excellent company. They loved each other without envy, and accepted Midhat without question. Qais had an earnest, almost naïve air, coupled with the mannerisms of an older man; large hands, abundant stubble, and a tendency when laughing to frown slightly, as though he found everything a little preposterous. Having written four literary reviews for a newspaper in Jerusalem, he spoke of moving down there to develop a career in the field—though such a defection from the family trade of soap manufacturing would not be popular among his father and uncles.
Adel was wittier than Qais, but with a moral sense that weighed down many of his opinions. He had returned from university in Beirut a year prior, and in search of a purpose, alighted on the local branch of the Muslim-Christian Society. He was one of the society’s youngest members, and half the time lectured Qais and Midhat about politics, having just signed the petition against the impending Mandate.
On the ninth day of Ramadan, the three of them left the mosque after evening prayers, and walked to Adel’s house for iftar.
“I was going to ask you,” said Qais, “are you still going to be a doctor?”
“A doctor, no,” said Midhat. “Why? I gave up on that long ago.”
“Politics, then.”
“No. Not for me. I’ll stay in the textile trade. Probably we’ll live in Cairo, like my father.”
“Even with your experience, ya‘ni. Just the family business.”
“Don’t go to Cairo,” said Adel.
“Why not?” said Qais.
“We need Midhat here, people like Midhat.”
“Ya al-Barisi …” Qais half sang.
“We need the good characters,” said Adel.
“Well, you know, I actually realised something,” said Midhat. “Which is that it’s not just about the family business. It’s about something more, ya‘ni, something … I haven’t worked it out exactly. But if Cairo is the way the business is going, then we live in Cairo,” he concluded. “That’s simple.”
“I understand,” said Qais. “It’s hard to be free here.”
“No no, that’s not what I meant. It’s not about freedom. It’s about … belonging.”
“You know what they say about Nabulsi women,” said Qais. “You take them out of Nablus, they become very willing. If you know what I mean.”
Adel sucked his teeth. “Shu hada? He’s about to get married.”
Adel lived with his mother and father and siblings in the centre of town—though he maintained it was in the west—on the ground floor of a house built recently but in the old style, with a small internal patio and a pond for catching rainwater. They sat at a table outside, joined by Adel’s two younger brothers and then by his father. The buildings around them were dark but the sky held onto an uncanny pale glow. Lucid in the cool, Midhat embarked on a story.
“One time, I was on a train in France.”
“A what?” said Adel’s father, who was hard of hearing.
“He said a train,” said Adel.
“I was on this train, and I saw a man, sitting, over there.”
He gestured at Qais, two chairs down. Qais’s eyes encouraged him, wide in the candlelight.
“He was ikteer mratab,” said Midhat. “Very chic. Suit, tie.” He did the motions on his own body and sat up straight. “Moustache, very thin. Blond, cap. And we looked at each other, heyk,” he closed his eyes and gave a half bow of formal greeting.
Consenting to take the role of the blond Frenchman, Qais did likewise and laughed.
“And after that, the train goes—”
“Where were you going?” said Adel.
“Oh, er … Lyon.”
“Why?”
“This is another story,” said Midhat, dusting the air with his fingers. “So the man gets up, alights. I have one more stop. I notice, as the train leaves the station, that he has left something on the seat. Small, leather, heyk. It is a wallet. I pick it up—ah, Monsieur, Monsieur! I wave through the window—khalas, he has already gone. Shu sar? I sit down with the wallet—I don’t want anybody to steal it—”
“Was there money inside?” said Qais.
“A lot of money. Ten, fifteen hundred francs. Shu sar? I cannot take this money, that would be very dishonourable. So I look in the wallet, I see an address. A little card like this. Name, and address.”
“What was his name?” said Adel.
“Laurent,” said Midhat.
The moment he said it, a flush rose from within Midhat’s abdomen and coursed up to his face. His scalp was on fire. Laurent. Dear Laurent. It was the first name that came into his head.
“Yalla,” said Adel’s father gently.
“So,” he said, in quieter voice, bending his gaze up to the livid pallor of the sky, and exhaling