“I have been walking with Laurent regularly,” he said.
She squinted and drew her cup to her lips.
“We walk to the botanical gardens, sometimes we walk into town. He shows me the city. I enjoy him.”
Jeannette chuckled again but without sound, pinching her lips together, examining her fingers as they turned the cup in her saucer. Midhat’s hand involuntarily twisted palm-up, questioning, but she didn’t notice. He was not offended by her laughter, the way he was by Laurent’s. It was mystifying but did not seem spiteful. In fact her continued hilarity was drawing a smile again to his own lips. His eyes kept falling to where her dress exposed the upper part of her chest. The skin was pale but freckled, and shiny—perhaps with sweat. Or with water from her bathe.
“Why did you sit in the pond?”
Her smile vanished. “Why?” she said. “Oh. I was feeling a bit hot.”
He considered her, and hung fire. Since arriving in Montpellier a month ago, he had developed a habit of pausing whenever he felt uncertain. Ever mindful of his ignorance of convention, he strongly wished to avoid making a fool of himself. And it might well be customary to sit in a pond when hot, and how would he know? On the other hand, Jeannette did look discomfited by the question. Then again, that might be because of something else; for example, her own preconception about his discomfort with outdoor bathing. About which, if the truth be told, she would not have been wholly incorrect.
“How is Laurent?” she said.
“He is well. He will study psychiatry. He is a very kind man.”
“He is.”
“I find him—he makes me laugh. He has what in Arabic we call ‘light blood.’”
“Rather than heavy blood.”
“Exactly.”
“That seems right, Laurent has light blood. But I wouldn’t call him frivolous. He is quite a serious person really.”
There was a pause. Midhat said: “I love it here. I hope I shall stay.”
“You should stay. We love having you. You are very … I don’t know.” She met his eye. “Graceful.”
A strong red blush started at her chest and covered her face. It was Midhat’s turn to look at the garden. He wanted to give her privacy, but he was also waiting for the grin to subside from his own cheeks. Outside, the clouds turned the grass grey, and the tree at the far end was animated with wind. When he looked back, Jeannette was still red, staring at her lap. Neither of them said anything. Something in Midhat’s chest began leaping wildly about as a fly zoomed into the silence and browsed the coffee things. Together they watched the fly inspecting the corner of a sugar cube, and then sitting on the silver rim, rubbing its hands together. He made a decision to look at her again. He found, to his amazement, that he was unable. Staring at the sugar cube he marvelled at his shyness. It occurred to him that so far his imperfect French had made most conversations obtuse—but what if, since by the same token one could not afford ambiguity, everything also became more direct?
“Bonjour les petits.” Docteur Molineu knocked on the back of the open door. “How are we today. Is anyone hungry?”
“We’re drinking coffee.”
“Let’s have an aperitif sur le patio. Georgine, will you bring the crémant, and a cordial for Monsieur Midhat.”
The wind was still blowing. Midhat helped Jeannette carry blankets from the hall, observing where her short hair revealed her neck, and when they returned outside Docteur Molineu was sitting on an iron chair with his legs crossed.
“I wonder.” He addressed his daughter: “I was thinking today about consistency of character. Is that something you believe in, consistency?” He stroked the lip of his champagne glass.
“I’m not really sure what that means,” said Jeannette.
There was a weary note in her voice, which made Midhat crane round to see her face, but her face no longer gave away anything. She wrapped her gown close and hunched her shoulders against the wind.
“What do you think, Monsieur Midhat,” she said. “Are you consistent?”
“I think he is consistent,” said Docteur Molineu. “Yes, I would go so far as to say that is even an unfair question to ask him.”
“Excuse me?” said Midhat.
“I didn’t mean to offend. You know, Midhat was telling me yesterday about some of the superstitions where he comes from. Particularly with regard to the Samaritan community, yes? Who live in his town.”
“How interesting,” said Jeannette. “I only ever heard of the Good Samaritan.”
“Yes, I mean, and that whole episode allegedly happened on the mountain where he lives. It’s thrilling. He was saying—would you tell Jeannette what you told me?”
Midhat, unsure whom he should be addressing, switched his eyes between father and daughter. It disturbed him that he could not read Jeannette’s expression, and he wondered if she was bored. “I mean, it is only superstition, as you say. People pay them to do certain magic, and so on. You know, the evil eye, jealousy—but I don’t really—”
“Absolutely fascinating. This was a tribe—tribe? A sect who split off from Judaism. Or was contemporary with. There was a great travel diary by a woman who went to stay with them, I should see if I can get my hands on it.”
“It is only folklore,” said Midhat.
A smile tweaked the corners of Jeannette’s mouth. “How interesting. Papa.”
“What? He wants to.”
“It is not always appropriate.”
Docteur Molineu relented. In the ceasefire, the image of Jeannette’s thighs recurred in Midhat’s mind. He looked out at the grey lawn.
“Excuse me, sir,” said Georgine, opening the door. “There is a letter for Monsieur Midhat.”
“Mm.” Molineu clanked his glass on the table and stamped his foot on the flagstone. “It is getting chilly, too, and I am rather hungry.”
“I can heat the soup,” said Georgine. She waved familiarly at Midhat. “Come, please.”
She led him to the hall table. The letter was from his father, and dated three weeks prior.
My dear son Midhat,
God willing you are safe. Travel has been difficult because the British are defending the Canal against the Turks. However, I heard from my brother that there are no problems yet in Nablus. A German commander is staying at the Hammad house. The foreign post offices have closed in Jerusalem so do not expect any letters from Palestine. In Egypt the postal service is still fine. Trade is also fine, alhamdulillah. Layla and the children are fine, alhamdulillah. Work hard in your studies.
Regards,
Your father
Outside, Jeannette was folding the pink blanket.
“Georgine will do that.”
“Papa.”
“What? Don’t look at me like that.”
They shut the glass doors on the wind, and as they passed through the salon Jeannette saw her reflection in the mirror. A cloud of wind-loose hair was suspended around her head. She drew three pins from the back and slid them over the top, gathering and twisting some locks to keep them in place, and pressing her temples. Then she followed her father into the dining room, where he was addressing Georgine.
“Is he coming?” he said.