The Parisian

by Isabella Hammad

  “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.

  “Oh, yes, Monsieur.”

  “Patience,” said Jeannette, drawing out her chair.

  Nevertheless, Jeannette required only the lightest suggestion from her father to rise again and fetch Midhat for dinner. Yesterday she would have insisted on giving him privacy. But now she felt so unmanageably agitated—not only by her father but by the entire day, whose many strands lingered, threatening different undefended parts of her, so that a panic was already welling up—and it seemed to her in that particular moment that the only remedy for this unruly beating of her mind would be to walk into the hall and apologise to Midhat on her father’s behalf, and so settle at least that quarter of her agitation.

  She saw their guest through the banister. He stood half-framed by the door to the salon, where the piano was stretching out, coffin-like, and the sun in the window lit a few threads dangling from his forehead, which was bent low with reading the letter in his right hand. His whole attitude was frozen. Then he shifted his weight to his other foot, and put his left hand limply on his hip. He pulled a face, a part-frown, as if straining against a bright light: the squint of trying to discern something. Although she was certain she had not made a sound, he suddenly jolted to face her. She sprang to life as naturally as she could, as though she was just entering from the dining room. But the motion of her arms was theatrical and from his expression she knew it was obvious she had been watching him. His fingers quickly folded the letter.

  “I wanted to tell you,” she said, sliding her hand down the banister. She saw his eyes drop to her mouth.

  “Yes?”

  “I’m sorry,” her voice caught as her own eyes fell, to his sun-dark neck, and she shut them. “I wanted to say …” Everything rose; she inhaled, grasping after what she meant to say. Her thoughts slithered from her grip. “I didn’t tell you the truth.”

  The silence that followed gave her just enough time to register what she had embarked upon; it was not enough time to think twice.

  “When?” said Midhat.

  “When I told you,” she began, “about my mother. The truth is, I do know how she died. She, she shot herself. With a gun.”

  Midhat’s reaction to this was minimal. His eyes widened, fractionally, which she might not h
ave even seen were it not for the way the light was falling. Nevertheless, Jeannette immediately repented. She wondered how on earth she had so quickly given in to that glimmer of a desire to expose herself to him, which had arisen like a sudden shard among the many other thoughts and concerns that were whirling around, disorienting her and setting her off-balance. In ordinary circumstances, she would have seen such an impulse and neatly stepped aside. But today nothing was ordinary. Here she was, burdening their houseguest with this uncomfortable piece of her personal biography.

  To her alarm, Midhat started walking towards her. He still hadn’t said anything. His forehead was wrinkled with confusion and interest, as if she resembled someone he knew, and he was trying to work out who it was. She felt a hand reaching into her stomach and squeezing.

  “Dinner is ready,” she threw out.

  He stopped, seeming to understand what she really meant, and nodded, corrected.

  “All right.”

  “I’m sorry,” she added, in a forced casual voice. “I shouldn’t have told you that.”

  “Don’t be sorry.”

  She gave him a breathy smile and directed her steps towards the dining room. There was a pause of a few seconds before she heard him follow.

  Midhat was unsettled by this exchange. Jeannette’s intention in telling him this was by no means obvious. What he did not admit to himself now, although it would strike him with force later, was that her confession seemed to glitter at him, like a fresh wound, or a point of entry. For now he reflected only that her divulgence did not really correspond with the restrained manner of its delivery, and that this was rather bewildering. He had been approaching her to examine her face, and after she departed, he hung in the hallway wondering how else to read her. That catch in her voice occurred to him as a symptom of distress—the only apparent symptom, in fact—although to be distressed at having lied to him did not seem plausible. She was more likely distressed from remembering her mother’s suicide. He looked at the space she had vacated, between the banister and the shadow-braided wall, and felt a lunge of pity.

  At the dinner table, he tried not to look at her. He was afraid of what his face might give away. Frédéric slipped his napkin from its silver ring, and as Midhat set the envelope beside his placemat and picked up his spoon, his mind, shutting out Frédéric’s monologue about his colleague at the department, drew some shaky maps of interpretation. Had Jeannette told him about her mother to excuse herself, her aloof manner, perhaps? Or something else she had done that he had not noticed? Or was she really ashamed that when he had been honest with her, she was not honest with him? Or was she explaining something else, referring to another part of their conversation he had failed to understand, some nuance in French—and as he mindlessly applied the butter to his bread roll he found himself picturing what Jeannette might have seen as she entered the hall. This set off an unexpected burst of pleasure, imagining himself from the outside, standing in this house.

  “Was the letter from your family? Are they well?”

  He lifted his head, and saw Frédéric dabbing his lips.

  “Yes, well. Thank you.”

  Midhat glanced at his envelope. The label was visible: “Opened by Examiner 257.” He reached out and, pretending to scan the address, flipped it over.

  Frédéric was the first to stand. He put his hands on his hips and regarded the door, as if the task ahead, of taking a digestif in the salon, was going to require the orchestration of a regiment. “Will you join me, Jojo?”

  “Not tonight. I’m tired.”

  “Goodnight, then.”

  “Goodnight.”

  Midhat also declined. He mounted the stairs, thinking of the letter. Work hard in your studies. He couldn’t prevent that sudden, double vision: the external view of all this, of what his father might think of it.

