The Omega scroll

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Mar’Oth

G iovanni gripped the chipped bakelite steering wheel of the dilapidated Volkswagen he had been provided with, and headed towards the village of Mar’Oth near the northern border of the West Bank. A hot wind blew through the open window and the distinctive metallic whirring of the air-cooled engine rang in his ears. Eventually Giovanni found the black and white signpost at the turnoff Bishop O’Hara had told him to watch for; Mar’Oth, it announced, was 3 kilometres away in the mountains to the east, but it was the second sign that caught his attention – Nazareth.

Pulling up in a cloud of dust at the side of the road Giovanni felt a surge of exhilaration. Barely 9 kilometres to the north, across the border of the occupied Palestinian West Bank, lay what was now the city of Nazareth. Christ himself had walked the streets of this old hillside town as a boy. To the east he could see Mount Tabor, the mountain that Christ had climbed with Peter, James and John, where he had been transfigured before them in robes of dazzling white, reappearing with Moses and the prophet Elijah. Giovanni looked at his watch. It was already after two and he felt a pang of disappointment. So near, yet so far. He smiled to himself. Nazareth had been there for well over two thousand years. It could wait another day but he resolved to go there at the first opportunity.

Reluctantly he grasped the worn stubby gear lever, changed to first with a grinding crunch and turned towards Mar’Oth. The Volkswagen lurched drunkenly as Giovanni picked his way up the steep, dusty road. Olive groves proliferated on either side, leathery leaves flashing green and silver. The hardy trees seemed impervious to the scorching sun.

Like many villages in Israel Mar’Oth was built on a hill. More accurately on two hills that were like the dusty humps of a camel with a saddle in between. Giovanni slowed as he reached the top of the first rise. The dirt road divided the town down the middle, finishing halfway up the second rise. He drove down past a small mosque and mudbrick homes. A group of children with black soulful eyes stopped kicking a cardboard box to watch him pass. Giovanni waved but they didn’t return his greeting. A mangy brown dog scratched incessantly in the doorway of one of the houses. At the bottom of the saddle there were two stores, one on either side of the road, but unlike Jerusalem there were no tubs of olives or spices spilling out of the doors. A small whirlpool of dust eddied in front of him, gathering strength, only to die moments later. What few people there were on the hot dusty track averted their eyes, sullen and unfriendly. A single track ran down to a knoll where an old stone building stood. Giovanni guessed it was the school. He reached for the worn stubby gear stick and again the Volkswagen protested as it climbed up the second rise until he brought it to a stop outside a small and very old red mudbrick church.

One of the two half doors was hanging lopsidedly, the top hinge rusted away from the wall. The cross directly above the doors drooped in sympathy. Giovanni eased open the door that still had two hinges and he stepped into one of Christ’s many houses. The corners of the small church were dim but a ray of bright sunlight shone through an opening high up in one of the walls. Dust particles danced thickly in front of a rickety table that served as an altar. Four plank benches completed the collection of furniture. Giovanni kicked at the dirt floor, holding down his disappointment. A cloud of thick, dirty red dust rose in response. He walked towards the only other door, opened it and stepped back hurriedly as the smell of stale urine assailed his nostrils from a single windowless room. On the floor in one corner was a chipped enamel bowl and a dented bucket. In another corner was an old stove covered in black grease. A yellow-stained mattress sagged in the middle of an iron-framed bed. Giovanni looked underneath it to find the wire supports had rusted away and in among the broken springs were several large empty whisky bottles. An old school desk and a chair filled the rest of the room. A candle had almost burned down to the rough lump of wood that served as a base and a rusty iron nail protruded through wax that had dribbled off the table, solidifying into a greasy brown stalactite.

Giovanni walked back into the church, leaving the door to the room open. He sat down on the nearest bench and stared at the wall behind the table. There was a patchwork of jagged brown mud where the whitewash had fallen and scattered in big flakes on the dirt floor. Fighting back another surge of disappointment, Giovanni put his head in his hands, closed his eyes and prayed to a God that he was no longer sure of.

‘Heavenly Father, I have sinned against you and against your Holy Catholic Church. I am not worthy to pick up the crumbs from beneath your table. Forgive me my disappointment at being sent here and help me to understand that there is a reason. Help me to reach out to these people and bring them to you. And,’ he added, with a pang of guilt, ‘help me to make sense of Pierre Teilhard de Chardin. Amen.’ Giovanni crossed himself and made his way back out onto the dusty track. The steering wheel was almost too hot to touch and he made a mental note to try and find some sort of cover for it. As he headed back towards the other end of the village he noticed a crowd gathering outside the little mosque on the other hill. Even at a distance the people seemed agitated; some of them were bending over something on the track.

When he pulled up, Giovanni could see that the crowd were mainly older men, their black robes faded to grey. Their heads were covered with what were once white kafiyehs and as he got out of the car he could see there was a man lying near the front steps of the mosque. Giovanni found age amongst Arabs hard to fathom, but he judged the man on the ground to be about the same age as he was, somewhere in his late twenties to early thirties. He looked fit, but he wasn’t moving. Giovanni thought he might be dead, and mechanically wondered if he should offer the last rites. Just as quickly he realised his naivety. As he reached the crowd, a small man with a face like a blackened walnut gesticulated at him and started yelling in Arabic.

‘Can I help?’ Giovanni asked. He was met with sullen stares and was immediately conscious of the need to have a grasp of the local language. The walnut started yelling at him again, spitting invective through the gaps in his tobacco-stained teeth.

