Mahir nodded tentatively, as if he were not sure where Malik was going. “Naturally, I would not want you to pass up an opportunity for such wealth. Nevertheless, I still need a driver and a cook.” Malik named a higher figure.

Mahir thanked him. “But France is far away,” he pointed out, “and a man has responsibilities to his kin, as well as to himself.”

“Quite right,” Malik agreed—and then named a still higher figure, insisting that it was final. “And the move to France need not be permanent,” he noted.

Mahir’s eyes became sadder than ever. “If I were only younger, sir,” he lamented, “if it were not for my relatives …”

“Well,” said Malik, with a hint of exasperation, “this is either written—mak- tub—or it is not.”

Mahir agreed that this was certainly true.

For a moment, Malik feared that they were genuinely at an impasse. Yet, Mahir made no sign of breaking off the discussion. Instead, after a suitable interval, he said deferentially, “Tell me, Malik, son of Omar, will you be coming home soon to claim a bride of your own?”

Malik smiled inwardly; Farid had prepared the ground well. “I doubt it,” he said casually. “What’s the hurry?”

“Very wise, very wise. Sometimes, I wish I had waited myself. But don’t you feel the need to start a family, while you are still young?”

“Oh, I suppose every man feels that way, but as I said, what’s the rush?” “Indeed, indeed, plenty of time.” The eyes were no longer sad, and the tic was much diminished.

“Possibly, I’ve been in France too long, Mahir, and I have become infected with French ways.” Malik explained that the French were late marriers, not only the men, but the women. French females not uncommonly married as late as twenty-five. Even thirty. “No, don’t look at me like that, Mahir. It’s the truth.”

“But who would marry a woman of that age, unless he were very old himself, or she were rich?”

“Well, why not? Frenchwomen keep their looks very well—much better than ours do, I’m ashamed to say. Besides, even at thirty, they can have as many children as they want.’’

“Now how can that be?” The eyes were those of a man with fever, and the tic had vanished entirely.

Malik shrugged. “It’s simply a question of medical science. Unfortunately, we have nothing like it here.” He paused for effect. “There have even been cases where women of advanced age had other difficulties. Yet, the French doctors can remedy these as well.”

The fevered eyes blinked rapidly as Mahir struggled to take in the wonders Malik described.