any news that could not be transmitted in this manner was not transmitted at all.
Wrinkled deposits of ice masked the windows on Mount Gerizim. Midhat lurked in his bedroom and emerged only at mealtimes. Since their last exchange, Um Taher had not probed the issue of marriage. But with little to occupy her except sewing, she became obsessed by what the priest had almost told her about the Samaritans. Of course, that fragment of gossip might mean nothing at all; whatever curse he saw administered—a charm involving a bird was always a curse—might have been intended for anyone. And yet, on the blank snow beyond the kitchen window her brain painted images of jealous Nabulsis setting maledictions on her grandson. Against his ability to marry. Against his sanity. Her mind was incontinent: Midhat might struggle to see beyond the end of his nose, but Um Taher imagined future possibilities far too much.
By the middle of February 1920, the first globe thistles thrust their heads through the snow on the mountainsides, which melted in little circles around their necks. The white of the sky curdled and faded, and finally left the air a pale, empty blue. The blanket on the mountains became ragged, the streets turned grey, and the townspeople braved the thoroughfares and the children played in the open spaces.
One morning in March, everyone woke to find the cold had relented. The air was moving, birds singing, ice draining off the mountains into the valley, filling the streets with slush. The women of Nablus hiked out to Ras al-Ayn to sit by the waterfalls with their baskets of nuts, as their children washed lettuce in the icy water and cupped the leaves in their palms to stop them ripping in the flow. Newspapers were once more in circulation, telegraph lines were opened, and at last Nablus heard what was happening in Damascus and Jerusalem.
The negotiations between Faisal and the French that Hani had described in his letter to Midhat were soon public knowledge. So were the outbreaks of violence in the hinterlands. Agitation rippled into Palestine, and people in the coastal cities were photographed with placards saying:
PALESTINE IS AN ESSENTIAL PART OF SOUTHERN SYRIA, and NO ROOM FOR THE ZIONISTS IN PALESTINE. “Violently suppressed by the British,” wrote the reporter. “All rallies have now been banned.”
“Have you heard anything yet?” said a voice.
Midhat had just arrived at the store and taken off his jacket; the speaker’s shadowed head was visible through the gap in the display, but it was difficult to see his face.
“Burhan?” he suggested.
“Yes, yes it’s me,” said Burhan. “Have you heard anything?”
Adel Jawhari’s face appeared beside Burhan’s, along with a gas lamp that illuminated them both and shone a ray across the floor. “Are you guys talking about it?”
Midhat sucked his teeth and opened his hand.
“There’s some news,” said Adel. “I think Faisal is the king.”
“King of what?”
“That’s what we’re trying to find out.”
Burhan shrugged. “Hey, hey,” he said, to someone out of view. “Is that a newspaper? Oh, sorry, ya‘tik al-afia.”
“Good morning Midhat,” said Hisham, as Adel let him through. “Have you heard this thing about King Faisal?”
“What do you know? We haven’t heard anything.”
“Morning Midhat,” said another voice.
“We don’t know anything,” said Midhat. “Oh, Qais, I didn’t see you.”
“You’ll know in a moment,” said Qais. He was grinning. “Look what I’ve got.”
“Where did you get that from?” said Burhan.
“My father came from Jerusalem an hour ago.”
Outside, someone shouted: “Qais’s got the paper!”
“Zut alors,” said Midhat.
“What did you say?” said Burhan.
“Quickly,” said Midhat, “give that here.”
The shout had already passed down the market and multiplied, and as men began to cram into the Kamal store, Qais was forced to one side. Midhat pushed some boxes back to create space and passed Qais an empty crate while everyone negotiated over chairs. Dawn was beginning.
“Are we ready yet?” said Qais.
“Yes!”
“Lahza, lahza.” An old man shook an arthritic hand. “Does anyone have coffee?”
“Faisal!” Qais shouted. He spread his legs on the crate in the manner of an orator.
“Here you go, ya Haj,” Midhat whispered to the old man, handing him a cup.
“The Emir Faisal Declared—King—of—Syria!”
Whistles and applause. Midhat looked over the sea of heads and caught sight of Jamil, leaning against the doorjamb with his arms folded. Their eyes met.
Midhat shouted out: “Does it say where Syria is?”
“Hang on!” said Qais. “Wait, wait everyone! Let me read the rest.”
But the crowd was already too large to silence. A few people tried to lead them in an old farming song.