Giovanni held up his hands submissively.

‘Does anyone speak English?’ he asked, raising his voice to be heard. The men glared at him.

‘I do.’

Giovanni thought the boy could not have been more than about nine or ten. Like many Palestinian children he had dark olive skin with the same soulful eyes as the children Giovanni had seen earlier. Like most of the village children he wore shorts and had no shoes.

‘What happened?’

‘Imam Sartawi fell off the roof.’

Giovanni refrained from asking why his opposite number might have needed to be on the roof of the mosque. Probably a case of do-it-yourself, as it clearly would be for Giovanni. He moved towards the crumpled form and the men reluctantly drew aside to let him through. Once again the walnut protested.

‘Tell them I have first aid.’

The boy looked puzzled.

‘ Tebeeb, doctor,’ Giovanni said, stretching both the truth and his elementary Arabic in an attempt to communicate.

The boy nodded, recognition in his eyes.

‘ Tebeeb.’

The murmur was almost respectful now and the gap widened to allow Giovanni to kneel in the dust. He recalled the only first aid he had ever done, from way back in his football days, and took hold of the Imam’s wrist; the pulse was not strong but at least it was there and he was breathing. Giovanni checked around the man’s neck, and as he checked to see if his pupils were of equal size, the Imam groaned.

‘What is his name?’ he asked, beckoning to the boy. ‘Translate for me please.’

‘His name is Ahmed Sartawi, but you can talk to him.’

For a moment Giovanni was puzzled. ‘He speaks English?’

The boy nodded.

Ahmed groaned and tried to sit up but Giovanni motioned for him to lie still.

‘What is your name?’ Giovanni asked again, not noticing the quizzical look on the boy’s face.

The Imam squinted. ‘Ahmed. Ahmed Sartawi,’ he replied hoarsely.

‘And do you know where you are?’

‘Yes, in my village.’ It was Ahmed’s turn to look puzzled.

‘And do you know what day it is?’

‘Why are you asking me all these questions? I was fixing the roof when I fell,’ the Imam replied, agitation creeping into his voice.

Giovanni smiled at him. ‘It’s all right. You’ve been unconscious. Can you see clearly? Your vision is not blurred?’

‘A little, but it’s my ankle that really hurts.’

The blurred vision was not a good sign, Giovanni thought, more worried about that than Ahmed’s ankle. ‘Which one, left or right?’

‘Right.’

Giovanni checked for any sign of a break, but apart from the swelling there was no puncture or discoloration of the skin. ‘Can you move it?’

Ahmed slowly raised his leg and gingerly moved his foot from side to side.

‘I don’t suppose you have any ice around here?’ Giovanni asked the young boy who was watching intently. The boy laughed.

‘No. I didn’t think so. Can you get me some newspaper, lots of it, and some cord?’ Giovanni turned back to Ahmed. ‘I don’t think it is broken, but just to make sure I will drive you to Nazareth.’

Giovanni made two rolls out of the papers. The murmuring among those craning to see grew louder as he bound the makeshift splints together.

‘Now,’ Giovanni said, supporting Ahmed from behind, ‘let’s get you to the car.’ Their path was suddenly blocked by the walnut, waving his arms. A torrent of Arabic directed at Giovanni in particular and everyone else in general.

Not a happy nut, Giovanni thought wryly, stifling a smile as Ahmed intervened with a few sharp words and the walnut fell silent.

By the time they reached Nazareth the last of the sun’s rays were sliding from the dome of the Basilica of the Annunciation, the top of which looked like a massive lantern. It was the largest church in the Middle East, constructed on the site where legend had it that the angel Gabriel told Mary that she would bear the Christ child. Nazareth Hospital was perched on a prominent hill overlooking the basilica and the town.

‘I hope the hospital has a doctor on duty,’ Giovanni said dubiously as he drove as fast as he dared up the winding Wadi el-Juwani.

‘There will be. Nazareth may not be the most picturesque town on the map, but there are sixty thousand Arabs, not to mention another fifty thousand Jews in the new part of the town.’ Ahmed winced as Giovanni swerved, not entirely missing a large pothole.

‘Sorry,’ Giovanni offered. Ahmed looked relieved when they finally parked and Giovanni helped him to Casualty. The hospital staff seemed harassed and it took over an hour before Ahmed Sartawi’s name was called and he was taken through two plastic doors.

Giovanni looked up from his seat in the crowded waiting room to find a young Arab nurse standing in front of him.

‘We are going to keep him in for observation overnight.’ Her voice was strangely aggressive.

‘Is he all right?’

‘We’re not sure yet.’

‘How long before you will know?’ Giovanni asked, wondering why after nearly another hour they had not reached any decision.

‘There are other patients in this hospital,’ she replied curtly. ‘The Israelis have been shelling a village to the south of here and some of the casualties are not expected to live.’ As if to emphasise her point, sirens could be heard in the distance.

‘Why don’t you come back in the morning,’ she said, a little more gently. ‘By then the specialist will have had time to examine the X-rays and we will be able to tell you a little more.’

Giovanni nodded and the nurse quickly disappeared through the two plastic doors.

As Giovanni reached the main entrance the first of the ambulances roared past heading towards Casualty, the siren dying as it came to a halt. Orderlies in blood-spattered white raced to open the doors, and a young Arab boy, one leg missing, the other wrapped in blood-soaked bandages, was wheeled inside. Giovanni took a deep breath. He couldn’t have been more than eight or nine years old.