Father and daughter settled in quickly. They entered the society around the university and formed acquaintances that became friendships. It did not matter here if you were indigenous or from elsewhere since within those lecture halls and libraries all accents converged on a standard, and the commerce of knowledge dissolved regional difference. Sylvain brought the Molineus into the orbit of the vignerons, who also accepted them, albeit with reservations. The society of the vignerons had clotted over the last fifty years under pressure of various external disasters, including the droughts and the Algerian wine surplus. In distinction to the northern Gauls, they clung to the archaic identity of Occitania—although that was a name so diluted by now that half the restaurants along the seafront had it daubed in enamel on their front boards. But between the vines Sylvain was such a beloved and strange personality that he secured invitations for his friends “les Molineux” without any trouble, in spite of their voices and clothes, which recalled Paris through and through.
At the end of each weekday, father and daughter reunited in the blue salon to discuss philosophy. They drank from new china and debated Bergson’s notion of freedom experienced through time, which Frédéric liked for its emphasis on the action of the mind. Jeannette preferred Boutroux’s point that formulae can never explain anything because they cannot explain themselves, which she sometimes mistakenly distilled into the view that there is no point in commenting on any phenomenon since we are all part of the same fabric, which meant you could at most grasp the corner of something but never see the whole. These discussions, in which Frédéric encouraged the expansion of his daughter’s sympathies to consider alternative points of view, often touched on themes of significance but they were never applied to their own lives. Although father and daughter avoided candour, these evenings brought them into a new kind of intimacy from which each drew strength.
Since Jeannette earned her diploma, even this had dissipated. Her friends from the university were all married, and though she had no desire to leave her father their discussions had stopped, and without an emotional repertoire to buttress the intellectual bond they grew apart. Now Jeannette relied on her own powers of stillness for succour. Her philosophical education had sharpened the apparatus of her mind, which she had repurposed into ramparts. She let the hours of the day fall by remotely, and her thoughts slid from object to object without engagement.
Lately she had encountered a few difficulties. The arrival of Midhat was one cause. She had kept a distance from their visitor, but even at a distance his presence made it harder to submerge herself in her own mind. The war was another cause, and although that too was distant it was all anyone wanted to talk about. At least, she considered, they were fortunate to have left Paris—though, of course, the boys would be leaving soon, Xavier, Paul, Laurent. These small changes wrought vast work, and the corners of Jeannette’s mind had begun once again to glimmer with activity. And then that morning, the photographs of her mother. Her face and figure before the photographer’s painted screen. The freckle under her eyebrow, the lace around her collar, the stray hairs curving out, marked in immortal grey lines on the gelatin silver.
“Bonjour, Mademoiselle.”
Jeannette started. Midhat Kamal was standing on the terrace at the back of the house. He held an umbrella between his graceful hands, and his thin black eyebrows were raised in greeting. As she lifted her arm to wave, he bowed, but remained on the terrace amid the iron furniture. He could have been a European from this distance; the coppery tone of his face, and his dark brow and eyes—these were the only signs that he was what her father would call “Semitic.” If she hadn’t known she might have guessed he was Italian.
“How are you?” she called.
“Quite tired, but I am well. I have walked from the Faculty, it was beautiful. I am afraid I have interrupted you bathing.”
“Not at all, I was going to come in. It is getting cold.”
She stood, and as the chill air whipped her wet legs and flapped the bathing suit on her stomach she saw the whites of Midhat’s eyes.
“Let me get my towel, I am sorry. One moment. Perhaps then, would you like to take a coffee? One moment, Monsieur Midhat.”
She tried not to run. She crossed the lawn, lowering her eyes as she wrapped the top edge of the towel over the fabric on her breasts; wet feet on stone, on floorboard, on carpeted stair. In her bedroom she peeled out of the swimming costume, rubbed the damp off her body, and dressed quickly in a cotton house gown. At a dignified pace, she descended the stairs. Georgine was already bringing in the coffee, and curtsied as Jeannette passed.
“Alors,” Jeannette exhaled, meeting Midhat’s sidelong glance. He was sitting very upright on the sofa. She chose a wicker chair and drew her sleeve out of the way to pour the coffee into two cups. “Tell me, Monsieur Midhat. I haven’t asked about your family at all. Your parents, are they … do you have siblings?”
“My father is a merchant. From Nablus. A merchant of textiles and clothing. He is quite successful.”
“How lovely. And your mother?”
“My mother was from near Nablus, a town called Jenin, but she died, Allah yirhamha, when I was very small.”
“Oh dear, I’m so sorry. But you are like me then, Monsieur Midhat. We are both without our mothers.”
“My mother died from sill, in Arabic, la tuberculose, in French.”
“That’s very sad, I am extremely sorry.”
“How did your mother die?”
“I was also young.” She looked through the doors at the terrace, where her wet footprints slashed the paving stones. “She was ill, also. A problem with her heart, I don’t know precisely. Perhaps when you are a great doctor you will be able to explain it to me!” Her mouth smiled, her eyes were closed.
“Yes I do hope I will be a doctor,” said Midhat. “Sometimes, in Nablus, men do not always profess as they studied.”
“Profess?”
“Profess … comme une profession.”
She faced the garden again. The silence lengthened.
“What is Nablus like?”
“Nablus is a little village. It’s a town, I mean a city. It’s not large but we call it a city. What I mean is, even when you leave Nablus, you take it with you. Do you know what I mean?”
“I think so.”
“I don’t mean I don’t love Nablus. I do. Only, everyone knows about everyone else’s life. It can be a little …” He made a clawing gesture at his throat until she smiled, albeit weakly. “I’m sure that is why my father likes it in Cairo.”
“Egypt?”
He nodded.
“And for you, you chose medicine …”
“That was his choice, my father’s. He founded, I mean he is one of the founders of, a new hospital in Nablus. He considers it very respectable, you know. But I am also very content from it. I love science, I always loved science. So it is my choice too. I am excited by …” He looked down, thinking of the words. “The work is so exact, so particular. But,” he sighed, “one has to be too detached, you know.”
To his surprise, Jeannette erupted with laughter. He looked up to see her face glowing, her whole body rippling with amusement. When after several moments she was still laughing, he tentatively joined in, watching her carefully to know when to stop. An abrupt little cough was the signal, and as she sighed back into silence and he dropped his smile, it occurred to him that she could not possibly have known he was thinking of the dissection, or of the legless man he saw that morning in the clinic, neither of which seemed to him very funny. He looked at her still-smiling eyes and tried to imagine what she thought about him.