by the pond; he was walking down a street in Montpellier, he was sitting in a lecture hall, sure of returning to her in the evening, he was waking before dawn and finding her in the corridor. He heard her breath in his ear.
There was a noise. His trance snapped open, and he put the letter on the floor.
“Midhat? Are you all right?”
A man was standing over him, blocking the light.
“What’s wrong with you? What’s wrong with him?”
Jamil’s face, darkened by the sun. He looked afraid, or angry.
“Midhat?”
Midhat looked around. He was in his father’s room. It was bright. He looked between Jamil’s legs at the desk and the window, he saw their undersides, the sky from low down, and the room smacked him in the face. The cruel transparency of the present time, this searing whiteness. A section of his brain, suppressed for too long, shot through with spasms of pain. He moaned. He felt the heat of Jamil’s body crouching near him, and his cousin’s face came properly into view.
“Why did he keep it?”
“Keep what, Midhat?”
“Why did he keep it?”
“Midhat?”
A second person had arrived. He could see legs approaching.
“What’s he doing?”
What superstition made his father keep it? Midhat looked at Jamil’s face in wonder. Had his father thought it was a Samaritan thing? One of those things they made and dyed a fake colour—did he think it was an amulet because it was in another language? He put his hands on the floor.
“It’s not real!”
“What’s not real?”
The moan was coming out of his mouth. “Stop touching me.”
“What’s not real, Midhat?”
Had he thought it held some power beyond him, simply because he could not read it? Yes. He could see why his father might have thought that. Even he could see that.
“Midhat, habibi, you have to get up.”
Here was something beyond nature. He clutched his stomach. Hanging on the wall was a large translucent object, like a pool of water suspended sideways. His heart began to thump.
“Midhat, can you hear me?”
Hani was beside him. His eyes were full of love and concern. Oh Hani, he wanted to say. He could not say it. The tears streamed down his face.
“Can you pick him up?”
“Midhat, you have to help us. Can you take his hand?”
“I need to go back, I have to go back. Don’t stop me.”
“Go back where, habibi?” said Hani gently. “I’m not stopping you. Can you stand up? Take his arm—gently.”
Just then, as they brought him to his feet, a high ringing sound erupted. It was like a sharp blade of silver being inserted into his eardrum. Midhat clutched his ears and moaned. It was pretending to be benign, it pretended to be beautiful. But it was pain, that high ringing sound was pain. It was entering his ears like a virus. It was interfering in there, it was doing things it shouldn’t. Someone needed to take things in hand and put an end to that sound.
“Cut it off!” he said, as they led him from the room.
Time moved slowly in the corridor. He was aware of being led, he felt the ground hitting his feet. But now there was a little tear in the fabric and he was peering through. Someone was forcing him to peer through it. He thrust his arm out, he felt a distant throbbing in his leg.
“Midhat, Midhat, will you sit in there? It’s Hani. Will you sit down?”
“Hani!” said Midhat. “You are my friend.”
“Yes! Yes I am here,” said Hani. “How are you feeling? Are you …”
“Je suis complètement lucide. Une lucidité absolute. Qu’est-ce que c’est, qu’est-ce que c’est cette folie?”
As though he had just caught sight of himself, he collapsed back into the leather seat, and began to laugh.
4
Fatima saw the aeroplane on the way to her parents’ house. It was flying beyond Mount Ebal, an insect with a marking on its tail, the propeller at its nose audible even from this distance. It moved up and down slightly, as if on a gentle wind, and then, progressing forward, circled and tipped sideways, exposing its marvellous wingspan.
Today was Wednesday. Usually she would visit her parents on Fridays. From the doorstep she saw exasperation pass over her mother’s face.
“We have guests,” said Widad, stepping back to let her in.
“Who?”
“Amo Hassan. And the French priest.”
“What French priest?” said Fatima.
“Friend of your father’s. Yalla we’re having coffee.”
“Could we speak alone?” said Fatima, but her mother’s back was already turned, ascending the stairs.
On the landing, Widad pushed the door open so that one muffled voice