road to the house they saw, between the branches of a low-hanging tree, the glass eyes of two unlit headlights. Just below, the curves of two front wheels.
“Ah,” came a voice, and an upright shadow stepped onto the path. “Midhat.”
Nerves snapped in Midhat’s abdomen.
“Father. I didn’t know you were here.”
“And Jamil,” said Haj Taher. “Ahlan wa sahlan, amo. I saw your father, you’re working in the khan now.”
“Ahlan, Amo, yes.”
“I was at a meeting in Haifa. I came by on my way to Cairo, to see how things are going. Damascus is chaotic. Are you eating with us?”
“Yes he is,” said Midhat.
“Yalla.”
Teta was in the hall. Her eyes were bright, and her lips pressed hard against Midhat’s cheek.
“Where is your mother?” she asked Jamil.
“Downstairs.”
“You should have brought her, I miss her. Ta‘alu.” She took Taher’s coat. “Mama,” she said to him, “how was Damascus?”
“Demonstrations every day, I was just telling them.” He lifted his tarbush and ran three fingers through his silver hair. “It makes life more difficult for everyone, including the merchants. You should have seen the crowds … oof.”
“What was this meeting?” said Midhat.
“Ay meeting?” said his grandmother from the divan.
“A conference in Haifa. Is there anything sweet? I’m hungry.”
“Wait for dinner,” said Teta.
Taher made a gesture of impatience with his pursed fingers, and Teta rose. He turned to the boys. “It was al-Nadi al-Arabi, and the other societies. Haifa, Yafa, al-Nassira …” He waved a hand, already bored. But as he leaned back in his chair his demeanour changed, and he made a sucking sound through his teeth. His voice became public, explanatory. “We’re setting up a committee for all Palestine, three centres, Haifa, Nablus, Jerusalem. We’re talking about getting Palestinians to fight in Faisal’s army, against the French.”
Teta returned with a tray of baklawa. Taher pulled a piece from the edge, which clung to its neighbour with strings of honey.
“Where’s the napkin.”
“Army,” said Jamil. “Is there a war?”
“Depends. They let Faisal have his government … but the people are unhappy. Have you heard from your friend Hani?” He pointed at Midhat with a sticky middle finger.
The question pleased Midhat, and he wished he had a better answer. “Not for a while. I should write to him, in fact.”
Haj Taher leaned back again and crossed his legs. “And what about you, have we found you a wife yet?”
In the corner of Midhat’s vision, Teta’s eyes flashed.
“I think so.”
Teta coughed.
“I was thinking I would ask Fatima Hammad. Daughter of Haj Nimr.”
Jamil leaned forward for the baklawa, and Haj Taher turned to Teta. “She’s a nice girl?”
Teta shrugged and nodded at the same time.
“Hammad is a good family,” he said. “You should ask soon. She’s how old?”
“I don’t know, actually.”
“Seventeen years,” said Teta, with some force.
“Shu malik?” said Haj Taher. “What’s up with you?”
“Nothing.”
“Where’s the food? Yalla.”
“Um Mahmoud is cooking. It will be ready in half an hour.” She eyed the door.
“Where’s your watch, Midhat?”
It took Midhat a moment to process the question. He became aware of his hands, which he had placed on his thighs. He could not tear his eyes from his father’s face, the black beard tipping as he rearranged his tie, the grey hair at his temples. The silence persisted. His father looked directly at him.
“It’s being fixed,” said Midhat.
“What’s wrong with it?”
“Oh it’s only the … mechanism … he said it would be easy to fix.”
“Who’s he.”
“The watch … fixer. On the road to … the road in …”
“Jerusalem?” Jamil supplied.
“Jerusalem. Greek guy, he does watches, and clocks, cameras … and all of that.”
“Well I hope it’s not expensive.” Taher extracted another piece of baklawa. “And how is the store? I saw Hisham.”
“Good, yes, it’s good. I’m enjoying it.”
“Enjoying. Well, we’ll get you to Cairo soon. You’ll enjoy that much more.”
To Midhat’s relief, the conversation at dinner turned back to politics. Some of the notables in Jerusalem were not so keen on Faisal, his father said. They wanted Palestine to fight for independence on her own.
“And there have been some disturbances. You know what the people are like, when something catches fire …”
“What kind of disturbances?” said Jamil.
“I don’t think that is going to help the cause,” said Midhat. “We aren’t strong enough to threaten anyone. The Europeans will always have better armies. If you’re violent and you’re also the weakest party, I don’t think that works out well.”
“How do you know we would be the weakest?” said Jamil.
“Look at the war.”
“With the help of the Arabs, Britain and France won the war.”
Midhat grimaced