“God, yeah, it’s been years. Since college, you know. How is he? Is he still working in the same field?”

“Yes,” the mother said, confiding in the lawyer. “He decided to stay there. I begged him to come home but he didn’t want to.”

“And you don’t have a number where you can reach him? How can that be?” the lawyer asked, chuckling, trying to make light of the situation.

“No, he doesn’t have a phone. There’s a line at work, so every once in a while, whenever he remembers his mother, he picks up the phone and calls me. Once a week, once every two weeks, he’ll do me a favor and ask me how I’m doing.”

“Well, you know how he is,” the lawyer said. “I miss him.”

“What can I say? I miss him more. But if he calls, I’ll tell him you came by. What did you say your name was?”

“Mazen,” the lawyer said. “Tell him Mazen, from the university, from the dorms.”

“I’ll tell him when he calls. It’s been over a month since he’s last been back to visit,” she said, visibly distraught, and she gestured for him to sit down at the plastic table outside, and the lawyer knew why she did not invite him in.

“So, has he gotten married? Wife? Kids?” the lawyer asked as he sat down across from the mother.

“I wish,” the mother moaned. “Nothing. Nothing. But you guys are to blame, his friends. Couldn’t you talk to him, find him a good girl. He doesn’t listen to a word I say. He’s almost thirty.”

“Yeah, wow,” the lawyer said, forcing himself to laugh, even though the thought of this bachelor, the man who danced with his wife at a party, made his blood boil.

“Are you also a social worker?” the mother asked.

“No,” the lawyer said distractedly. “I’m a lawyer.” And immediately he felt that he had made a mistake. One call to his mother and Amir would know that a lawyer whom he’d never met had pretended to be an old friend and one more call to the lawyer’s wife and she would already know exactly who it was that had been sniffing around Amir’s house.

“A lawyer? Amir has a lawyer friend and he doesn’t make use of him?” the mother said.

“Why,” the lawyer asked. “Is something wrong?”

“His inheritance,” she said. “He’s got ten dunam of land. Inheritance from his father. And he won’t even ask for it. You could easily get him his inheritance. I’ve already stopped telling him to demand what is legally his. Instead of wandering around and paying rent all over the place he could have sold his land and bought himself a house. It’s his, from his father. Why shouldn’t he take it?”

“Well,” the lawyer said, “I’m happy to help. Just tell him to call me. When do you think you’ll hear from him?”

“Huh,” the mother said, “probably not for another month. He took the trouble to talk to me yesterday. Gave me a whole half minute of his time. Said he was busy and then hung up. What can I get you to drink?”

“Thank you, I’m fine.” The lawyer hesitated for a second before asking permission to use the bathroom.

“Of course, no problem,” the mother said. She remained outside and gave him instructions for how to find the bathroom. “My house is your house,” she said.

The lawyer strode across the living room and already regretted asking to use the bathroom. He could easily have waited until he got back to the gas station. Head down, protecting the mother’s privacy, he walked straight to the bathroom. It was small and clean. The lawyer urinated and when he was done he remembered to put the seat back down. On his way out, he turned his head to the side for a second and saw what he was after, a picture of a young Amir. He felt a jolt of pain. The kid was handsome.

“I’m sorry,” the lawyer said as he walked back outside.

“What for, my son?” the woman asked, and the lawyer saw a light go out in her eyes when she said the word son. “On the contrary, I’m the one who’s sorry, for not being able to host you properly.”

“Thank you, Auntie,” the lawyer said, and he shook her hand. “Please tell Amir that I came by and was looking for him,” he added, raising his voice for the neighbor’s benefit. He handed the woman a piece of paper with a fictitious telephone number and left the house.

“A friend of Amir’s from Jerusalem,” he heard the mother yelling across to the neighbor.

A torrent of conflicting thoughts raced through the lawyer’s mind as he sat back down behind the wheel of his car. Why had his wife lied to him again? Why? He had so wanted to believe her, to help and defend her, to prove her innocence in the face of his own accusations. But how could he believe anything she said after this conversation with Amir’s mother? How was he supposed to believe that she hadn’t seen him since that night if Amir had stayed in Jerusalem and still worked as a social worker in the city? The lawyer knew that Arab social workers in Jerusalem were just like the lawyers — they all knew each other. Thanks to his wife, he even knew most of them.

On the way out of the village, the lawyer lit a cigarette and opened the car window. His phone beeped twice, alerting him to a message. He put the cigarette down in the car’s gold-colored ashtray. He hoped it was a message from his wife, but it was Samah, sending him Amir’s ID number. The lawyer pulled hard on the cigarette and expelled the smoke out the window. He did not like smoking in the car. It’s Saturday, and there’s no way for you to check his ID number, he reminded himself. Then he turned on the radio, searching for an upbeat song.

“Yonatan?” the security guard half asked, half said as I got off the bus at Sirkin Junction near Petach Tikva. “Dude, you got to get yourself a new picture,” he said, looking at my ID card and then handing it back.

I walked toward the makeshift share-taxi stand that served the residents of Kfar Kassem and Jaljulia. As I arrived one of the taxis pulled out, leaving two Transporters in line. The two drivers, whose faces I recognized, sat on the curb and smoked.

Back in the day, all of the taxis were Mercedes-Benz sedans that could seat seven, but they don’t make those anymore, and since a regular four-door isn’t worth the drivers’ while, they now drive Volkswagen Transporter vans and never leave until they’re entirely full. On Thursday afternoons it’s never a problem because Petach Tikva is the hub for the villages of the southern Triangle.

I nodded at the drivers and had to mumble, “Salaam alaikum.”

“Alaikum a-salaam,” one of them said. “You can put your bag in the car.” He pointed to the van with the open door.

“Whose son is that?” I heard one of the drivers ask as I put my bag in the backseat.

“Don’t know,” the other one answered, and I felt their eyes on me. “Village’s gotten big, ah?”

I had to go down to Jaljulia. “Um-Bassem’s days are numbered,” my mother had blubbered over the phone the last time we talked. “It would be a disgrace if you didn’t come and say good-bye to her.”

The landlord, the one I called siti, or grandmother, her condition had been worsening throughout the year. She did not have any specific disease but she had lost her hearing and then her sight and her connection to the world around her had begun to deteriorate.

“I recognize your smell,” she said to me the last time I saw her, and her daughters were astonished that she could recognize me and not them or her grandchildren.

She kissed me, as always, and then said, “I saw you last night, you were with them, right? The soldiers. An army on horseback, planes in the sky. They flew right past my eyes.” She pointed ahead. “And I waved to them and said, may Allah be with you, may Allah be with you, and I gave them water and food.” Since then I had been back to the village twice and, despite my mother’s attempts to guilt and wheedle me into going, I had not been to see um-Bassem.

In less than ten minutes we had our seven passengers in the Transporter. Since all the rest of the passengers were women and kids, I sat next to the driver. I remembered that he who rode shotgun was, by convention, also the cashier. The ride from Petach Tikva to Jaljulia costs fifteen shekels and I started to collect the money and distribute the change. In the end I handed the driver ninety shekels in bills and coins.