The marriage of Omar Badir’s eldest son was a momentous event. Amira had never seen her father’s house so crowded, not even on the day Jihan died. Both the men’s and women’s sections buzzed with guests, and the air was rich with the smells of spiced coffee, roasting lamb, incense, and perfume. Omar had gone all out, once he made up his mind—inviting virtually every friend, associate, and casual acquaintance he had to celebrate Malik’s marriage.

“In business,” Amira had heard him tell Farid, “when you are trapped in a bad deal, you must appear not only to welcome it, but to have planned it. It’s the same with this. God is all-knowing; it will all turn out for the best.”

It had taken masterful persuasion to bring him to that point. Farid had carried it off brilliantly. The problem, he and Amira agreed, was not so much that Malik had married an infidel—although that was bad enough—but that he had done so without asking Omar’s permission and blessing. That was unforgivable. “There’s only one way that the unforgivable can ever be for- given,” said Farid, “and that’s if one admits right away that it was unforgivable. Such is human nature.”

“Malik was wrong,” he told Omar, “completely and unremittingly wrong. You know it, I know it, and he knows it. He told me so himself when he called. No, no, Uncle, don’t say it: he should have called you, not me. But that’s the whole point—he’s too ashamed to speak with you.”

Before it was over, Farid made it seem that Malik’s action, terribly misguided though it was, actually stemmed from his tremendous respect for his father. “He was so afraid of offending you, Uncle, that he committed a far worse offense. Do you remember the truck driver who swerved to avoid a donkey and crashed into Prince Mubarak’s Ferrari?”

“Which are you likening me to, Nephew—a car or a donkey?” But Omar was smiling.

“Forgive me, Uncle; I’m clumsy with words. So let me ask you straight out: Will you let me tell Malik that he has your permission to call and apologize?”

Omar sighed. “Yes. Yes, of course, Nephew. But first, tell me what you know about this woman.”

Farid was an artist, carefully choosing the colors, the areas to highlight and shadow, in his portrait of Genevieve. Amira, listening outside the door, found herself half convinced that a lapsed Catholic Parisian cabaret singer in her late twenties was actually a shy, virginal girl who might have become a nun had she not fallen in love with Malik and taken a deep interest in Islam. And so they were all here today, eagerly awaiting the groom and his bride, excusing the unconventionality of the occasion by agreeing that Malik lived in Europe now, and when in Rome …