She heard her words as if spoken by someone else. “About my husband. About what happened?”
Unless Fatima’s eyes were deceiving her, Sahar winced. But a moment later the discomfort appeared more likely physical than moral, given the desperation with which she drank the water, holding the glass with both hands in a manner that reminded Fatima of Ghada. Sahar finished and frowned. “What sort of thing do you mean?”
“Anything,” said Fatima, desperately casual. Standing with one hand on the back of the chair, she gesticulated randomly with the other. “Anything you might remember.”
“I’m sorry. It must be, I imagine, very difficult.”
Fatima gave a voluntary smile. “It is difficult, yes. I’m sure you can see that. I’m sure it’s obvious.”
“No, you manage very well. It’s only that I imagine it must feel hard. I find it hard, and I have only …”
“I have my mother. And a grandmother-in-law.” She made an ironic face. “I am beset, in fact, with mothers.”
Sahar smiled, and Fatima remembered with a flush that Sahar’s mother was recently deceased. She chased the silence with a rapid, unprefaced: “Allah yirhamha,” which did nothing to cool her hot brow. Though Sahar betrayed no sign she had noticed, and her smile resisted all projection, once more Fatima wondered at her own slipping social grace.
“How is the shop?” said Sahar. “What happened after the fire? The damage must have been considerable.”
“Eli—you know Eli? He came by the day before yesterday. They are almost finished with repairs, but the stock … the smell is too bad. They will throw it away. Not that it makes a difference. They can’t open.” In her neck and shoulders Fatima could feel the ghost of her mother’s mannerisms. That transparent overeagerness. She concentrated, and stripped her face of expression.
“It is difficult,” said Sahar sympathetically.
“I’m not complaining. This is more important. We all make sacrifices for sake of the larger …”
“Yes, that’s exactly right.”
Fatima was silent. “I should take you to bed.”
“There was a letter,” said Sahar.
It was a moment before Fatima understood what she was referring to.
“From who?”
“A woman. From a long time ago.”
The words hung in the air. Fatima stared without seeing. The point of a needle slid into the soft patch of flesh between her ribs. From a distance, she heard herself say:
“Was she from France?”
Sahar nodded. “It was in French,” she said quietly. “I didn’t read it. Hani …”
“I don’t want to know about it,” whispered Fatima.
A great weariness had come over her. She closed her eyes, and saw Midhat lying in his hospital bed. Of course, there would have been other women. Her chest ached.
But, in a moment, all thought of Midhat was eclipsed by her awareness of the pregnant woman sitting before her. She turned her gaze back on Sahar, lying like a royal animal on the Damascene chair. Why had Sahar decided to tell her this? What was her motivation? Her mind scrawled charts of insidious narrative: Sahar was trying to poison her against her marriage, because her own husband was imprisoned. She was lonely, and loneliness made women vicious. Face turned aside, eyes still on Fatima, forehead troubled by a frown. She knew she should be leading Sahar up to bed, but Fatima couldn’t move. Something heaved and froze inside her. It was getting dark, the lamps needed lighting. Her ringed hand looked pale on the chair back.
“Mama,” came a voice.
Massarra was at the bottom of the stairs, one leg bent with a lingering foot behind her.
“We’re hungry.”
“What do you mean you’re hungry?”
“We didn’t eat.”
She followed her daughter’s eyes to the silver tray on the coffee table, the empty cups, the torn scraps of bread and the dish of oil and za‘atar, the plate of fig biscuits. Ghada appeared behind her sister on the stair and shouted with effortless volume: “Mama I’m hungry!”
A noise exploded from Fatima’s mouth.
“GO AND MAKE SOMETHING THEN!”
Massarra did not flinch. She gave her mother a piercing look, and only a tremor passed through her lips.
“You’re not a child,” said Fatima.
“I know,” said Massarra.
Fatima reached out and slapped her daughter across the face. Behind her, Sahar gasped. Ghada, on the stair, looked suddenly very small and wan. Massarra’s face went scarlet, and not only where the handprint was materialising on her cheek, but all over. A muscle pulsed in her jaw. She turned, saying: “Come on, Ghada.” Ghada hesitated. Then, accepting her sister’s hand, she followed her down the lower steps.
Fatima remained with her back to Sahar, watching the spot where her daughters had been.
“I’m