as he fixed Midhat he put a finger on its brim. Midhat recognised the French sign of respect, the gesture en route to the gesture of lifting the hat, which showed you weren’t hiding anything underneath. But he couldn’t help feeling that this blond man was pointing out the brimlessness of Midhat’s own hat. He frowned, and the man disappeared down a side street.
“Monsieur Kamal?”
At the end of the concourse, a young woman raised her hand. Beneath her cap, short curls of brown hair hugged her ears. A diagonal crease across her lap switched from side to side as she approached.
He hesitated. “Bonjour. Je m’appelle Midhat Kamal.”
The woman laughed, and wrinkles appeared beneath her eyes. “Et je m’appelle Jeannette Molineu.”
Jeannette Molineu extended a pale hand with knuckly fingers. Midhat held them; they were rather cold. It was peculiar that the wife should come to collect him, but he thought of what Faruq had said about French women, and followed Jeannette to a green motorcar parked on the concourse.
“I hope you weren’t waiting for long,” she said, opening the door and squeaking onto the backseat. “How was the journey?”
“It was … for many days.”
The chauffeur drove fast and the motor overwhelmed their voices. From the window, Midhat watched the city rise and fall and thin into alleyways, with shoals of umbrellas and overcoats swelling and contracting on the sidewalks. They turned down a narrow road on which the buildings were gridded with black balconies and roofed with terracotta. The car slowed.
“This city,” said Midhat, “it is similar to Nablus. The two mountains, the stone buildings, the small streets. But it is bigger, and the stone is more yellow.”
“Nablus is where you are from?”
“Yes. And you were born here.”
“No,” said Jeannette, in a low, smiling voice, “I grew up in Paris. My father and I moved here about four years ago, when he started working at the university. And I did my baccalauréat here.”
“Your father is Docteur Molineu?”
“Of course.”
“Ah. And your husband?”
“I’m not married. Pisson, will you take us through the centre? This is Rue de la Loge, the main commercial street. And at the end is Place de la Comédie. It’s small, Montpellier, you won’t take long to know it. It’s a little dark now to see, I’m afraid.”
Midhat looked over at Jeannette Molineu’s face. Shadows falling between the streetlamps made her eyes appear black and large, blotting her pale skin and filling out her thin upper lip. The shadows rotated as they moved, and each time they entered the full glare of a lamp again the effect was reversed.
The road was broader now and the roadside grassy. Pisson turned a corner and decelerated to an open pair of gates, then crunched into a driveway checkered by windowlight falling from a large house. A maid curtsied by the door as Jeannette escorted Midhat into the hall. Electric lamps were mounted on the wall between framed pictures, and a large mirror hung beside a staircase that curved up to the right. One open door revealed cream-coloured walls and the shining black hip of a piano; from another, a jowled man had emerged, with grey hair and a close-fitting suit.
“Bienvenue, bienvenue, Monsieur Kamal. Frédéric Molineu. I am your host.”
“Good evening, my name is Midhat Kamal. Enchanted to make your acquaintance.”
“Come come, bonjour my dear, so—pleased, so—pleased.”
Molineu shook Midhat’s hand vigorously, clasping a second hand on top of the first. Midhat tried to copy the motion but now his fingers had been released, and his host was spreading his arms out at the hall.
“Please feel this is your home. We are honoured to have you as our guest and enthusiastic to show you how we live. Please, come have an aperitif.”
The salon was blue, with quilted couches around a table crowned by a silver tray and four crystal glasses. Glass doors gave onto a terrace with an iron table and chairs, and a gloomy lawn.
“I notice your hesitation.” Docteur Molineu snatched at the fabric on his knees as he sat. “This is not alcohol. This is called a cordial. Sans alcool totalement. S’il vous plaît, Monsieur, asseyez-vous.”
Midhat took a seat on the couch and immediately felt exhausted.
Jeannette said, “When is Marian arriving?”
Now that father and daughter were beside each other, Midhat could see the likeness. There was a direct expression in the eyes. But where the Docteur’s jaw was substantial, Jeannette’s chin tapered, lightly cleft. She had removed her hat but her hair remained flat over the head, her curls released just at the