could the army have known where their car would be, and at what time? These things did not happen in the dead of night by chance. Of course there were myriad ways a plan might leak without deliberate malfeasance: an indiscretion on the telephone, a chance word to a taxi driver, a peasant who saw the car and told a policeman without knowing what he did.
Hani arrived on the fourth day to give condolences. He had had an operation on his jaw, with several teeth extracted, and was struggling to speak. Regardless of this, he was quickly besieged by other guests, who wanted to know about the progress of the talks in Jerusalem. It became clear over the course of the afternoon that something more was expected of Hani, whose presence conferred a particular solemnity onto the occasion. And so he took it upon himself to deliver a few words, in the phlegmatic, professional manner of one whose opinion is always in demand. His words on Jamil’s martyrdom had a far greater effect on the mourners than any of those delivered by the imam, who stood aside, nonplussed, while this gentleman in a kufiya spoke softly from one side of his mouth.
“Our brother Jamil joins the souls of Sheikh Izz ad-Din al-Qassam,” said Hani, “of Mohammed Bashir, Sheikh Yassin, Sadiq Zakaria, and Ahmad Maalouani, Ahmad Sheikh Said and Sa’id al-Masri, and countless others. All men who have fought bravely in the name of freedom against oppression. Jamil is a soul of great fortitude, and commitment, and bravery, and he will be rewarded by God in Paradise, and, as in the words of Ibn Masud, the Believer will have no rest until he meets God.”
After his speech, Hani came to kiss Midhat. It was the first time they had seen each other since that day in Haj Taher’s study. Hani smiled, and neither spoke.
The trouble must have shown on Midhat’s face because Hani reached and held his cheek. As he did so, Teta caught Midhat’s eye: she was in the hallway, watching him. So, he noticed with alarm, were Wasfi and Abu Jamil. Tahsin was speaking to one of the neighbours, moving his hands in wide circles, but his eyes shifted upwards and he looked at Midhat. Teta questioned him with a tiny shake of her head, and he forced a smile.
“Is the revolt really ending?” he said.
“It seems that way,” said Hani. “We hope so.”
“I slept through it all,” said Midhat. He examined Hani’s tired face, thinking of his cousin. He wondered whether Jamil had thought of him at all, during his last days. He hoped not. He did not think he deserved Jamil’s thoughts.
Hani smiled and opened his mouth, but whatever he was about to say, he seemed to decide against it. With a chill, Midhat looked into his friend’s eyes and understood very clearly that Hani had seen the letter. But instead of shame, he felt, to his surprise, an almost unbearable sensation of relief. As though an immense wall were in the act of falling. The wall fell, and there he was. Standing on the other side. He felt the air on his face. He tried to speak, but could not.
“Everything will be better from now on,” said Hani. “The worst is over.”
Midhat nodded. Finally, he mumbled: “Praise be to God.”
Hani kissed his cheek. Midhat looked down, stunned. With the energy of a new bad habit he reached into his mind for Jeannette. The vision of her in the hospital grew colder each time he reached for it, but he could not stop himself. He concentrated, trying to see her. He squeezed Hani’s shoulder.
“Thank you for coming.”
“God with you,” said Hani.
Midhat moved off towards the window. Her fading from his memory might, it occurred to him, simply be in the nature of the mystical. These things did not stay. Or was it rather—he touched his eyes with his fingers—was it that calling delusions by divine names was just a way to cope with yet another unutterable loss? He looked up as Fatima appeared in the doorway. Her powdered face, her knee-length blue dress, her brown leather shoes, all lit by the garden behind him. Time was a treacherous distance, and it would not be crossed but through the dangerous substitutions of the imagination. He reached. His hand brushed her neck. Fatima eyed him, appraising. No, it could not be resolved. For there she was, and there she was.
Ghada had been tracing her finger over the leaf design