22

She spent a long time looking at the painting of the licorice-drink seller that she had printed out from the site. The man practically burst from the page, as though he was standing before her in one of the narrow alleyways of the city. There were a few itinerant salesmen sitting around here and there, while the man smiled broadly at his female customer. A closer look at her face and Yasmine was sure it was her. Although all that was visible was the side of her face, it was her, reaching out a graceful hand to take a brass cup from the vendor. It was her hand, her long, slim fingers. “It’s her in all his paintings,” she whispered. But what was the secret that meant that she appeared, as the main figure in all his work, again and again and again? She was an ordinary girl, not all that different from any other girl. Had there been something between them? And where had he met her? Had he met her by chance in the street and taken a liking to the way she looked, and drawn her? Perhaps he had asked her to model for him, and she had said yes. But how would her family have let their daughter model for an artist, and sit before him for hours while he painted her—those families that would not even let their daughters go out with their faces unveiled?

Her head was awhirl with questions, and she was suddenly nervous and confused. Perhaps a walk by the Nile would help her get her thoughts in order. She put on her running shoes, put her hair up and her headphones in, then went out.

With her favorite songs playing, she walked through the streets until she reached Abul-Feda Street. She crossed over to the side directly overlooking the Nile. A chilly breeze wafted in her face, refreshing her. There wasn’t much traffic in the streets at that hour. She walked the length of the street, and toward the end, she found Sherif’s car. It was parked outside a restaurant called Sequoia—his favorite place. She decided to go in and surprise him.

The restaurant was quite empty, unusually for that hour. She looked over at the table where they usually sat. Sure enough, there he was. She went straight over to him, without noticing that there was a woman sitting opposite him, obscured by a hulking man sitting in the seat between her and Yasmine. She didn’t see her until she was right in front of their table. Opening her mouth, she blurted, “Hello.”

His mouth fell open and he exclaimed, “Hello! What a surprise!”

“I was taking a walk,” she said, “and I saw your car. I thought you’d be here.”

He introduced them. “Dr. Yasmine, Nirmine.” The girl shook Yasmine’s hand with a faint smile. “You must sit down. . . .”

“Oh, no, I couldn’t,” she said, “I was just taking a quick walk. I have work I need to get back to.”

“Sit,” he said commandingly. “Ten minutes won’t make a difference.”

The girl remained absolutely expressionless except for her lukewarm smile. With a quick glance at her, Yasmine ascertained that she was attractive, but not beautiful: olive-skinned with a mane of loose, dark curly hair, she wore jeans and a white shirt, a woolen jacket and brightly colored scarf. It was clear that she was deliberately ignoring Yasmine: she kept her eyes glued to her phone, pretending to be absorbed in it.

“Are you all ready to go?” he asked her. “To France?”

“Yes,” she said.

The three of them sat at love’s wintry table, giving off waves of jealousy and insecurity that heated the chill air, watching one another with tentative glances. But no one can tell what goes on inside another person. The girl’s perfume was overpowering, insistently pushing itself into the spaces between them. Some perfumes are premeditated; some perfumes pass by fleetingly with the breeze; yet others are barely there, a scent one tries in vain to catch. Yasmine’s name, which means jasmine, was enough to bring its scent with her: had her name infused her with a passion for everything natural and things from the earth? The scent of petrichor, the aroma of tea, orange blossoms, seaweed. . . .

In a casual tone, the girl asked her, “Where are you going?”

“Paris.”

With more enthusiasm, she responded, “Paris! Oh, you’re lucky. I love Paris. Are you shopping or sightseeing?”

“Neither. I’m going to an art conference.”

The girl looked astonished. “But Chanel’s summer collection is coming out next week! You must go to the show, you’ll regret it if you don’t.”

Yasmine gave a half smile while Sherif took up the thread of the conversation. “Dr. Yasmine is a professor of art history. She spends her time going to conferences, researching historic paintings. She’s not interested in things like that.”

“Says who?” Yasmine responded. “I always find time to have fun, just like you do.” She pushed her chair back. “I really do need to go. It’s been good catching up.”

“What’s your hurry? Stay a while.”

She waved goodbye and left without answering. She strode purposefully to the exit, then once she was through the door, she broke into a run.

She ran, her rage propelling her forward. The meeting had not lasted longer than thirty minutes, but it had her incensed. If they had had a normal relationship, she would have had the right to upbraid him, to reproach him, to yell at him. But she could do none of it, and the very fact of it filled her with resentment and unhappiness. Now she knew for a fact that there was no room in her heart, her mind, her soul for anyone but him, for anything but her love of him. From the girl’s curious glances, filled with jealousy, Yasmine could tell that she was in a relationship with Sherif, and not just an intern in his office as he had said. An attractive girl in her early twenties, clearly infatuated with him, devoting all her time and attention to him. What would he see in Yasmine, preoccupied with the ghosts of the dead, caring only for her research?

As usual on the nights before she was traveling somewhere, she couldn’t sleep. It was even harder to get any rest because she had an early morning flight; she ended up not sleeping at all. It was not only travel jitters, though: the jealousy tearing her apart was what made it impossible to get any rest.

She gave her grandmother a big hug goodbye, and gave the nurse her instructions. She was employed by an office that provided elder care. Yasmine taped a list of her grandmother’s forbidden foods to the refrigerator so it would be always in the woman’s sight.

She wrapped the painting carefully up, then placed it into her hand luggage. A few days ago, she had made a request of the head of the conservation department to take the painting with her to Paris to continue her conservation work there, claiming that the damage required more experience and state-of-the-art equipment than was available in Egypt. He had agreed at once, and given her a permit to take it out of the country. She left, dragging her carry-on behind her, a wool coat over her arm. The weather forecast had told her that there would be snow waiting for her in Paris.

In the taxi on the way to the airport, her phone rang. It was Sherif, telling her that he was on his way to drive her to the airport. “No need. I’m already on my way.”

“I’ll meet you at the airport, then,” he insisted.

His phone call dissipated some of the clouds that had gathered around the walls of her heart since she had seen him sitting with the girl. But the question that preoccupied her, for which she could find no answer, was: Why was he doing this? Was this love, or just friendship? Or did he have some sort of misplaced sense of responsibility for Yasmine? He had often told her he felt like he needed to take care of her.

He was waiting for her at the departures terminal, smartly dressed as usual. A broad smile broke over his face when he caught sight of her. He suggested they have a coffee at the airport Starbucks. “Why did you come?” she asked as soon as they were seated. “Don’t you have to be at work?”

She was trying to get him to relinquish his closely guarded reserve and hear him say that he would cancel any plans for her, or that he was here because he was going to miss her. But he disappointed her as usual. Instead he asked her, “Where are you staying in Paris?”

“The Paris View Hotel.”

“How long are you staying?”

“I’m not sure yet. It all depends on how much information I can find.”

“All for this man you’re thinking about day and night?”

She laughed. “Yes, well. At least that man was here 250 years ago and isn’t around any more.”

He took her meaning, but ignored it. He looked at his watch. “You need to go now. It’s getting close to boarding.” He patted her on the back. “Take care of yourself.” He saw her to security and left.

She looked behind her once she was through security. He was still standing behind the barrier. She waved at him and went on her way.