remaining day, and Midhat watched his father reach over the desk against those pale slats of light, and heard the wheeling of a drawer. He returned with a handful of purple silk; amid the fabric something gleamed. A gold disc. He rubbed the silk over its engravings.
“This is for you, Midhat.”
The watch was heavy and cool. Midhat popped the clasp. From an ornate enamel dial three tiny black hands protruded. One trotted around the rim, pointing at the Arabic ciphers.
His father produced a penknife. “This is how you open the back.”
He slotted the blade into the edge, and the back of the disc swung open on an invisible hinge. Inside, a series of corrugated wheels were fastened with screwed silver plates, all motionless except for two: one spinning in a fury, and pushing a smaller adjacent wheel, which turned at regular intervals. The smaller wheel was clicking. Click, click, click.
“Thank you. Father, thank you.”
“God keep you, habibi. Keep it safe.”
3
“Where is the mother of the bride?” the photographer called, emerging from the curtain.
A woman ran across the lawn, the wind pushing her dress between her legs. The assembled group made a space for her in the first row. One flash and a loud pop, and the photographer emerged again to replace the slide.
“Hello Monsieur Kamal,” said a large man in an ivory waistcoat. “My name is Sylvain Leclair.”
Sylvain Leclair’s moustache twitched as he spoke. Midhat returned the greeting, and Sylvain gave him a long impassive look. He removed his hat, drawing his fluffy hair up into a peak on the back of his head.
“Are you a relation of the bride, or of the groom?” said Midhat.
Leclair’s expression did not change. He turned to Docteur Molineu.
“Frédéric, come here. I want to talk to you.”
The two men moved off, and Midhat wondered if he had said something wrong.
“Monsieur Kamal, are you enjoying yourself?”
Jeannette was beside him, wearing a blue dress and white lace gloves.
“I’ll tell you who everyone is,” she said. “Bonjour Patrice! That—that in the big hat is Madame Crotteau. Her husband died last year of meningitis. She can be a little annoying, you have been warned. And that one I said hello to is Patrice Nolin. Actually he used to be a professor at the Faculty of Medicine, although he has retired, unfortunately. He wrote a book last year about the social life of animals. And right up until the war he was in the Congo. His daughters are Carole and Marie-Thérèse, those two. That’s Marie-Thérèse in the orange dress. God, isn’t it hideous.”
Marie-Thérèse’s dress was more red than it was orange, Midhat thought, and he appreciated the diffuse quality of the satin. But he nodded nonetheless; it was unusual to have Jeannette’s attention like this. Since his arrival a week ago she often smiled at him, but only from afar, and she did not engage much in conversation. Her father on the other hand pestered him with questions whenever he could, most often at breakfast. Sometimes Jeannette joined in these discussions—just that morning, for example, she appeared to enjoy explaining the difference between très, trop, and tellement, the last two of which they discovered had no direct Arabic equivalents. But more often than not she slipped from the table before they were finished and disappeared into some remote quarter of the house, and Midhat did not see her again until he returned from the Faculty in the evening.
“That man talking with Carole is Carl Page, he works in a bank. His mother is a friend of Sarah Bernhardt’s. His son has already been called to Ypres. And that one in the red cravat is Xavier, my cousin, Marian’s brother. He is studying law. And Laurent, he is also at the Medical Faculty. I will introduce you.”
Laurent was a tall blond man, stooping to talk with a squat fellow in a bowler. Jeannette did not, however, make any motion to initiate an introduction. She continued:
“With him is Luc Dimon. He owns the largest vineyard in the region.”
“And these are all friends of the bride?”
“The ones I have named. I don’t know the groom’s party. They are mostly from Nice.”
Docteur Molineu was now in conversation with Patrice Nolin near the entrance to the dinner tent. There was something girlish about Nolin’s appearance. His eyes were far apart and his cheeks had a high colour. Molineu’s face was puckering with animation. That was exactly how he looked at breakfast, jumping with excitement whenever they encountered any phrase that could not be translated.