Haj Taher stood up. Midhat, standing also, saw his grandmother in the corner of his eye. Taher left the room and Teta strode over, pulled Midhat back down beside her on the couch, and wrapped her arms around him. She smelled of olive soap.
“Everything forbidden is desired, ya sitti.”
“I don’t understand, Teta.”
“He thinks you had too much freedom. But what can we do, there was a war.”
“I don’t understand. I haven’t done anything wrong.”
“You are tired. Sleep and bathe. Um Jamil is looking forward to seeing you. She will come up in a few hours, after you’ve had a rest.”
Midhat pushed his way out of his grandmother’s arms, though she was not resisting, and entering his old bedroom lay down immediately on the bed. He felt nothing at all, being in this room. At the sight of that old window, where he used to sit as a child: nothing. All his reactions were spent, darkened by his father’s voice, which echoed in his mind, cutting him. What a fantasy to have expected any warmth, any show of pride, of care. Doors were slamming that he had not known were open; he knew not what lay beyond them, that he might have seen. Uncontrollable sense-memories of Montpellier started to fill his mind, seeping out of corners. A treacherous yearning uncoiled, it broke loose from Faruq’s lessons in romantic narrative; it was ugly and incoherent, and it hurt. His head burned. He squeezed his wet eyes shut and thought of that house, every inch of it intimate; he thought of his first walk in the gardens with Laurent. How absurd it was that a single afternoon in which very little occurred should feel more vital to him now even than his homecoming, to the family not seen in five years, to the bed he slept in as a boy. How senseless, what a strain to his rational mind, to long this badly for a time that had in the end been so poor in pleasure, and so rich in pain.
4
“So, who will it be?” said Jamil.
“Who will what be,” said Midhat.
Someone was having an argument outside the khan. Midhat craned his neck to peer between the hanging bolts of fabric but saw only the backs of people’s heads.
“Your wife,” said Jamil. “Who will she be? I mean, do you know yet.”
“Oh. No idea. What’s going on out there?”
“It’s always like that. You’ll probably have quite a good view working here every day.”
Midhat stepped over the threshold of the Kamal store. On the edge of the square by al-Manara clock tower, a British soldier was gesticulating at the driver of a vegetable cart, encircled by a crowd of spectators. Midhat could only see the soldier’s back: he wore a domed hat and a sand-coloured uniform with short trousers cut off at the knee. His lower legs were wrapped with a kind of bandage, a rifle was strapped over one arm, and he was waving a book in the air. The face of the driver, being elevated, was on display, and conducting the reactions of the crowd: irritation, amusement, exasperation. A third man spoke, another Nabulsi, standing on the far side of the cart.
“Bas ehkeelu,” he shouted to the driver. “The tomatoes. Adaysh andak?”
“I didn’t count the tomatoes. Why would I count the tomatoes? Hemar.”
“Why is he not cooperating?”
“He … says … he did not count the tomatoes.”
“God in heaven. Can you ask about the aubergines.”
“What is aubergine?”
“This, that one.”
“Adaysh andak betinjan, ya mu‘allim.”
“Adaysh andi betinjan? Hemar. B‘arifish.”
“He says he doesn’t know.”
“Fuck’s sake. Wilson! Can you come here please, they’re driving me up the wall.”
“Yes sir, how can I help.”
“Any luck with the others?”
“Got a list here.”
“Good. Having trouble with this one—no, I’m not finished with you yet! Do not leave. Tell him not to leave please, we haven’t finished with him.”
“He says he needs to go the mosque now, sir.”
“I don’t care, we’ve not finished with him.”
“Sir,” said Wilson. “Sir it might be best to leave it now. They like to cause a ruckus. I’ve seen that one before.”
The cart driver widened his eyes at the crowd and made a long face. It struck Midhat that perhaps he was only pretending not to understand English.
“What’s his name,” said the first soldier to the dragoman. “I’m writing it down.”
“His name?”
“Yes, what is the name.”
“His name is …”
“What is the name. Come on.”
“Al-Harami!” shouted someone from the crowd.
“His name is al-Harami.”
There was general laughter. The soldiers turned and marched out of the square, passing by the Kamal store where Midhat was standing. They both held notebooks, and the first soldier, whose badges suggested a higher rank, had a thick black moustache and spectacles. His cheeks were so highly coloured he appeared to be sunburnt.
“Who was that?” asked Midhat, as the crowd disintegrated.
“The driver? Abu Amin. Hilarious.”
“No, the British.”
“Oh, they’re always making an inventory of things. They can’t handle the Jews, so they handle the vegetables instead. Hang on, you haven’t finished telling me about the French woman.”
“You mean Jeannette? Well, to be honest with you, I really wanted to marry her. But I was young, I didn’t know what I was doing.” He fell silent.
“In the end, family is everything,” said Jamil, with some unexpected tenderness. “We all owe our parents. You’ve really become a majnun though, haven’t you ya zalameh, since you left?”
Midhat laughed. “Ya Allah I hope not. Tell me, what’s the situation with the army?”
“Not good. Though, recently—look, do you have to stay here? Could we go to Sheikh Qassem?”
“Wait. Hisham?”
From the back of the stall, Hisham emerged with his arms extended, stretching between them a length of red fabric fringed with tassels.
“Yes, Midhat Bey?”
Midhat hesitated. “We are going to the café, Hisham.”
Hisham blinked, eyed Jamil, and released a formless noise from his lips.
“I will not be too long, I promise.”
“Inshallah. Inshallah.” Hisham bowed, the tassels shook.
Café Sheikh Qassem was the most popular café in Nablus and could be relied upon for company at all hours. Against the high, pale green walls a skyline of masculine heads was always visible, wafting clouds of nargila smoke into the air, frantic with the commerce of voices. As Midhat followed Jamil over the threshold, a babble of voices reached their ears beneath the theme of a single baritone, and in a moment they saw some thirty or forty men, young and old, clustered around a table at the back. In the light of the nearby windows a newspaper was being read aloud.
“Thousands upon thousands have been demonstrating in the centre of Damascus, crying out slogans for war against the French. Rumours are already circulating that the Emir Faisal has struck a deal with Clemenceau …”
A young man, leaning over the back of a chair and tapping his toe on the floor behind him, caught sight of them and stood straight.