She opened a package of fiberglass casting tape and commenced work on the arm. Saladin watched her intently.
“It’s not necessary for you to conceal your face in my presence. After all,” he said, fingering the white sheet that covered his otherwise nude body, “we are well acquainted, you and I. A hijab is sufficient.”
Natalie hesitated, then removed the heavy black garment. Saladin stared hard at her face.
“You’re very beautiful. But Abu Ahmed is right. You look like a Jew.”
“Is that supposed to be a compliment, too?”
“I’ve known many beautiful Jewesses. And everyone knows that the best doctors are always Jewish.”
“As an Arab doctor,” said Natalie, “I take exception to that.”
“You’re not an Arab, you’re a Palestinian. There’s a difference.”
“I take exception to that, too.”
Silently, she bound his arm with the fiberglass tape. Orthopedics was hardly her specialty, but then she was not a surgeon, either.
“It was a mistake,” he said, watching her work, “for me to mention Abu Ahmed’s name in front of you. Names have a way of getting people killed. You will do your best to forget you ever heard it.”
“I already have.”
“He tells me you’re French.”
“Who?” she asked playfully, but Saladin did not rise to the bait. “Yes,” she said, “I am French.”
“You approved of our attack on the Weinberg Center?”
“I wept with joy.”
“The Western press said it was a soft target. I can assure you it was not. Hannah Weinberg was an associate of an Israeli intelligence officer named Gabriel Allon, and her so-called center for the study of anti-Semitism was a front for the Israeli service. Which is why I targeted it.” He fell silent. Natalie could feel the weight of his gaze on her while she worked on the arm. “Perhaps you’ve heard of this man Gabriel Allon,” he said at last. “He is an enemy of the Palestinian people.”
“I think I read about him in the papers a few months ago,” she answered. “He’s the one who died in London, is he not?”
“Gabriel Allon? Dead?” He shook his head slowly. “I don’t believe it.”
“Be quiet for a moment,” Natalie instructed him. “It’s important that I immobilize your arm properly. If I don’t, you’ll have problems with it later.”
“And my leg?”
“You need surgery—proper surgery in a proper hospital. Otherwise, I’m afraid your leg will be badly damaged.”
“I’ll be a cripple, is that what you’re saying?”
“You’ll have restricted movement, you’ll require a cane to walk, you’ll have chronic pain.”
“I already have restricted movement.” He smiled at his own joke. “They say Saladin walked with a limp, the real Saladin. It didn’t stop him, and it won’t stop me, either.”
“I believe you,” she said. “A normal man would never have survived wounds as serious as yours. Surely, Allah is watching over you. He has plans for you.”
“And I,” said Saladin, “have plans for you.”
She finished the cast in silence. She was pleased with her work. So, too, was Saladin.
“Perhaps when your operation is complete, you can return to the caliphate to serve as my personal physician.”
“Your Maimonides?”
“Exactly.”
“It would be an honor,” she heard herself say.
“But we won’t be in Cairo. Like Saladin, I’ve always preferred Damascus.”
“What about Baghdad?”
“Baghdad is a city of rafida.”
It was a bigoted Sunni slur for Shia Muslims. Natalie wordlessly prepared a new IV bag.
“What’s that you’re putting in the solution?” he asked.
“Something for your pain. It will help you sleep through the heat of the afternoon.”
“I’m not in pain. And I don’t want to sleep.”
Natalie attached the bag to the IV tube and squeezed it to start the flow of fluid. Within a few seconds, Saladin’s eyes dulled. He fought to keep them open.
“Abu Ahmed is right,” he said, watching her. “You do look like a Jew.”
“And you,” said Natalie, “need to rest.”
The eyelids dropped like window blinds and Saladin slipped helplessly into unconsciousness.
43
ANBAR PROVINCE, IRAQ
HER DAYS MOVED TO THE rhythm of Saladin. She slept when he slept and woke whenever he stirred on his sickbed. She monitored his vital signs, she changed his dressings, she gave him morphine against his wishes for the pain. For a few seconds after the drug entered his blood, he would hover in a hallucinatory state where words escaped his mouth, like the air that had rushed from his damaged lung. Natalie could have prolonged his talkative mood by giving him a smaller measure of the drug; conversely, she could have ushered him to death’s door with a larger dose. But she was never alone with her patient. Two fighters stood over him always, and Abu Ahmed—he of the lobster claw and overcast disposition—was never far. He consulted with Saladin frequently, about what Natalie was not privy. When matters of state or terror were discussed, she was banished from the room.
She was not permitted to go far—the next room, the toilet, a sun-blasted court where Abu Ahmed encouraged her to take exercise in order to stay fit for her operation. She was never allowed to see the rest of the great house or told where she was, though when she listened to al-Bayan on the ancient transistor radio they gave her, the signal was without interference. All other radio was forbidden, lest she be exposed to un-Islamic ideas or, heaven forbid, music. The absence of music was harder to bear than she imagined. She longed to hear a few notes of a melody, a child sawing away at a major scale, even the thud of hip-hop from a passing car. Her rooms became a prison. The camp at Palmyra seemed a paradise in comparison. Even Raqqa was better, for at least in Raqqa she had been allowed to roam the streets. Never mind the severed heads and the men on crosses, at least there was some semblance of life. The caliphate, she thought grimly, had a way of reducing one’s expectations.