Antoine’s presence. He credited his tie to the “Ebal Girls,” who were still held in great esteem by the hospital establishment, and, of course, were so recently helping the rebels, though one did wonder how thoroughly that was ma‘roof. Also possible was that since he was French rather than English, they considered him comparatively benign. They might even think he was another inmate in the ward, soon to return to bed. Or perhaps they didn’t mind him because they thought he was a mad old man. One could get away with a great deal, being a mad old man.
He held neither book nor pen in his hands. He made no notes. He simply observed as the premise of his monograph disintegrated before his eyes. His premise had been that Nablus, shielded from the world by her two mountains, possessed some qualities of amber: liquid first but hardening into a preservative, and presenting to the curious eye a picture of essences. But now look, how fast custom could degrade from its pure form. Even this habit on the veranda, people of all classes sitting side by side—for although sickness had always levelled station, the hospital had previously been the haunt only of Christians and the lower classes. And with the local clinics in Nablus obsolete, beliefs in modern medicine absolute, plus the hospital facilities enlarged, catering improved, midwives trained, and especially with these novel habits of taking the air—one would be forgiven for construing the changes in the municipal hospital as a microcosm of larger shifts in the town. That was not necessarily unusual, of course; war changed habits, and this was beginning to feel like war. Above all, the strike itself, the fact that the Arabs could undertake a cooperative action so far-reaching and long lasting—it was all completely remarkable, and completely beyond the compass of Antoine’s understanding.
One afternoon in May, he sat steadying the brim of his hat against a strong spring wind. The weather had not deterred the patients, however, who came out as usual for their sunbath. Not that there was much sun. Antoine peered at the gradations of white over the sky, blending tinges of yellow and blue.
“Good morning tout le monde!”
A large man in a light wool three-piece suit strode onto the veranda, beaming at the patients with his hands behind his back.
“Ya Haj,” he addressed the old man by the door with a frown. “How is your lung? Better?”
“Better, better,” said the old man.
“Thanks be to God.”
The next invalid twisted around in his chair. Though he could not hear the doctor’s response, Antoine saw his head shaking in sympathy. Apparently fearless in the face of contagion, the new doctor rested his hands on the chair backs as he passed, and Antoine caught snippets of conversation in a variety of accents. Several fellahi men and boys, villagers from outside Nablus, and upper-class patients, who seemed, judging by their intonation, already well acquainted. A flicker of irritation passed over the features of one middle-aged man with an ear infection.
“What?” said a bandaged fighter. “Of course I’m in pain. Two of them shot me, up close. Not more than a metre. Thank you, yes.” He nodded and turned aside, wincing dramatically as he touched his elbow.
“And sometimes it is sharp,” said another voice. “And sometimes it is dull.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“They gave me ice, but the ice felt very hot, which worried me.”
“Don’t be worried, that’s normal.”
An uproar of bushes announced another onset of wind, which drove the voices in the other direction.
“Bonjour, Monsieur.”
The three-piece suit was beside him, face dark against the sun. A pair of hands asked if the chair was vacant. Antoine held out his palm.
“Merci.”
“Vous parlez français?” said Antoine.
“Bien sûr.” The man sniffed. “J’ai habité en France depuis longtemps. Pendant la guerre.”
“Pendant la guerre—en battaille?”
“Non, non. Pour les études.”
“De médécine?”
“Oui. J’ai pris le serment d’Hypocrite.” He began to pat his pockets. The maroon tie around his neck was patterned with green hoops.
“D’Hippocrate,” corrected Antoine.
“Oui, le même.”
“Ah,” said Antoine, gently hitting his own knee. “Now I know who you are. You own the clothing shop. Kamal.”
There was a silence. Monsieur Kamal drew a long handkerchief from his front pocket and blew his nose. Antoine looked out at the orchard as if out at sea, listening to the trees.
“La Provence,” said Midhat. “C’est tellement belle.”
“C’est vrai,” said Antoine. “Mais moi, je préfère ici. Le paysage de la Provence me rappelle cette vue—mais vous parlez français très bien, Docteur.”