It sickened me to turn to Abu Moathe, but I was out of options.

I called first to gauge his mood. If I didn’t get a good vibe, I planned to call Abu Nasser, the panty sniffer. But Abu Moathe seemed happy to hear from me and said to hurry over. He would tell the guards to let me into the bank.

Two armed guards managed the throngs of people pulsing impatiently outside, allowing only a few in at a time. I shoved my way through to the guards, flashing my ID. “Abu Moathe is expecting me,” I said.

Inside, I was shown to the manager’s office, where Abu Moathe walked around a large wooden desk to greet me.

“Salaam, my friend. Your visit honors me,” he began with the customary flattery, then called on someone to bring us drinks. “What can I offer you?” he asked. “I recall you prefer tea to coffee.”

“Tea would be lovely. Thank you very much, Abu Moathe,” I said, and he ordered the old woman standing timidly at the door to bring two glasses of tea.

He walked around me to close the door, brushing his fingers across my shoulder. “To what do I owe the honor?” he asked.

The old woman came in with the tray of hot tea and placed it on his desk as I explained that I needed to withdraw my money to pay our rent and to get my brother out of jail. I told him my brother was innocent, arrested even though he had been in Jordan studying during the occupation.

“Then how could they arrest him if he was out of the country?”

I stuttered, “He, he, he came back at the end of the first semester, a few weeks before the liberation war.”

“You lied,” he said, smirking, offering me a cigarette. I declined, feeling like prey in a trap.

“I didn’t lie, Abu Moathe. May God forgive you for saying that.”

He lit a cigarette, saying to himself, “She dares to mention God.”

“I’m sorry, Abu Moathe. I’ll just go.” I got up to leave.

“Sit down!” he barked. “You must have forgotten who I am. I will tell you when you can go.”

I did as he ordered, glancing around surreptitiously for something with which to protect myself. There was only a mess of papers and files on his desk. Some pens, an empty demitasse, and a paperweight—a drop of oil embedded in a glass cube, nothing that would harm him much. He reclined in his leather chair, smirking again, a cloud of smoke foaming from his mouth. His large belly protruded in front of him.

“I always found it strange that a woman like you didn’t smoke.”

“What do you mean, a woman like me?” I tried to gather the courage to walk out, at the same time noticing a bank card attached to a paper on his desk.

“You know what I mean,” he said. “Anyway, I looked up your account after you called. It never occurred to me to look you up by the name Yaqoot. I never believed it was your real name.” He paused. “But I guess whores tell the truth sometimes.”