It was a question Malik had thought about often, but had never tried to put into words. “If all goes well, Salima Najjar will be doing most of the raising for a while, so there’s that to consider. But later … it’s hard to explain. I still believe in God. How else can this be explained?”—he swept a hand toward the diamond heavens—“And I still believe that Mohammed is his prophet. But I can’t believe in—can’t accept—some of the things that are done in God’s name or Mohammed’s.”

Amira nodded. “Those are my feelings, as well.” They had lowered their voices even though there was no one to hear. The words they were speaking were forbidden.

“Of course,” said Malik, “when she’s of an age, I’ll force her to take the veil, make sure she never sees the inside of a book, and—”

“You can’t be serious!”

“No, but I wanted to see the look on your face.” “Idiot.”

“What I really think,” Malik said contemplatively, “is that when Laila is your age, it will be very hard to tell her from any other little Francaise.”

“I like that picture. I don’t know how it will sit with Father, though.” She came close and hugged him tight. “I’ve missed you, Brother.’’

“And I you.”

They talked in the garden long into the night; there was no certainty when, if ever, they would have an hour alone together again.

O

With Farid as the go-between, Malik arranged a meeting with Mahir Najjar. His home was no place to talk business, Mahir insisted; he was beset there by relatives and in-laws, he claimed.

Suspecting that the man wanted mainly to be out of the hearing of his wife, Malik agreed to meet on neutral ground: a coffeehouse in a poor section of town, where neither man was likely to encounter close acquaintances. “I will want to see my daughter,” Malik added, “whether or not we come to some agreement.” In order not to be conspicuous in the neighborhood, he borrowed a thobe of Farid’s that had seen better days. He went early, just after dark, and sipped coffee and sweetened tea while a storyteller related an adventure of the hero Antar, known all across the Middle East.

The son of a desert sheik and a black slave from Africa, Antar had gained his freedom through acts of bravery, and though he was ruthless against his enemies, he was always a friend to those who suffered injustice at the hands of the powerful. In this particular story, Antar was in danger because of his love for the daughter of a prince.

Malik had heard it before, but the storyteller was not unskilled, and it was pleasant to sit in the crowded coffeehouse, a man among his countrymen, needing no explanation except that he was there.

Mahir arrived and stood against the wall while the inevitable tragic death of the girl and Antar’s fierce retribution against her evil father were recounted. With the tale’s end, the crowd thinned, and Malik and Mahir took a table that offered a reasonable degree of privacy.