an apartment in Jerusalem. He arranged to meet with the heads of the maj or families, unburdened himself of the various pieces of wisdom and experience he had collected, asked them which side they fell on, to cooperate or to boycott. He ordered all the newspapers, caught up on local opinion. He purchased a desk and pushed it up against a window in his new study, with a view of Damascus Gate. He watched the crowds file in and out.
He took a train north to visit his family. Uppermost in his thoughts that day was his aunt Um Sahar: he had long feared that he was to blame for her widowhood.
Years ago, during that naïve early period in Paris, Hani had sent a letter to Jenin urging his uncle Fuad to join his band of exiled Arab thinkers, who were gathering in the evenings in one another’s houses and debating with exhilaration. The war had begun, his friends were fired up by new currents of influence, and Hani, young and bursting with ideals, wanted to share his new world with his uncle. Usually his group corresponded using numerical ciphers, but since Fuad would not know the code Hani wrote to him in plain Arabic. He never received a reply. A short while later, news reached him of Fuad’s execution. That letter of invitation haunted Hani, dropped so carelessly into the postbox on the Rue du Four.
For years he had rehearsed an apology to his aunt. On arrival in Jenin he found her much changed: her wrists stuck out from the sleeves of her gown, her delicate back was curved. And at the sight of that thin, solitary figure in the unlit corridor, the selfish nature of his desire for forgiveness flashed upon him, and he knew he must say nothing. It would cost her too much to pull up that atrocity so far in the past. How odd that he had imagined she might remain as she was, trapped in forty days of mourning while he passed away years. She smiled as Hani held her hands and asked how she was. Oh, this and that, she said. She mentioned a daughter. The sunlight pulsed behind clouds, brightening the room so the bookshelf and furniture glowed and dimmed. He said he was delighted to see her, and that he missed her. But the truth was the house weighed on him, and he was relieved when it was time for him to go.
At the door, she remarked: “You remind me of him.”
“Who?”
She smiled.
“I sent a letter,” he began, unable to stop himself, “from Paris—”
She shook her head, still smiling.
“If there is anything I can do for you,” he said, “you must tell me.”
On his way back to Jerusalem, Hani stopped in Nablus to see his old friend Midhat Kamal.
Since his marriage three years earlier, Midhat had been living with his wife and child in a small house on the edge of town. The child was named Massarra, and she was a year old.
In contrast to Hani’s aunt, Midhat had changed little since their last meeting. Except for his belly, which was rounder. His hair was thick and long, and although at first his boyishness seemed to have gone, once they were seated in the salon and the niceties were over, he began to joke, and his eyebrows stretched northward as they used to, with that familiar mischievous look. At first he made a point of holding his baby daughter on his knee, but when she struggled and whined Fatima appeared and silently collected her, swinging her in her arms back to the kitchen.
“I was sorry to hear about your father,” said Hani. “God bless him.”
“Oh,” Midhat pawed the air to brush it off, but then seemed unable to say anything else. Fatima had made some ma‘mool biscuits, which were still warm, and very crumbly, and they ate these in silence. Then Midhat said: “We started a new business. Tailoring clothes. I’m working with one of the Samaritans. And Butrus, our old tailor. We make suits.”
“That’s wonderful,” said Hani. “Congratulations. May God keep your business in good health!”
Midhat grinned. “Ba‘dayn we are importing some women’s clothes from Cairo.”
“Well, you know I am looking quite tatty myself,” said Hani. “Perhaps I shall come to you. This suit is ancient. I bought it in that place, do you remember?”
“The one with the blonde?”
“Exactly. They had those fantastic cravats.”
“I still have three or four.”
“You don’t!”
“I do.” Midhat chuckled. “They have half a drawer to themselves. Fatima