Laurent it’s good to see you. Your hair is too long, however.”
“The army will cut it soon enough.”
“Ah, pff. Patrice, Patrice, come and meet Midhat Kamal. Here.”
“Enchanté.”
“Patrice is my colleague now, we are in the same discipline. It used to be the human body for him, and now it is the social one.”
“Frédéric. Un livre, seulement un livre.”
“So you don’t think you will return to the university at all?”
“As I’ve said, the problem for me is that when the war begins … immédiatement c’est fini, ou sinon immédiatement, assez vite. No more free thought, no more free … exchange.”
“Ah … yes, I know what you mean.”
“Marian!” said Jeannette, who had returned and was standing behind them, addressing the bride on the other side. “I have not seen you since the church. You look so beautiful. Where is Paul?”
“Oh, Jojo I am exhausted. Ouf—I have to go.”
Laurent said: “When is he going to Flanders?”
“After they return from Nice, I think.”
“Are you not going, Laurent?”
“I’m exempt for a while, because I volunteered. Not for long though.”
“Oh come on, you have to join us! You should just volunteer again. Don’t be a mouse.”
“Xavier is going.”
“When?”
“With the others. Two weeks.”
“And all the ladies will be nursing you.”
“Did you hear about the Alberts’ German governess?”
“Governess? No, I only know the story about the bank …”
“Maman … Maman …”
Around them the guests were rising with a racket of chair legs. Four pyramids had appeared at the back of the pavilion. Midhat followed Jeannette between the tables. The pyramids, he saw, were constructed of tiny round cakes.
“Midhat, may I offer you one?”
“Bonjour, I am Madame Crotteau.”
“Bonjour Madame, I am Midhat Kamal.”
“I know. How do you find Montpellier? Is it not beautiful. Has Frédéric taken you to Palavas-les-Flots?”
“Why in hell would I take him to the sea?” said Frédéric. “Imagine, you travel to an entirely new country and they say—let us show you the water on which you came! No, Nicole. He needs to see the culture, the city, the landscape of the interior. Hear the music, read the trobairitz … that’s the important … the smells, the terroir of Occitan …”
“Only a Parisian could be tellement fier du Languedoc.”
Frédéric raised an eyebrow. “My mother was from Dordogne.”
“You must come for a walk with me, Midhat,” said Laurent, shaking icing sugar onto the floor. “I’ll show you the gardens. Yes?”
“Yes, that would be wonderful.”
“Fantastic. We’ll meet at the Salle Dugès when the sun is out.”
They decided on Thursday, if the weather was good. Thursday came and it was raining, so they decided on the Friday. The morning session that Friday was an introduction to practical dissection for the first years; Midhat would meet Laurent afterwards, at noon by the statue of Lapeyronie.
Each week the crowd in the Salle Dugès had diminished. Now only a handful of French students remained, exempt from combat for medical reasons, to which some confessed while others remained rigidly silent. Nonetheless eager to prove their nerve, all made pointed use of frontline slang, referring to the Germans as “Boches” and quipping about the weakness of the Prussian gene. Many younger professors had also been conscripted, and several names on Midhat’s timetable did not correspond to the person who appeared at the front of the classroom. His classmates were mainly Spaniards and Belgians and there were also two Swiss and one Englishman. Midhat was the only Arab and the only student not from Europe, and in the morning atmosphere of the Salle he felt shy. He observed, remote from conversations, how someone could introduce an anecdote as funny, might even begin by outlining the final joke: the listening company would anticipate the ending and laugh in unison. Once a humourous tone was established, anything could be amusing, and each person was ready to laugh even at the weakest joke in the spirit of including everyone.
Despite his shyness, his accent was improving, and he pronounced “le thorax” and “le capillaire” with the precision of a foreigner. On the Rue de la Loge he bought a new French hat, an overcoat, and a black umbrella, and he brought all three items with him to the Faculty on the Friday he was to meet Laurent, despite the fact that their walk was dependent on fine weather.
Professor Brogante stood at the head of the operating table.
“Medicine is not an exact science,” he intoned, stretching over the implement tray and flipping a scalpel so its blade faced the same direction as the others.
The walls of the dissection hall carried Brogante’s