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.

Mahir Najjar was a small, rather dark-skinned man several years older than Malik. He had perpetually sad eyes, so that a nervous tic that occasionally twitched his nose and mustache caused him to resemble a melancholy rabbit.

One thing Malik had learned was the worth of appearances. With the possible exception of Farid, he trusted Mahir as much as any man he knew. After the necessary courtesies, Malik decided on a direct approach. “A man in my position needs a driver,” he stated flatly, “and I thought of your honorable self before anyone else.”

Without mentioning Salima, he added that he would be needing a cook and someone to look after his child, making it clear that Laila would be going to France one way or the other. He would pay well for these services, he said. He named a figure.

On hearing it, Mahir’s eyes became sadder and his tic more noticeable. “As always, sir, you are most generous. But I already have an excellent position driving a water truck for the oil Americans.”

“Ah. Well, then, you are to be congratulated for your industry and initiative. I’m sure you’ve heard, as I have, that many who work for the Americans find many opportunities to better themselves. Why, one fellow even went on to become a millionaire.”