“I’m very angry with you,” he added softly, touching her chin.
While his daughter tried to summon tears, Midhat considered whether he should go to Eli’s house, and under pretext of discussing the shop leave Ghada in the care of Eli’s wife. Then her posture transformed: she stuck a hand on her waist, and turned her watery eyes on him with a supercilious expression.
“They don’t shoot in the daytime, silly, they shoot at night. And anyway, a man walking with a little girl is much safer than a man walking on his own.”
“I think not, sweetheart,” he said, though it occurred to him that she might be right.
“I’ll tell Mama.”
“Excuse me? Is that a threat? Shame on you, Ghada.”
“I’m not letting you leave again,” she said. “Where are we going?”
“I’m going to the hospital.”
“You have just left the hospital!”
“A different hospital,” said Midhat. “Calm down. And walk quickly.”
Her short legs slowed his pace so much that he soon picked her up and carried her. Ahead, a car crept slowly across Mount Ebal. They climbed the hospital steps.
A patient was leaning on his crutches in the foyer. He lifted his head and locked eyes with Midhat just as another stepped in from the veranda, and a shadow flitted over both their faces. Then Midhat greeted them by name—Iyad, Abu Marwan—and they brightened. Iyad set his crutches against the wall.
“Abu Taher!” he said, hobbling forward. “We missed you.”
“And I missed you!” said Midhat. He addressed two weather-beaten fellahin behind Iyad: “As-salamu alaykum, I am Midhat Kamal. Has everyone been sitting outside?”
“Yes,” said Abu Marwan, “as usual.”
Beyond them, another man was waving—an old regular from Nouveautés. Midhat nodded, feeling graceful, and in all their faces seeing reflections of his grace.
Père Antoine was surprised to see Midhat Kamal on the veranda. The last occasion had been during the spring. Only afterwards had Antoine learned that this Kamal had lost his mind and was being sent to an asylum. He wondered whether Midhat would recognise him.
A few variants of Midhat’s story had been in circulation, but female patients tended to remark upon the plight of his wife, with the words “Meskina Fatima.” It became a kind of refrain, spoken in a way that suggested a pity not unmixed with pleasure. Others expressed clearer disapproval, gesturing at the lint-wrapped heads and splinted limbs on the veranda as if at the patent shame of being hospitalised for any ailment other than those sustained during armed struggle. One woman had mentioned it was “ma‘roof” that Midhat Kamal had made his fortune by illegal means. Ergo, someone cursed him, and set fire to his shop. Ergo, he went mad. “Hatha mantiqi,” this woman had concluded her analysis, with a satisfied pout.
Midhat raised a hand in greeting. He was wearing a double-breasted suit and carrying a cane. The wind flipped his tie over his shoulder, and a little girl appeared beside him, dressed in white.
“Good to see you again!” Père Antoine called. “Please, join me.”
“Thank you very much.” He strode along the railing, and the girl ran to the opposite corner and sat on the floor.
“You’ll dirty your dress.”
“Oh.”
Midhat swatted the air. “It’s done now.” He sat in the chair beside Antoine. “Marhaba, keef halak.”
Up close, Midhat looked quite as drawn and pale as one might expect of someone lately released from an asylum.
“I realised,” said Antoine, injecting a smile into his voice, “that I never told you my name.”
“Father Antoine,” said Midhat. He looked him straight in the eye. “We did meet before.”
Antoine paused, then nodded carefully. “Ah. Yes we did. Here, a few months ago.”
“Non non,” said Midhat, “Avant ça. Years ago. I think you are the Brother of the Virgins.” His eyebrows began to rise, followed by the corners of his lips. His eyes became slivers.
“Is that what they call me?” said Antoine.
“They used to.”
Antoine laughed and ran his fingertips through his beard. “You are visiting?”
“Yes. Have a cigarillo,” said Midhat. “My cousin brought them from Beirut.”
Only one cigarillo was missing from the line-up. Antoine rolled the next into the vacancy and pinched it by the gold seal; Midhat held another with his teeth and drew a packet of matches from his pocket. He lit Antoine’s first. Antoine sucked, exhaled, and watched the ends of the leaves crisp. Not often did a layman offer him a smoke. He looked out at the orchard and imagined, for a moment, that he was another person, with another life.