Over dessert—an Arab-style crepe stuffed with cream and drizzled with rosewater syrup—Ali spoke of Philippe’s well-known diagnostic skills. “I’ve heard you described as a medical Sherlock Holmes.”

Philippe smiled. “I take that as a great compliment, Ali, one I try always to live up to. For example, I recently had a fascinating case in Paris. The gentleman was suffering from a near-total paralysis of his left arm, from the elbow down- ward. Of course, the first fear is a stroke, but there were no signs of that. The next likely possibility was what we called a ‘dropped wrist,’ something like Bell’s palsy, but not in the face. It results from trauma to a nerve—injury in some cases, though a virus can do it, too.

“Sometimes it’s called ‘crutch arm’ because people who use crutches can damage the radial nerve where it runs along the inside of the upper arm. But this man didn’t use crutches. What’s more, he swore he’d done nothing whatever to put unusual stress on his arm. I’ll tell you, I was frankly at a dead end, running test after test and learning nothing. Was it psychosomatic? I just didn’t know.

“Then one afternoon, for no good reason, I canceled a nonurgent appointment and went to see my patient at his office. He was surprised to see me—worried, too, I imagine. His office furniture was old-fashioned—massive wooden desk and high-backed chair. I hadn’t been there a minute when he had a phone call. As soon as he picked up the receiver with his right hand, he flung his left arm—crippled forearm and all—over the back of that chair and almost hung there, half his weight on it. Obviously, an unconscious habit. When he hung up, I asked how much time he spent on the phone every day. ‘Oh, hours.’ Then he saw me looking at his arm over the back of the chair. We both started to laugh. He recovered full use of his arm in about two months.”

Amira started to laugh. “That’s marvelous,” she said, brimming with admiration. “I wish I could do what you do.”

“You could,” he said, his expression mirroring hers. “So could many people. I’m just a mechanic, really,” he added, turning pensive. “But the real magic is in healing the driver. If I had it to do over again—if I were as young as you, Amira—I believe that I would specialize in psychology.” It was a moment Amira would remember in the years to come, a moment when she glimpsed the future. She was enjoying herself so much, she wanted the evening to go on and on.