The Theatre - Kellerman, Jonathan
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.
Daniel answered his questions with vague generalities and asked, "You attended the seminar with Dr. Darousha?"
"Sure did."
"Did you see patients afterwards?"
"No," said Carter. "Wally went back by himself. I was off-shift, so I took a cab into East Jerusalem and had dinner. At the Dallas Restaurant." He chuckled and added: "Fillet steak, chips, three bottles of Heineken." Another chuckle.
"Something amusing, Dr. Carter?"
Carter shook his head, ran his fingers through his beard, and smiled.
"Not really. Just that this sounds like one of those cop shows back home-where were you on the night and all that."
"I suppose it does," said Daniel, writing. "What time did you arrive back at the hospital?"
"Must have been close to ten-thirty."
"What did you do when you arrived?"
"Went to my room, read medical journals until they put me to sleep, and popped off."
"What time was that?"
"I really couldn't tell you. This was fairly boring stuff so it could have been as early as eleven. When was this crime committed?"
"That hasn't been established yet. Did you hear or see anything at all that was out of the ordinary?"
"Nothing. Sorry."
Daniel dismissed him and he shambled back to his table. A former hippie, Daniel guessed. The kind who might blunt life's edges with a hit of hashish now and then. A dreamer.
Dr. Hassan Al Biyadi, by contrast, was all points and angles, formal, dapper, and delicate-almost willowy-with skin as dark as Daniel's, short black hair, well-oiled, and a pencil-line mustache that had been trimmed to architectural precision. He looked too young to be a doctor, and his white coat and elegant clothes only served to enhance the image of a child playing dress-up.
"By any chance," Daniel asked him, "are you related to Mohammed Al Biyadi, the grocer?"
"He is my father," said Al Biyadi, suspiciously.
"Many years ago, when I was a uniformed officer, thieves broke into your father's warehouse and stole a new shipment of melons and squash. I was assigned to the case." One of the first triumphs, the criminals quickly apprehended, the merchandise returned. He'd swelled with pride for days.
As an attempt to gain rapport, it failed.
"I know nothing of melons," said the young physician coldly. "Ten years ago I lived in America."
"Where in America?"
"Detroit, Michigan."
"The automobile city."
Al Biyadi folded his arms across his chest. "What do you want of me?"
"Did you study medicine in Detroit, Michigan?"
"Yes."
"Where?"
"Wayne State University."
"When did you return to Israel?"
"I returned to Palestine two years ago."
"Have you worked at the Amelia Catherine all that time?"
"Yes."
"What is your specialty?"
"Family medicine."
"Did you attend the seminar at Hadassah?"
Al Biyadi's face contracted, almost shriveling with anger. "You know the answer to that, policeman. Why play games?"
Daniel looked at him calmly and said nothing.
"The same thing over and over," said Al Biyadi. "Something happens and you harass us."
"Have you been harassed by the police before, Dr. Al Biyadi?"
"You know what I mean," snapped the young Arab. He looked at his watch, drummed his fingers on the table. "I have things to do, patients to see."
"Speaking of seeing, did you see anything unusual last night?"
"No, nothing, and that's likely to be my answer to all of your questions."
"What about during the early morning hours?"
"No."
"No shouts or cries?"
"No."
"Do you own a car?" asked Daniel, knowing he was prolonging the interview in response to Al Biyadi's hostility. But it was more than a petty reaction: The young doctor's response was out of proportion. Was his anger politically rooted or something more-the edginess of the guilty? He wanted a bit more time to study Hassan Al Biyadi.
"Yes."
"What kind?"
"A Mercedes."
"What color?"
"Green."
"Diesel or petrol?"
"Diesel." From between clenched jaws.
"Where do you park it?"
"In the back. With everyone else's."
"Did you drive it last night?"
"I didn't go out last night."
"You were here all night."
"Correct."
"Doing what?"
"Studying, going about my business."
"Studying for what?"
Al Biyadi tossed him a patronizing look. "Unlike the less educated occupations, the field of medicine is complex, always changing. One needs constantly to study."
A woman in her late twenties came into the dining room. She saw Al Biyadi, walked over to him, and placed a hand on his shoulder.
"Good morning, Hassan," she said brightly, in heavily accented Arabic.
Al Biyadi mumbled a reply.
"Any more questions?" he asked Daniel.
The woman looked puzzled. She was plain, with a flat, pleasant face, snub-featured and freckled, devoid of makeup. She wore a sleeveless white stretch top over blue jeans, and low-heeled sandals. Her hair was thin, straight, medium-brown. It hung to her shoulders and was pulled back behind her ears with white barrettes. Her eyes were large and round and matched her hair in hue. They glided inquisitively over Daniel's face, then clouded in confusion at the sight of his kipah.
"Police," said Al Biyadi. "There's been some sort of crime and I'm being interrogated like a common criminal."
The woman absorbed his hostility, as if by osmosis. Imitated his crossed-arms posture and glared at Daniel as if to say Now you've upset him. I hope you're happy.
"Miss Cassidy?"
"That's right."
"I'm Chief Inspector Sharavi. Please sit down. You, Doctor, are free to go."
Being dismissed so quickly seemed to anger Al Biyadi as much as had being detained. He bounded out of his chair and stamped out of the room.
"You people," said Peggy Cassidy. "You think you can push everyone around."
"By people, you mean ?"
The young woman smiled enigmatically.
"Please sit," Daniel repeated.
She stared at him, then lowered herself into the chair.
"Would you like some coffee, Miss Cassidy?"
"No, and can we get on with whatever it is you want?"
"What I want," said Daniel, "is to know if you heard or saw anything unusual last night, or during the early hours of the morning."
"No. Should I have?"
"A crime was committed just up the road. I'm searching for witnesses."
"Or scapegoats."
"Oh?"
"We know how you feel about us, about those who want to help the Palestinian people."
"This isn't a political matter," said Daniel.
Peggy Cassidy laughed. "Everything's political."
Daniel took a few moments to write in his pad.
"Where in the States are you from, Miss Cassidy?"
"Huntington Beach, California."
"How long have you lived in Israel?"
"A year."
"And how long in Detroit?"
The question surprised her, but only for a moment. The look she gave Daniel bore the scorn reserved for a magician whose illusions have failed. "Three years; And yes, that's where I met Hassan."
"At Wayne State University?"
"At Harper Hospital, which is affiliated with Wayne State University. If you must know."
"When did the two of you meet?"
"Four years ago."
"Have you been have you had a relationship since that time?"
"I don't see that that's any of your business."
"If I presumed too much, I apologize," said Daniel.
She studied him, searching for sarcasm.
"Hassan's a wonderful man," she said. "He didn't deserve what you did to him."
"And what was that?"
"Oh, come on."
Daniel sighed, rested his chin on one hand, and looked at her.
"Miss Cassidy, as I told you, a crime was committed in the vicinity of this hospital. A serious crime. My interest in you or Dr. Al Biyadi is limited to what either of you can tell me about that crime."
