26

She walked through the exhibition halls until she came to a glass case that contained two skulls, one marked “Suleiman al-Halabi, criminal,” and the other “Kléber, hero.” She smiled wryly. Had Suleiman al-Halabi, who assassinated Kléber, really been a criminal? He had rid the Egyptians of a dark and dismal fate, and as a result been executed in the most horrific way: the khazouq, impalement with a metal spear. She was seized with the sudden urge to break the glass and swap the placards, so that each would be in its proper place.

The sound of his footsteps behind her brought her out of her thoughts. “I got a phone call about the painting,” he said. “The tests are being run. The results will be out in two days at most.”

“That’s good news,” she said, “but I have to go now. Thank you for your time.”

He bent over her hand to kiss it. “You are welcome at any time.”

She was starving, so she went to a nearby restaurant and sat at a table for one, watching the people go by. She saw a pair of lovers kissing, undeterred by the noise and the passersby. There was no reason the sight should make her think of him. Her thoughts came and went. Where was he now, she wondered? Was he with her? What were they doing?

But why should she give in to her thoughts? Why shouldn’t she dial his number and put an end to her musings? She had missed his voice and the sight of his face. She decided to Skype him so that she could see him; but there was no reply. She called his phone, but it was off. She was overcome with conflicting emotions: jealousy, worry, unhappiness. But she did not want these feelings to ruin her pleasure at being in her favorite city.

She paid the check and went for a walk along the Seine, to experience everything she loved about Paris: to breathe its air, to embrace its history, to inhale the perfume of its elegance. The Turkish author Orhan Pamuk tells us that every city has its voice, and the voice of Paris is the whine of the Metro. To her, the voice of Paris was the echo of history.

The more time passed, bringing her closer to her meeting with her father, the more nervous she felt. She could just not go, and change her hotel for another. But she did want to see him. She was eager to see how he looked after all these years, and where life had taken him since he had packed his things and left, never to return. He had not abandoned them; in fact, he had been adamant about taking the girls with him. It was Yasmine and Shaza who had refused to go and live with him. They preferred to stay with their grandmother, who had stood up to him like a lion, refusing to allow him to take them away. He had not been in a position to insist on his right to raise them, and so he had quietly left.

She arrived at the Café du Monde exactly on time, and looked at the tables, wondering if she could see him. She would surely recognize him, no matter how much he had changed. He was her father.

He was not waiting for her. She sat, eyes moving between the revolving door of the café and the wall clock. She ordered a café au lait and browsed on her phone to calm her nerves.

The hands on the clock read 8:15 when the revolving door finally regurgitated him. She saw him looking around, searching for her. Would he recognize her after all this time? She had changed completely now; she had been just a little girl with her hair in braids when he had left, and today she was a woman.

It only took him a few seconds to recognize her. He headed for her table, his steps weak. His hair was shot through with white: his face was sagging and his eyelids drooped. He wore a brown woolen coat and black oxfords, still elegantly dressed after all these years. The closer he came to her table, the faster her heart beat until she thought it would burst right out of her chest. He stood there looking at her for a few moments, his face morphing into a succession of expressions—astonishment, bewilderment, joy, anxiety—like a man who has been looking for something and at last has found it.

She found herself rising from her seat to embrace him. His eyes filled with tears and he stroked her hair, whispering her name over and over sorrowfully.

They sat there for a long time. They spoke for a long time about the affairs of her life and his. She noticed that his hand was trembling so hard that he ended up spilling his coffee down his jacket. “Have you seen a doctor about that?” she asked.

“Yes, several. They said my nerves have a severe inflammation brought on by stress and worry and, uh, unhappiness.” He tried for a smile. “Oh, it’s much better now. I couldn’t walk properly or drive or write. I couldn’t work for some time; I kept changing jobs and moving from place to place. It’s why I settled here.”

“Did you ever think of coming home to Egypt?”

His face filled with sorrow and pain. “Often,” he admitted. “But at the last minute I always changed my mind. I can’t set foot in that country again. Everywhere there are memories. Even the way the air smells stirs up memories I’m not strong enough to resist. You can see I’m not built for endurance any more.” Then he asked her about her own affairs and her sister’s, how they had been living, and she told him everything.

They fell into a silence that seemed to last a long time. Each of them seemed to disconnect and lose themselves in their own thoughts; the place had quieted down and the hubbub around them had subsided. Weakly, he quavered, “I don’t want to go into details. But I want you to know that I never loved another woman.” He added, “I believe you’re mature enough to know that passing fancies have nothing to do with love. Your mother wasn’t just my wife. She had my heart.”

Your passing fancy, she wanted to scream at him, made a woman kill herself. But what good would it do?

They shook hands goodbye. Each of them opened their umbrella and took shelter underneath it, then went their separate ways.