“Is there any connection between that and your decision to leave?”

“No,” he replied with a frown. “I regard the journey to Alexandria as a necessary cure.”

“Don’t let your enemies gloat over your situation,” his mother pleaded. “You could certainly keep your beautiful house and your way of life if you accepted the job Hasan offered you.”

He closed his eyes and said nothing; he refused to carry on a futile argument.

“You’re my son,” his mother continued bitterly, “and I know you. You’re obstinate; you always were. You’ve chosen pride, however much it costs you. Well, your stubbornness has only encountered love and understanding from us here. But not everyone’s like your mother and your sisters!”

He shrugged. “I’ll pretend I didn’t hear anything,” he replied scornfully.

“You should follow God’s command,” she said even more pleadingly. “The power is His and He can do what He wishes; the future is in His hands. You can be happy without being an under secretary or a minister.”

“Where would it be best for Mother to stay till I get back?” he said, looking at his sisters.

They kept out of the discussion. Each of them suggested that their mother should stay with her.

“I shall go back to the old house in Al-Wayiliyya,” the old lady said.

“You’ll never live by yourself,” shouted Wahiba, the daughter most devoted to her mother.

“Umm Shalabi will never leave me,” her mother replied. “I hope you’ll come and visit me.”

Isa remembered the old house, where they all had been born, and especially the wide courtyard with its dry, sandy floor. He did not know how to express his displeasure at his mother’s idea. “Wouldn’t it be best for you to stay with one of my sisters?” he asked.

“No,” she replied nervously. “I’m stubborn too; it’ll be better for everyone if I live in the old house.”

All her daughters made it clear that they would be delighted if she would stay with them, but she paid no attention. Isa’s thoughts were filled with his beautiful house. He looked at the trees outside the balcony, rustling gently against a white autumn sky that seemed to inspire a sense of melancholy. “Isn’t God’s curse on history?” he said to himself.

“The old house isn’t suitable for someone who has been used to living here,” Wahiba commented.

When Isa saw his mother’s eyelids quivering, he thought she was on the point of crying. “It’s perfectly suitable,” she replied in a wavering voice. “We were all born there.”

THIRTEEN