  5

  Carl Page heard it first from Madame Crotteau, who said she had heard it from the Nolins, but when the Nolins were asked they knew nothing about it. On the Friday before the party, Georgine went in to collect an order of tartelettes and she heard it from the baker. Sylvain Leclair, it was said, had been hit by a motorcar on the Avenue de Toulouse. He was alive, but both his legs were broken.

  On Saturday it began to snow, very lightly, and after dropping Midhat in town to buy an evening suit, Pisson drove Jeannette to Sylvain’s vineyard with a bouquet of pink lilies beside her on the backseat. Later, Midhat walked home carrying his new suit in a box. Afternoon was turning into night and the lampposts sprinkled yellow snow in perfectly triangular beams.

  It was December, Midhat’s third month in Montpellier. His walks with Laurent had become a fixture, and the best consolation for his loneliness. Besides his breakfast interrogations by Docteur Molineu and the occasional exchange with Jeannette, they were also his principal opportunity to practise French beyond the scientific vocabulary required at the Faculty. The guests at tonight’s party would provide another opportunity; he needed to be agile, alert. He tramped up the drive to see Pisson shutting the car door, and heard Jeannette’s voice as he stepped into the hall.

  She was in the cream-walled salon with her father, reporting loudly that it was a lie. Sylvain had no trouble walking, and though it was true he had fallen to the ground, the car had barely grazed him.

  Docteur Molineu laughed. “Midhat, you’re welcome to come in. It’s not quite a lie, is it dear, only some of the details were exaggerated.”

  “I am extremely embarrassed.”

  “Oh, la. One ought to telegraph in advance I suppose. I did say you should take Midhat. It’s not really appropriate for a young lady, I’m sure everyone must think I’m horribly irresponsible.” He picked up a wooden table and set it down behind the piano. “Humans and rumours. Would you help me with the chaise longue, Midhat? I think we’ll put it in the hall.”

  “Don’t you see how embarrassing this is? I brought him flowers and there was nothing wrong with him, and he was so …” She expelled a syllable of air. “I’m really in agony.”

  “I don’t see why you are making such a fuss. Did you explain yourself? Sylvain is not stupid, I’m sure he knows you only meant to be kind. It’s an easy mistake. The guests will be here from seven o’clock, and I’m going to work before then. I’m a little afraid we may have invited too many. Not usually a cause for—since one counts on half to stay at home. But these days it seems people are in need of a party …”

  Midhat put his hands under the chaise.

  “Thank you, Midhat,” said Molineu.

  “Not at all,” said Midhat. “It is my pleasure.”

  Jeannette flicked her eyes to him, but her expression did not change.

  In the mirrored doors of his armoire, Midhat’s white collar threw light up at his face. He licked his fingers and touched his hair. Georgine’s voice came through the floorboards.

  “Les Mademoiselles Carole et Marie-Thérèse, et Docteur Patrice Nolin.”

  He pushed up his tie, plucked at his sleeves and shirttails, and started down the stairs.

  “It’s the Arabian man,” said Patrice Nolin, shaking the droplets off his hat by the door. His cheeks were especially red with the shock of heat on cold skin.

  “Good evening, cher docteur,” said Midhat.

  The girls took turns greeting Midhat, and coils bounced behind their ears: both had attached artificial hairpieces to their chignons.

  “Good evening, ladies.”

  Docteur Molineu led the Nolins into the salon. There was no sign of Jeannette.

  “How is the Faculty?” said Patrice Nolin, passing Midhat a champagne glass.

  “My classes are interesting. But it is only the preliminary sciences in the first year. We also have had the introduction to dissection, and we are beginning to attend the clinics in the mornings, where we observe the doctors and the patients and make notes, and we discuss afterwards. And sometimes—” He stopped. He had just remembered that Nolin used to be a professor at the Faculty, and surely knew all this. �
��But yes, what I mean is, I am enjoying it. This snow has also been remarkable.”

  Molineu presented an open case of cigarettes. “Patrice, I have been wanting to ask your opinion. How do you think it will turn, now that we’ve won at Flanders? The picture I draw from Le Matin and the wireless is very indefinite.”

  Nolin cleared his throat. “I think we can expect to see a few strategic manoeuvres. I’m no military expert, but of course they’ll obviously be looking for ways to weaken the enemy. At the same time, we’ve got to keep our eyes on the other corners of the globe, on the balance of forces. And Russia is next, so, my guess is we’ll see a push to draw the Germans over from the Eastern Front, to ease up that side of things. But this is just speculation.” He waved his hand and the smoke from his cigarette squirmed above him. “It’s up to the generals. We just have to wait—and—see.”

  More guests arrived. Madame Crotteau kissed Midhat’s cheek with a husky giggle, and her cold fur, wettened into prongs, rubbed against his neck. As he turned to greet Marian, Midhat caught sight of Jeannette through the open door, standing at the mirror by the bottom of the stairs, dressed in green and black. She touched her collar and looked herself in the eyes. Then her gaze slid over and met Midhat’s. He held it until she looked away.

  “I love tennis,” said a woman with a lilac shawl. “I play it on the lower lawns with Ma’moiselle Briquot. Won’t you join us when the spring comes?”

  “But we’re getting away from the central point,” came Docteur Molineu’s voice from across the room. “What was the central point?”

  A young lady in a high-necked dress and an elderly gentleman cried greetings as they entered.

  “When we exchanged our remarks, that it was a very moving funeral procession, and burial …”