By the time he had finished his fourth glass of wine, a table of young Egyptian men invited him to join them. They asked him where he came from and his reply, “Paris,” sent a laugh around the circle. After that, there was little time for conversation. Midhat found himself on his feet with one of the girls from the stage while the men behind him cheered. The girl smelled of jasmine flowers and red wine. Her long black plait was smooth to the touch.
In the morning, alone in the train carriage, he wrapped his scarf around his eyes and drifted in and out of sleep. A good outcome from a conversation with his father, he thought, would be a position at the Kamal store in Cairo. In Cairo one could be almost as anonymous as in Paris. The line with Europe was thin.
Just after noon the train arrived at Damascus Gate in Jerusalem, where he hailed a taxi and drove north. Valleys of white rock, the wooded plains of Ayn al-Haramiya, stone terraces spilling fields of wheat down mountainsides crowded with harvesters. The sight of the hills had a peculiar effect on him, and he stared out of the car window at the deep shadows they cast in an unexpected state of high emotion. Nablus came into view, banked by olive groves. White houses, round terraces, the onion globes of minarets. The car slowed up the mountain road. Midhat paid the driver, and stepping out of the back, inhaled wild sage.
“Habib alby!”
“Teta! Teta, my God you’ve shrunk.”
“And you have grown. You are so pale, are you ill? Yalla teta, come inside.”
“Is my father here?”
“Waiting for you.”
Indoors, he smelled onion and sumac, and beyond that a specific odour like cold plaster and mould, which plucked at a part of his memory grown numb with inattention. A whole section of his brain stirred to life. The shape of the kitchen windows, the one cracked pane, that silver dish, he had not remembered it before but recognised it now. Layla’s short Damascene tables, even they were full of something he could not formulate, and all the latticed light from the strong morning falling on the embroidery. The objects erupted with pastness.
A fire was going in the brazier. His eye fell on a familiar calligraphic panel opposite the window, and as he approached the divan he wondered about a welcome party, whether Um Jamil and Jamil from downstairs or a couple of the other neighbours. But there was no sign or sound of anyone. Then from around a corner stepped the upright form of his father, dressed in a suit and tarbush.
“Father.”
“Welcome home.”
Midhat reached out to embrace him, and at first Haj Taher did not respond. But as his arms were falling Taher made a small sign, as though against his will, and with a slight incline of his head and a long blink he granted permission. The embrace was brief and stiff.
“Hamdillah as-salameh. I hope the journey was fine. Now, I must talk to you about something.”
“Of course.”
“Sit down here. Good. Now. We have to discuss some things, we have to make some decisions as soon as possible.” He paused, assessing Midhat. His fingers were interlaced and one thumb was kneading the back of the other hand, wrinkling up the skin around his forefinger. “First of all, I understand that a young man has a certain amount of freedom. Should have a certain amount of freedom. This is, ya‘ni, this is normal. Nonetheless, my understanding has always been, Midhat, that you would spend these years in Europe while the Turks were at war, obtain a European education. And after that, my understanding has always been that you would return home to our region as a well-educated and experienced man, ready to continue on the same path as your forebears and your peers. A path of honour, fhimet? Honour and … stability.”
Haj Taher was using an elevated mixture of classical language and dialect that was quite strange to Midhat’s ears. He longed for a glass of water. His father continued.
“Il-mohim, you will not be returning to France. If you attempt to go back there, you will be cut off. No money, no support, nothing. You understand? I will not tolerate any shameful behaviour.”
Midhat sat in a shocked silence. Then he said: “Baba.”
“You appear to have rented out the upper floor of your brain.”
“What have I done?”
“I only hope, I only hope that you have learned at least something about being an adult during these five years abroad. Which I have entirely paid for.”
“Yes. I mean, I hope so.” His voice dropped. “None is perfect but God alone, from whom we ask forgiveness and aid.”
“Praise be to God. And, now that you are a grown man, we must make arrangements for your future. Of course ordinarily I would suggest taking at least a few years to gain some experience in your profession, before we make further plans. But I feel that in your case these decisions must be made earlier. You have had all this experience, we cannot keep you … uncertain. First, it is my duty to acknowledge that having now trained as a doctor in France, you should be free to practise medicine here, if you wish. However, since you are my only grown-up son, I also present to you the option of learning my trade. With a view to taking over the family business when I am dead, or at least infirm.”
Midhat waited. The silence persisted, and he realised that his father was expecting an immediate decision.
“I …” He stopped. He did not know what to say. At most, he had been prepared for some new constraints over what he could and could not do in his leisure time; he was not expecting such an absolute confrontation with his future. He had always imagined his father’s business might be his eventually. But this was happening much faster than he had anticipated. The facts of his future career were commandeering their very reunion, which his father barely seemed to have registered. The additional notion that he might actually practise as a doctor began to cause Midhat some pain, and he broke out:
“But why can’t I go back to France?”
Haj Taher’s ears reared. “If you go back to France,” he said slowly, “you will lose your inheritance.”
“But what about—what about—Cairo?”
“Midhat, this is not a time to play.”
“I’m not asking to play!”
“You are a man, and I am offering you a choice. Would you like to practise as a doctor, or would you like to learn the family trade.”
Midhat looked away. “I don’t understand.”
“Answer me. You have had your education.”
“I—I would like to learn the family trade.”
“Good. We will begin that immediately then. I will send you down to work with Hisham after the weekend. And then after a year you will come to Cairo and learn how to keep the books, and deal with the customers on Bulaq Street. But we’ll talk about that later. Now, as I said, we are hurrying things along in your case, since you clearly have strong energies that need diverting. Unfortunately I must continue on to Damascus tomorrow. And then I will return to Cairo, where I will stay for at least three months, probably. Otherwise, of course, I would have taken the matter in hand myself. But given these circumstances, I am leaving your grandmother in charge of selecting a wife.”
“A wife?”
“Yes Midhat, a wife.” Taher sucked his teeth. “My heart goes out for my son like fire, and my son’s heart goes out for me like stone. That is my fortune.”
Everything in Midhat’s body rose to protest. He gaped, mute. Silenced by dread of his father—and also by a new and imprecise sense of shame and failure that was now rising and heating his ears.