ears. Her features were delicate and the tiny creases beneath her eyes only made her more beautiful. And she was slender, but there was a breadth to her shoulders—or perhaps it was the way she held them, slightly hunched. Midhat looked down, pressing his thumb into the stem of his cold glass.
“Later, dear. Marian is my niece. She is getting married next week, so you will see a French wedding! Marriage ceremonies are the key, really, to a culture. You see a wedding, you understand the society. How was the journey?”
“The journey was long. For that I am tired. This is extremely delicious.”
“Your French is very good,” said Jeannette.
“Thank you. I attended a French school in Constantinople.”
“So, I’m interested in your first impressions,” said the Docteur. “Did Jeannette take you on a tour of the town?”
“Papa, he’s tired. We drove a little through the centre.”
“It is a beautiful city,” said Midhat.
“Well. I hope you are comfortable here. Montpellier is not large, and I suspect you will prefer walking to the Faculty while the good weather lasts. But Pisson will help you in the first few days. On Monday je crois qu’il y a une affaire d’inscription, and then, you know, tout va de l’avant.”
There were several words in this speech that Midhat did not understand. He nodded.
“It’s a lovely building,” said Jeannette. “The Faculty. It used to be a monastery, you know.”
“Ah, merci,” said Midhat to the maid as she presented the decanter. “Bikfi, sorry, that’s plenty. No, I did not know that.”
Molineu leaned back, eyes to the ceiling. His face was lined and his hair was dappled with white, but his body looked limber. The waistband of his trousers was narrow, and the indent in the wide muscle of his thigh showed through the fabric. With his hands on his knees he sprang forwards again, and his heels clacked on the ground.
“We are so enthusiastic about your coming. I’m afraid we are going to ask you all sorts of questions. Professionally, I am a social anthropologist. The lining of my heart is sewn with questions.”
Midhat did not understand this last phrase. But Molineu had put the tips of his fingers on his chest, and the words “question” and “heart” prompted Midhat’s own heart to accelerate with the immediate fear that Molineu might be referring to medical practice.
“I have much to learn,” he said. “I am very new.”
“Absolutely, absolutely. There is always so much to learn. Of course we are not always so new.”
“Do you live near Jerusalem?” said Jeannette.
One of Midhat’s fantasies from the ship flared involuntarily in his mind, and he saw his invented Parisienne lost in Jerusalem’s old city. Heat rose to the back of his neck and he said, in as rapid French as he could muster:
“We are north from Jerusalem. It will take five hours, six hours. It can be dangerous. You must travel through Ayn al-Haramiya, a passage between two mountains. After, perhaps, nine o’clock in the evening, there are thieves.”
“Ayna—what is the name?” said Docteur Molineu.
“Ayn al-Haramiya, ya‘ni, it means the place where the water comes. I don’t know the word.”
“Sea?”
“No, in the ground.”
“River? Lake?”
“No, in the ground, it comes from under—”
“Well? Spring?”
“Spring, spring. Ayn al-Haramiya means the Spring of the Thieves.”
A bell rang, and a second later the maid Georgine entered the room.
“Mademoiselle Marian et Monsieur Paul Richer.”
“The very couple,” said Molineu. “Midhat, please meet my niece. This is Marian.”
The young woman at the door wore a green dress and shiny green shoes. Behind her came a head of red curls, and Midhat instantly recognised the captain of the steamship, Gorin.
“Bonsoir, Capitaine,” he said.
Jeannette turned sharply, as the red-haired man replied: “Bonsoir.” He returned Midhat’s nod and reached out his hand: “My name is Paul Richer. With pleasure.”
“Hello,” said Marian.
“Marian is our young bride-to-be,” said Docteur Molineu.
Midhat stared at the weathered face of the man he knew as Captain Gorin while everyone sat down. He felt feverish. The maid brought fresh glasses for the cordial, and the fatigue came in rushes; he batted it away by moving a leg, an arm, a foot, anything to keep him present, here on this couch, in this blue salon.
“Dear Marian, I cannot believe it is so soon,” said Jeannette.
“This is our young guest du Proche-Orient,” said the Docteur, “Monsieur Kamal, who has come to study medicine at the university. He has just arrived, in fact. We expect he is feeling a little désorienté at the moment.”
“Papa.”
“Vraiment!” said the man who was or was not Captain