“I mean, it is only superstition, as you say. People pay them to do certain magic, and so on. You know, the evil eye, jealousy—but I don’t really—”
“Absolutely fascinating. This was a tribe—tribe? A sect who split off from Judaism. Or was contemporary with. There was a great travel diary by a woman who went to stay with them, I should see if I can get my hands on it.”
“It is only folklore,” said Midhat.
A smile tweaked the corners of Jeannette’s mouth. “How interesting. Papa.”
“What? He wants to.”
“It is not always appropriate.”
Docteur Molineu relented. In the ceasefire, the image of Jeannette’s thighs recurred in Midhat’s mind. He looked out at the grey lawn.
“Excuse me, sir,” said Georgine, opening the door. “There is a letter for Monsieur Midhat.”
“Mm.” Molineu clanked his glass on the table and stamped his foot on the flagstone. “It is getting chilly, too, and I am rather hungry.”
“I can heat the soup,” said Georgine. She waved familiarly at Midhat. “Come, please.”
She led him to the hall table. The letter was from his father, and dated three weeks prior.
My dear son Midhat,
God willing you are safe. Travel has been difficult because the British are defending the Canal against the Turks. However, I heard from my brother that there are no problems yet in Nablus. A German commander is staying at the Hammad house. The foreign post offices have closed in Jerusalem so do not expect any letters from Palestine. In Egypt the postal service is still fine. Trade is also fine, alhamdulillah. Layla and the children are fine, alhamdulillah. Work hard in your studies.
Regards,
Your father
Outside, Jeannette was folding the pink blanket.
“Georgine will do that.”
“Papa.”
“What? Don’t look at me like that.”
They shut the glass doors on the wind, and as they passed through the salon Jeannette saw her reflection in the mirror. A cloud of wind-loose hair was suspended around her head. She drew three pins from the back and slid them over the top, gathering and twisting some locks to keep them in place, and pressing her temples. Then she followed her father into the dining room, where he was addressing Georgine.
“Is he coming?” he said.
“Oh, yes, Monsieur.”
“Patience,” said Jeannette, drawing out her chair.
Nevertheless, Jeannette required only the lightest suggestion from her father to rise again and fetch Midhat for dinner. Yesterday she would have insisted on giving him privacy. But now she felt so unmanageably agitated—not only by her father but by the entire day, whose many strands lingered, threatening different undefended parts of her, so that a panic was already welling up—and it seemed to her in that particular moment that the only remedy for this unruly beating of her mind would be to walk into the hall and apologise to Midhat on her father’s behalf, and so settle at least that quarter of her agitation.
She saw their guest through the banister. He stood half-framed by the door to the salon, where the piano was stretching out, coffin-like, and the sun in the window lit a few threads dangling from his forehead, which was bent low with reading the letter in his right hand. His whole attitude was frozen. Then he shifted his weight to his other foot, and put his left hand limply on his hip. He pulled a face, a part-frown, as if straining against a bright light: the squint of trying to discern something. Although she was certain she had not made a sound, he suddenly jolted to face her. She sprang to life as naturally as she could, as though she was just entering from the dining room. But the motion of her arms was theatrical and from his expression she knew it was obvious she had been watching him. His fingers quickly folded the letter.
“I wanted to tell you,” she said, sliding her hand down the banister. She saw his eyes drop to her mouth.
“Yes?”
“I’m sorry,” her voice caught as her own eyes fell, to his sun-dark neck, and she shut them. “I wanted to say …” Everything rose; she inhaled, grasping after what she meant to say. Her thoughts slithered from her grip. “I didn’t tell you the truth.”
The silence that followed gave her just enough time to register what she had embarked upon; it was not enough time to think twice.
“When?” said Midhat.
“When I told you,” she began, “about my mother. The truth is, I do know how she died. She, she shot herself. With a gun.”
Midhat’s reaction to this was minimal. His eyes widened, fractionally, which she might