gave a satisfied nod. “You look good. Um Mahmoud wishes you health.”
“Do you want coffee?”
“We’re not staying long.”
“With or without sugar?”
“With, please, thank you habibi,” said Um Jamil, following Um Taher, who was already walking into the salon and calling her hellos.
A tapping on the salon window announced Nuzha and their brother Burhan, who had come up the path. A weary look passed over Fatima’s face, but Nuzha anticipated her and said to the opening door, “We’re not staying for lunch.” Voices rose, and the conversation splintered. Taher and Khaled appeared in the hall, and Fatima sent them to fetch extra chairs from the kitchen. Midhat dozed in and out of attention.
“And now he’s in Transjordan.”
“Why?”
“He goes to visit these groups—I’m not sure …”
“Can you swim? I’m very good at swimming.”
“But since Hani Bey was released—” said Nuzha.
“What?” said Midhat.
“Yes,” said Nuzha, sitting back to include him. “They released him yesterday. And a few others. They are negotiating in Jerusalem, with the kings and Nuri Basha.”
“That’s the first I’ve heard of it,” said Abu Jamil.
“Ya salam,” said Midhat. “Is the strike ending?”
“No one knows. Not yet, I don’t think,” said Nuzha.
Midhat stopped listening again and looked at his hands. He saw Hani’s legs in his father’s study, and then his face coming into view. He had no idea what Hani thought of him now. For the duration of their friendship Midhat was always relatively confident of Hani’s perception of him—since it was, after all, a picture half of his own creating—but there was no way to be sure any longer, not since Hani witnessed Midhat’s moment of collapse, when he had become so utterly unknown to himself.
The thought that followed this one struck him full force between the brows: Hani must have seen the letter from Jeannette. And so, therefore, must Jamil. His throat burned; he glanced at his grandmother, who was pouting and nodding, and then at Um Jamil. He looked at Fatima, stunned that it had not occurred to him before. Did they all know? His wife was playing with a button on her sleeve and listening to Nuzha. He could see no way to find out without directly asking, and thereby revealing himself. As for the letter itself—there was no way to ask where that was either. Not without reopening the chasm he had just crawled out of. He shuddered: either Jamil or Hani must have it. Surely both would protect him. They loved him; they would not reveal him. Fatima noticed him looking at her, and questioned him with her eyes. He pushed his face into a smile. Of course, he had already been revealed. He had no idea what they had seen; but they had seen him.
“I will be sad when the revolt is over,” said Khaled.
“Will you?” said Fatima.
“There will be nothing to focus on. Ordinary life is boring.”
His mother swatted his leg. “Shame.”
“I don’t want to go back to school,” Khaled replied, with dignity.
“When was the last time you saw Hani?” said Nuzha.
Fatima winced.
“Last year,” said Midhat.
Here they all were, watching him return, gently, to this world. Ready to press him back into the shape of a person. Their impressions glanced off him like beams of light. There had been times in his life when he thought the need for them was illusory, this group of people, living in the same place, tied by their names and inherited stories. But if that was illusory, what was real? Without them, he was a body floating in the air—he stuck his foot out onto the cold tile, and struck a match to light Abu Jamil’s cigar.
As Fatima repaired to the kitchen, he pulled out some olive wood misbaha beads and began counting them off to calm himself. He maintained his sociable smile; he did not want them to see him ruminate. His old schematic way of thinking was quite gone. Gone that ability, or propensity, to map one thing onto another. Nothing would ever again be contained by a map.
Fatima appeared in the dark hall bearing a tray. She nodded at him, and he felt a twinge of anger that she should take it upon herself to approve his behaviour. But in a moment his anger was swept off by love, and love was flooded with sorrow. So it was. After one thought arose another soon overtook it, and they fell back one by one, like the breathy concessions of the sea.
He spent the afternoon reorganising his bookshelves. For many years his books were arranged