counterclockwise. Silently, barefoot, Teta led him under one of the arches, and stopped.
The high priest was sitting on another chair in an alcove, white-haired, black-browed, in a blue robe and turban. He was not alone. Beside him, on a carpet on the floor, a second man was kneeling. The kneeling man wore a grey smock coat buttoned up to his neck, the hem dirt-brown where his shoes poked out. Though his skull was totally bald, a copious wiry beard shot out from his chin like a hog-hair broom. He was staring at something on the carpet before him: a document with curling corners, a scroll perhaps, discoloured and covered in very fine calligraphy. The document lay in an open casing of red satin.
Moments passed. The kneeling man lifted the scroll from its edges and slid it away from him, revealing another page beneath. This one looked even more discoloured. The thick black brow of the priest twitched like a dog’s with his shifting gaze. Finally, he lifted his eyes in the direction of Midhat and Teta.
“As-salamu alaykum.”
“Wa alaykum as-salam,” said Teta. “Abu Salama, keefak. Ana Um Taher. I’rifet hafidi? Midhat, ismu.”
Midhat bowed at the high priest, and the priest rose slowly from his chair and bowed back.
“As-Salameh alaykum.”
The man with the enormous beard was also on his feet now. His smock had gathered up around his torso, and he flattened it before reaching out a hand to shake Midhat’s, and nodded at Um Taher. His eyes were set so close he seemed to be frowning, his eyeballs pinkish and small.
Abu Salama introduced him. “Hada Abuna Antoine. Faransawi.”
“Marhaba,” said Teta.
“Marhaban,” said Father Antoine. He pronounced his “r” in the French way.
“Bonjour,” said Midhat.
Father Antoine blinked.
Enunciating pedantically, and using a few classical verb forms, Abu Salama said to the Frenchman: “I can ask this lady and her grandson to wait, if you believe you will be—quick. Otherwise, feel free to visit tomorrow, at the same time.”
Father Antoine responded with equal meticulousness:
“With gratitude for your kindness, Abu Salama. I shall visit tomorrow.”
The French priest knelt again on the carpet to replace the page he had lifted, then gently pulled the red satin over the four corners, and tied the black ribbon that lay beneath. The three standing watched. The Frenchman’s thick fingers were gnarled and spotted and tufted with white hairs. On his feet again, Father Antoine nodded at the high priest, and rather than pass by Midhat and Um Taher to reach the door, turned through another archway around the far edge of the synagogue. His clacking footsteps circled around them, and as he came into view at the last moment Midhat adjusted his head to watch the figure and full beard silhouetted against the daylight. The clacks changed tone and receded.
“Um Taher, tell me,” said Abu Salama. “How can I help.”
Midhat stared at the closed parcel of satin.
“We need a charm,” said Teta.
“Fine. For or against?”
“For,” said Teta. “For love.”
Midhat snapped his head back to look at his grandmother. The sharp movement sent a new pain down his temple.
“Have you brought any—” said Abu Salama.
“I have hair.”
From the inside of her robe Teta produced a drawstring bag, and slid two fingers in. A single black hair appeared on her forefinger. The ends dangled: one curled, silver with light; the other was white-tipped. An entire root from Fatima’s head. Midhat felt hot.
“No. Not possible. No, Teta.” He put a hand on her back. “I am sorry for wasting your time, Abu Salama. But the fact is … no. Teta, put that away.”
The black hair wobbled with the force of Midhat’s breath, and Teta gripped it with her thumb to stop it falling.
“Well, if he doesn’t want to,” said Abu Salama, “I’m afraid we can’t do it. It won’t work, unfortunately.”
Abu Salama opened his palm upwards and lifted his gaze to the ceiling. It was out of his hands, he seemed to be saying. The second she was released from the high priest’s gaze, Teta turned her eyes on Midhat. Outlined by her veil, they skewered him. She slid the single hair back into the drawstring bag, and as she pulled the strings gave a long emphatic blink of irritation. Then she bowed at the priest. Midhat fought an impulse to laugh.
He led his grandmother back across the courtyard, and as they descended the steep steps, she said again: “It’s up to you.” He wished he could see her face. They walked back through the Samaritan quarter in exhausted silence, and she left