If all went as planned, he told himself, he would never be without her again. The steward had to remind him to fasten his seat belt for the landing.

Farid was waiting at the gate. Growing up, Malik had never seen a full-length mirror—large mirrors being frowned upon in al-Remal as irreligious, idolatrous—but France was full of them, including one at a circus that had reflected him shorter and broader than he was. Looking at his cousin, who resembled him greatly but in a shorter, wider way, was a bit like that.

Farid kissed him in greeting. “God’s peace be with you, my cousin.” “And with you, Cousin. Your father is well?”

“Yes, by the will of God, and your father, too.” The formalities satisfied, Farid held Malik at arm’s length, squinting at him as if examining a bolt of cloth in the souk. “I see you’ve become an infidel, Cousin, or at least a diplomat.”

Malik turned his palms up, pretending not to understand.

“Your complete your suit,” shouted Farid, using the French and English because there was no Arabic term for it. “Whatever you call these astonishing rags.”

Malik had put on his ghutra aboard the plane but had decided not to change his business suit for a thobe. The combination of ghutra and European garments had, in fact, recently come into vogue among Arab diplomats in the West.

“These rags cost me a month’s pay, Cousin,” Malik exaggerated.

Farid fingered the material and nodded sadly. “Alas, the Christians have robbed you, Cousin.”

But Malik could tell that he admired the exotic clothing.

Farid signaled a Palestinian porter for Malik’s luggage. The airport seemed busier than Malik remembered it. As his cousin escorted him past the customs desk, with a wave to the official in charge, he could feel pity for the foreign businessmen turning out the contents of their suitcases. Heaven help them, he thought, if they had been so foolhardy—or so ignorant—as to bring in such forbidden items as liquor or Playboy magazines.

Here and there, king’s guards, armed with automatic weapons and wearing ghutras checked with green—the color of Islam—stood watch over the milling civilians. He realized that he had never really noticed the guards before. They had been part of the scenery. They would be the ones to intervene, he supposed, if something went wrong, if someone sounded the alarm.

Farid’s car was a Buick, two or three years old—a dream for most Remalis, but not a token of great success for a man of Farid’s family. “I’m on the waiting list for a new Lincoln Continental,” he explained, adding ruefully, “I hope I can pay for it when it arrives.”