butcher's Theatre Read Online Free PDF Page B

careless.
    As Daniel neared the compound he was struck by how out of place it seemed, perched atop Scopus, with its pink stone facade, obelisk bell tower, yawning gargoyles, and steeply pitched tile roofs. An overdressed Victorian dowager camped out in the desert.
    An arched, ivied entry fronted the main building. Embedded in the limestone at the apex was a rectangle of gray granite, carved with a legend in English: Amelia Catherine PILGRIMS’ HOSPICE AND INFIRMARY, ERECTED BY HERMANN brauner, AUGUST 15,1898. An enameled plaque, white with blue letters, had been nailed just below: UNITED NATIONS RELIEF AND WORKS ASSOCIATION. CO-ADMINISTERED BY THE world ASSEMBLY OF CHURCHES. English and Arabic, not a trace of Hebrew. Climbing white roses, their petals heat-browned, embraced the fluted columns that flanked the arch. The entry led to a large dusty courtyard, shaded at the hub by a spreading live oak as old as the edifice. Circling the trunk of the big tree were spokelike beds of flowers: tulips, poppies, irises, more roses. A high, carved fountain sat in one corner, dry and silent, its marble basin striated with dirt.
    Just inside the entry sat a portly middle-aged Arab watchman on a flimsy plastic chair, sleepy-eyed and inert except for fingers that danced nimbly over a string of amber worry beads. The man wore gray work pants and a gray shirt. Under his armpits were black crescents of sweat. A glass of iced tamarindy rested on the ground, next to one leg of the chair, the ice cubes rounding to slush.
    Daniel’s footsteps raised the watchman’s eyelids, and the Arab’s face became a stew of emotions: curiosity, distrust, the muddled torpor of one whose dreams have been rudely curtailed.
    Daniel greeted him in Arabic and showed him his badge. The watchman frowned, pulled his bulk upright, and reached into his pocket for identification.
    “Not necessary,” said Daniel. “Just your name, please.”
    “Hajab, Zia.” The watchman avoided eye contact and looked out at a distant point over Daniel’s left shoulder. Running a thick hand over crew-cut hair the color and texture of iron filings, he tapped his foot impatiently. His mustache
    was a charcoal patch of stubble, the lips below, thin and pale. Daniel noticed that his fingers were horned with callus, the fingernails broken and rimmed with grime.
    “Are you from Jerusalem, Mr. Hajab?”
    “Ramallah.” The watchman drew himself up with regional pride. The hubris of a poor man from a rich city.
    “I’d like to ask you some questions.”
    Hajab shrugged resignedly, continued to look away. “Ask, but I know nothing about it.”
    “About what?”
    “Your police matters.” Hajab sucked in his breath and began working on the beads with both hands.
    “What time did you come on duty this morning, Mr. Hajab?”
    “Six-thirty.”
    “Is that when you usually begin working?”
    “Not usually. Always.”
    “And which road did you take from Ramallah?”
    “None.”
    “Pardon?”
    “No road. I live here.”
    “Here at the hospital?”
    “Yes.”
    “Is that arrangement part of your job?”
    “I maintain a beautiful home in Ramallah,” said the watchman defensively. “A large garden, fig trees, and vines. But my skills must be easily available, so the hospital has provided me with a room. Lovely, clean, freshly painted, and well furnished.”
    “It’s a lovely hospital,” said Daniel. “Well built.”
    “Yes.” Hajab was solemn.
    “When is your custom to awaken?”
    “Six.”
    “And your routine upon rising?”
    “Ablutions, the morning prayers, a light breakfast, and straight to my post.”
    “How long have you lived here at the hospital, Mr. Hajab?”
    “Thirteen months.”
    “And before that?”
    “Before that, I lived in Ramallah. As I told you.” Exasperated.
    “Were you a sentry in Ramallah as well?”
    “No.” Hajab paused, massaged his beads. His brow had glossed with perspiration and he used one hand to wipe it.
    “In Ramallah, I was an