leg, splashing dark grey. “It’s nothing!” he shouted. He could smell milk fermenting. At a crossroads, four English policemen walked by. Behind them, three Arabs—also in uniform. Rifles. Cloth bandoliers of ammunition. One of the Englishmen nodded at him: his joy must be that obvious. Midhat nodded back, his love so general he could share it, even, in that moment, with them.
His thoughts had a long, smooth shape. What a city this was! He paraded down the alley, reflecting that children belonged de facto, webs of allegiance tied their little feet to the ground, their resemblances to others remarked upon, predictions made on such and such a basis. But for an adult, though allegiances from childhood might subsist they no longer constituted belonging. You needed something else—and now he had it. Now he would belong. The aims of his actions were clarifying, like a sturdy wall at midday. This was what was missing from his life in Nablus—how funny that he had barely a moment to recognise the absence before it was filled with the glorious flood of being known, of knowing, as he advanced towards the carpet shop. In those years of distance from Nablus, this being known was the subject of his nostalgia—how wrongheaded that was, since this feeling was not of the past. No, no, no, it was of the future! That was plain; it was fantastically coherent. Everything that had happened led to the present. All the hazards of Europe, all accident and wonder, even Nebi Musa, terrors seen and felt, all shame and pain, all objects in the corridors of that old museum pointed towards him at this moment. Yesterday he could not have teased his desire for Fatima Hammad from the other strands, from his father, from the need for what was denied, from the need for a woman. But with the prize virtually in hand he could see it all. That was a solid wall ahead of him; it was the foundations of a house. He had obeyed—and he had defied. He was of them, and he was his own. He with his strong body had laid the first stone, and others had seen it, Haj Nimr Hammad had seen it, and with him foresaw the edifice that would now arise.
Jamil’s shop was dark with carpets that hung on every wall and in the windows. One step inside and Midhat’s nose was overwhelmed by the animal fibres and the wool dyes cooking together in the darkness. Jamil, dressed in a thin chemise, held a brush and dustpan. A customer was describing a pattern with his hands in the air, and Jamil was nodding. At the sight of Midhat, he raised his index finger.
“Haj Nimr said yes,” said Midhat, as the customer left. He bit his lower lip and grinned. “I’m going to marry Fatima.”
“Congratulations.”
Midhat waited for something more. Then it was he who stretched out to shake his cousin’s hand. He looked into Jamil’s eyes, and saw the smile had not reached them. A weight dropped in his stomach.
“Hey, Jamil,” said a younger man at the back. “Do you want these or are we throwing them away?” He held up two rags.
“Well I’ll see you later,” said Midhat. He watched his cousin one more time, and seeing nothing, forced their cheeks together to hide his face. Under his hand, he felt perspiration on Jamil’s neck. He must have his mind on other things.
As he walked back, however, Midhat wondered whether this final success with Haj Nimr had not unblocked that old spring of jealousy in his cousin. Clearly it was only staunched before, when he confessed his prior failure. Anger flickered. But the thought of his prior failure led again to the thought of his success, which was a thought hot with joy, and a rush of light entered his mind when he touched it. Nothing could overwhelm that now. His self had centred around his resolve, and he had won.
“Ya mu‘allim.” He waved at the telegraph operator. “I’m sending one to Cairo.”
The operator passed him a slip from the pile. Midhat wrote: “Haj Nimr has accepted. I will marry Fatima Hammad. The wedding will be after Ramadan. Will you come to Nablus for the official proposal. Salamat. Midhat.”
He paid, saluted, left. The thought of his father’s praise poured a thrill down his spine, and he charged up the mountain path. The town below, the white buildings, the balconies and minarets.
He opened the door on women’s voices. Um Taher was in the salon,