He reached home at five thirty; at six, the doorbell rang.
“Good evening habibi!”
Hani Murad stepped through the opened door in an overcoat shining with rain.
“Good evening,” echoed Sahar, poking her head in.
Midhat embraced them, and Fatima appeared from the bedroom wearing a black dress with a round neck. Droplet earrings sparkled from her earlobes, and a tiered silver necklace shone over the black silk on her chest.
Fatima and Sahar had of necessity developed a strained sort of bond. There were only six years between them—one less than the gap between Fatima and Midhat—but it was enough for Fatima to feel some conflict about treating Sahar as an equal. Over the years she had become as obsessed with status as her mother once was, and at times appeared to lord it over Sahar, a tendency which Sahar, an expert at managing condescension, and preter-naturally capable of appearing both deferential and at ease, politely ignored.
Although their family originated in the hills of Nablus, Sahar and Hani were the perfect type of free Jerusalemites. In fact, one might argue that the ultimate free Jerusalemite was someone who came from elsewhere, being unfastened in that metropolis by the distance from their kin. Sahar, who still worked as an activist both for the national movement and for women’s rights across the Arab world, including raising the marriage age and removing the veil, had become famous for speaking at rallies and demonstrations. The women she associated with came from all parts of society, including the fellahin; all classes, all religions.
Whenever they spent time with Hani and Sahar, Midhat fancied his wife became, by contrast, more emphatic in her Nabulsi pride, more uncompromising even than she usually was, as though to embody the very spirit of the town.
“Keefek, shu akhbarek,” said Fatima stiffly, kissing Sahar on each cheek.
“How was the journey,” said Midhat, helping Hani with his coat. “Was it fine?”
“Oh yes it was fine.”
Fatima pointed a languid finger at the dining room.
“Would you like to sit in here, please.”
Fatima took Sahar’s bag to the guest bedroom, and Midhat saw Hani’s eyes follow her. His wife had dressed more glamorously for the evening than Sahar, who wore only a simple cotton dress.
They sat in the lamplit dining room, Hani opposite Midhat, Sahar opposite Fatima’s vacant chair. The window showed a black sky, and they heard the rain like wings beating the glass. Fatima returned with a tray of salads on her best porcelain, a set of reticulated German plates. She was protective of these, with their gold butterfly edging and chain of yellow and pink flowers around the rim; they were a gift from her mother. Since they could not afford new china, it was imperative they take care of the ones that would never go out of fashion. The German plates had their own cupboard, with a double lock.
“Where are the children?” said Hani.
Fatima delivered a spoonful onto his plate. “At my mother’s.”
“You miss them?” Midhat grinned, and winked at Sahar. “Maybe it’s a sign.”
“So Sahar, tell us,” said Fatima. “This argument the ladies have been having in Tulkarem. Do you know anything about it?”
“What argument?” said Midhat.
“It’s just a silly rivalry.” Sahar smiled. “If I’m honest, I don’t know much either.”
Fatima squinted as she served herself, and looked about to ask something else when Hani interrupted.
“The thing about the women,” he addressed Midhat, wiggling his body a little from side to side as though digging a hole in his chair, “is that they are generally much better at cooperation than we are. We could learn a lot from them. These factions are a mess. Don’t pretend Nablus isn’t just as bad. I have to say. I try to find a road between my principles and cooperation but …”
“It’s hard, I believe,” said Sahar, “for some of these people to imagine the future. They are worried about losing out. Whereas we women have always cooperated behind the scenes. So it makes sense that we would be able to put aside our … our …”
“Selfishness?” Midhat supplied.
“Yes, you could say that.” Colour came into Sahar’s cheeks. She had a kind of genial radiance that made everything she said sound pleasant. “But there is still competition, even with women. What I mean is that sometimes to cooperate is difficult in the present, because you can’t imagine the other side.” She made a motion with her hand to express an other side, as though folding dough. “Since we’ve never had independence, we don’t know what it’s like.”
“Of course, that’s