We made small talk. I told him I was planning to go to Palestine. “I’m so happy for you,” he said. “Someday, enshallah, when Jerusalem is liberated, we will all once again be able to visit our holy city.”

Then we spoke of the stunning advancement of technology, which seemed to be passing me by. The Internet was everywhere. People could send instant letters electronically through something called e-mail. Jehad had already told me about it, but all I knew was that it wasn’t like a fax. “It’s amazing, and anyone can have an account for free,” Mohsin said, but there were still connection fees at the Internet cafés.

“I have some friends who could show me,” I lied for the sake of conversation.

“Let me!” he said. “I can set you up with an e-mail tomorrow if you want.”

I agreed, not because I wanted to have e-mail but to see him, and we set a time.

Mama used to get so happy when someone from Palestine visited us in Kuwait, especially if they came from Haifa. She would say they “carried the scent and spirit of my home and youth in Palestine.” That’s why I wanted so much to visit with Mohsin. He carried the scent and spirit of Kuwait.

I waited the next day among young people sitting at various computer terminals. I had no idea what to do. It was intimidating, and I felt out of place. Mohsin didn’t show up. Such a disappointment, I thought, and was getting up to leave when a young man rushed in, out of breath. He looked around, then walked up to me. “Are you Madam Yaqoot?” he asked.

I hesitated. “Who wants to know?”

“I have a package for you, and I’m supposed to set you up with an e-mail account,” he said, still catching his breath.

“Yes,” I said.

“Fine. Before I give you the package, you’re supposed to answer a question to verify who you are.”

“I’m not answering anything.” I turned to leave.

“Okay. You’re the only woman here, so I believe you’re who I’m supposed to give this to. But just so I can report back—can you just tell me …” He unfolded a piece of paper and read from it: “What is the other name of the girl with two real names?” He looked up from the paper with pleading eyes.

“The answer is Nahr.” I smiled, snatching the package from him, and walked away to open it in the privacy of the café bathroom. There was an envelope with cash in it and a new mobile phone. There was no note, and the money was more than I needed to get to Palestine.