from the trays.
“His wife is beautiful. And the dress was very valuable ba‘dayn,” said a lady on one of the stools, adjusting an arm to keep her coffee level. “The collar. Like a half-moon. Silver. Kteer helu.”
“Where did he get all the money from?”
Um Taher put a hand on her chest, and Um Jamil squeezed her arm.
“You want my scarf?”
She shook her head.
“She’s very beautiful,” said Um Jamil, pointing at a girl with curly hair. “Who is her mother?”
“I don’t know.” Um Taher was still watching the Hammads and Madame Atwan. Widad Hammad was wearing an embroidered jacket, gold with red piping across the back, unusually close around the waist. Without warning, Widad swivelled round and saw her.
“Um Taher!”
“Marhaba,” said Um Taher, majestically. “Aash min shafek.” She commenced her slow approach.
Widad covered the remaining ground with an expensive clop of heels. “How are you.” She kissed Um Taher three times. “What’s your news?”
“Hamdulillah, and you, how are you.”
“Hamdulillah, Nuzha, Fatima, say hello to Madame Kamal.”
“As-salamu alaykum,” said the girls.
“Mashallah,” said Um Taher. “What beautiful girls you have.” She shut her eyes to smile. She could not face Midhat’s failure, she could not face it.
“We were discussing the French priest,” said Madame Atwan, stepping from an adjacent circle and joining them. “Have you met him?”
“I have not,” said Um Taher.
“What does he look like?” said Widad.
“Beard,” said a lady in a draped green tunic, shaping a beard on her own chin. “Long gown. And asking questions,” she scribbled in the air.
“Yes, he asks questions,” said Madame. “They all ask questions. They all want to know how we live.”
“I know him,” said Um Taher suddenly.
Widad looked at her.
“Did you see him at the hospital?” said Madame Atwan.
“No, I saw him at the—” She turned her gaze to a window above the courtyard, where a light had come on. “I can’t remember.”
“Why are people interested, anyway,” said the woman in the green tunic. “We have enough to think about. I am fed up with Europeans. I hate them, no one is more perfidious, I’ll tell you that. At least an Arab lies to your face.”
Widad was just parting her lips to speak when Madame Atwan cried: “We are going to take a picture now!”
Um Taher and Widad shared a startled look. They saw the direction of Madame Atwan’s eyes: upward. The sky was molten dark. It was going to rain.
“Are we ready for the picture!” A tremor of panic, the herd of women shuffling. The camera was pulled out, its glass eye glittered aloft as two girls each held one of the tripod legs, and a third ran behind carrying the black cloth, which had slipped off.
“Elmas! Elmas?”
“I’m here, Madame. Who would you like me to photograph?”
Madame Atwan hesitated. “Me. And then the others. Where shall I sit.”
Without waiting for an answer, she trotted across the tiles to select an unoccupied cushion, and placed it towards the centre of the courtyard as the guests fanned backward. She sat on the floor and arranged herself over the cushion, leaning sideways like a Roman.
“Keef,” she said to someone. She felt for her earring, and turned it round to show the engraving. She doubled her chin to check her necklaces.
“Heyk, Khalto,” said a young wife crouching to arrange Madame’s skirt.
Elmas the photographer was ready with the camera. The ladies nearby observed as she adjusted the aperture and then ran the camera’s head back and forth along its short jetty. “All right Mama,” she called. “Move your head a little to the side.”
She whispered to one of the servant girls, who ran indoors and returned with a device like an abbreviated dustpan with a wooden handle, and a small box. Elmas opened the box. In the manner of a performing magician or scientist she picked out two pots from inside, and held them up to show the labels: one said MAGNESIUM, the other B. N.
“Five spoons of this,” she said loudly, measuring into the metal trough, “and six of this … five, six. One match, please.”
The tiny match sizzled with a tang of sulphur. Elmas stepped forward, one hand on the buttoned end of a wire attached to the camera, the other holding her pan of powder aloft. On the cushion, Madame cleared her throat and lifted a stray hair from her forehead with one finger. Elmas dipped the trough to receive the match, and before they knew what was happening there was a bright flash of light. Just as quickly, darkness returned. The courtyard, cloudy, erupted