“No,” said Jeannette, in a low, smiling voice, “I grew up in Paris. My father and I moved here about four years ago, when he started working at the university. And I did my baccalauréat here.”
“Your father is Docteur Molineu?”
“Of course.”
“Ah. And your husband?”
“I’m not married. Pisson, will you take us through the centre? This is Rue de la Loge, the main commercial street. And at the end is Place de la Comédie. It’s small, Montpellier, you won’t take long to know it. It’s a little dark now to see, I’m afraid.”
Midhat looked over at Jeannette Molineu’s face. Shadows falling between the streetlamps made her eyes appear black and large, blotting her pale skin and filling out her thin upper lip. The shadows rotated as they moved, and each time they entered the full glare of a lamp again the effect was reversed.
The road was broader now and the roadside grassy. Pisson turned a corner and decelerated to an open pair of gates, then crunched into a driveway checkered by windowlight falling from a large house. A maid curtsied by the door as Jeannette escorted Midhat into the hall. Electric lamps were mounted on the wall between framed pictures, and a large mirror hung beside a staircase that curved up to the right. One open door revealed cream-coloured walls and the shining black hip of a piano; from another, a jowled man had emerged, with grey hair and a close-fitting suit.
“Bienvenue, bienvenue, Monsieur Kamal. Frédéric Molineu. I am your host.”
“Good evening, my name is Midhat Kamal. Enchanted to make your acquaintance.”
“Come come, bonjour my dear, so—pleased, so—pleased.”
Molineu shook Midhat’s hand vigorously, clasping a second hand on top of the first. Midhat tried to copy the motion but now his fingers had been released, and his host was spreading his arms out at the hall.
“Please feel this is your home. We are honoured to have you as our guest and enthusiastic to show you how we live. Please, come have an aperitif.”
The salon was blue, with quilted couches around a table crowned by a silver tray and four crystal glasses. Glass doors gave onto a terrace with an iron table and chairs, and a gloomy lawn.
“I notice your hesitation.” Docteur Molineu snatched at the fabric on his knees as he sat. “This is not alcohol. This is called a cordial. Sans alcool totalement. S’il vous plaît, Monsieur, asseyez-vous.”
Midhat took a seat on the couch and immediately felt exhausted.
Jeannette said, “When is Marian arriving?”
Now that father and daughter were beside each other, Midhat could see the likeness. There was a direct expression in the eyes. But where the Docteur’s jaw was substantial, Jeannette’s chin tapered, lightly cleft. She had removed her hat but her hair remained flat over the head, her curls released just at the 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.