The spoons were silenced. Even Jeannette turned her head.
“When will I be returning?” Midhat heard a tremor in his voice. “Soon, possibly.”
“And will you practise medicine in your hometown?”
“Will I what? Oh … I don’t know …”
Molineu reached for the butter dish.
“I was sorry to hear about your friend,” said Sylvain.
There was no reason why this above all should have been the statement to provoke him. It may simply have been that Midhat was already primed to react. But in a quick moment, his anger gushed and rendered him wordless, filling the front of his head like a wall of water. When he finally managed to speak, his entire body was shaking, and he could only whisper.
“Who are you?”
“Monsieur Kamal,” said Jeannette, “are you all right?”
“Am I all right? Am I all right? That man, that man … Mademoiselle, I am afraid to tell you, but that man … he is a worm and a, a thief.”
“A thief?” said Frédéric.
Sylvain laughed. “I am afraid I have set him off,” he said in a high, ludicrous voice. “Your guest is feeling guilty, perhaps, that his compatriots are at war with us and have killed our friend.”
“You are disgusting. You have no respect for women, or for anything that is sacred.”
“Midhat,” said Jeannette.
She had blanched. Midhat felt a blast of panic—her love for him so precious, so fragile, so long earned—and what control he had gained over his own voice was lost in an instant.
“No—This man, he is a cancer, he has slipped into the heart of your family. But I know him for what he really is.”
Sylvain met his eye. “You know nothing.”
“Calm down, Midhat,” said Molineu. “You are—I think you should calm down.”
“You!” said Midhat.
He looked at Jeannette again: her eyes were shiny with tears. It was the wrong time; he breathed, he steadied himself.
“What on earth is wrong?” said Molineu.
“Wrong! What is wrong, I … I …” The orange bowl blurred in his vision. “I have found … I had planned to talk to you … about this …”
Jeannette warned him with a tremor of her head. No, said her lips.
“Later, I had planned to talk about it later.”
“Talk about what?”
“Nothing—nothing.”
“It is not nothing,” said Sylvain. “You have made two strange and aggressive accusations, Monsieur, and at the least you should explain yourself.”
“Your wife!”
“No,” said Jeannette. “No, Midhat.”
“My wife?” said Sylvain.
“No. His wife.”
“Midhat!” said Jeannette, shocked.
Something in Midhat broke. He tried to hold on. “He is a bad man,” he said. It surged up: “I saw—I saw, on your desk …”
“My desk?” said Molineu.
“I did not mean to enter, I did not mean, I was curious—forgive me!”
“There is no need,” said Jeannette, “to talk about this now. We are all excited. Let us collect ourselves.”
“No, Jojo, let him speak,” said Molineu, in a tone for addressing a child. “You went into my study?”
“Forgive me, I saw, on your desk …”
Alarm crossed Molineu’s face. “Midhat—”
“Do you think I have no insides?” He dropped a slack fist on the table. His spoon tipped, and lukewarm orange soup splattered over his hand and the tablecloth. He gaped down at the mess. Jeannette reached across with her napkin to wipe his hand.
“I can … I am only …” said Molineu.
“You have been studying me.”
“No, that is not it at all …”
“Do you think I am not, you think I am uncivilised?”
“I should have asked your permission, of course, I see that very clearly now—”
“Do you think I am uncivilised?”
“No! Heavens, no, I was, on the contrary, Midhat, I have been inspired by your presence, by your elegance, and your—humanity …”
“My humanity?”
“Yes! Yes, your humanity—please, let me explain. On the contrary, I have been aware of the stereotypes that abound in our, in European culture. I believe there is some progress to be made, in the study of civilisations—”
“Docteur Molineu,” said Midhat.
“No, let me speak. On the contrary, I am attempting in my research—a humble attempt, Midhat! A preliminary monograph, only! I have been, was attempting, on the contrary, attempting to humanise you!”
In came the tinkling of Georgine’s tray. Sylvain, nearest the kitchen door, shook his head at her, and she stopped and tinkled away again.
“To humanise me?” said Midhat, after a breath. “I am—really, I am amazed. Monsieur, I am a person. I am—no—” He stood. His napkin fell to the floor. “Excuse me,” he murmured. “I must go. Good night. Good night.”