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Yasmine visited, carrying a copper tray decorated with Qur’anic verses that her mother had brought from Damascus. On it were two cups of steaming salep with ginger. She had decorated the top with pistachios and coconut. She pushed the door gently and whispered, while still standing at the threshold, “Is he still asleep?” I put my finger to my lips to signal that the poor man was sleeping. He had become dear to me, close to my heart, dearer and closer as I read about him in my uncle’s memoirs, which described their support for the leader throughout the Damascus meeting. My uncle had redrawn his image as a lively young man, unsullied, sensitive, deeply loyal. I remembered Rabie, the beautiful young man of my youth, and I was beginning to see in this old, sick man tucked up in bed, solely the image of that young man. I had mixed feelings and I became emotional, filled with love, but I could not tell whether my feelings for the man were similar to those I had toward the
leader or toward Rabie.

I forgave my mother and remembered that I had undertaken this task to search for her. In the process, I found the young man Rabie, the young hero, and my young self. The memories were mixed, and so were my feelings. I did not want to leave that time because I felt young again, and Rabie was a young man, while the young hero was our leader. And all around us it was springtime.

I signaled to Yasmine to put the tray down and leave, without talking, so as not to wake the sleeping man, or me either. But the sick old man lying under the covers opened his eyes and said with a hoarse voice and a nasal twang, “Did you find your mother?” He did not wait for my answer but turned over toward the wall, breathing loudly, and I returned to the blessed silence around me.