“Miracles,” Malik continued. “Nothing short of miracles are performed in France. With the grace of God, the doctors assisted an acquaintance of mine. His seed, alas, was weak, but the doctors strengthened it. Now he and his wife have a son.” Malik smiled at this happy conclusion to his narrative: a true story, albeit a rather simplistic explanation of artificial insemination.

“Is this true, Malik ibn Omar? Is this really true?”

“What I have said happens, happens.”

For perhaps five seconds, Mahir could have posed as Antar’s smaller brother. Then he slowly sagged. “They must all be millionaires in France,” he said, “to be able to afford these doctors.”

It was the moment Malik had been waiting for. “Well, that’s the thing, you see,” he said, signaling for more coffee. “In France, the employer customarily pays the medical bills of those who work for him.” It was not strictly untrue, he told himself; it would be the custom of at least one employer.

Not long after that, Mahir declared that relatives or no, water truck be cursed, he had always wanted to see the world and named a figure of his own.

When the pleasure of bargaining was finally done, Mahir invited Malik to his house—“to taste some of the cooking you’ll be enjoying and, of course, to see the little one.”

“You’re too kind. I wouldn’t want to disturb your relatives.”

“You are my employer. If you do me the honor to visit my home, what should they have to say about it?”

There were no relatives, as it turned out, in Mahir’s small and hot but immaculately clean house. There was only Salima coming to her husband’s call, glancing in question to his face and finding the answer.

But Malik scarcely noticed this, for in Salima’s arms was Laila, her dark, clear eyes gazing into his with what, forever after, he would swear was a look of eternal recognition.

Part Two

Part

Two

4. Childhood

Childhood

The soccer ball that Malik remembered, Amira remembered, too. She had been no more than five or six when it came bounding out of the cacophony of the boys’ game, stopping an inch from her white sandals.

It seemed as big as a planet, but the temptation to kick it was irresistible.

The first try failed. Her favorite dress—white with a bow that tied in the back—betrayed her; it was ankle-length, of course, with long pants under it, and when she drew back her foot, she stepped on the hem, got tangled, and missed the ball completely. The boys hooted.

She lifted the dress just enough to gain free movement and kicked with all her might. The heavy ball stung her toes but sailed like something in a dream—into the fountain. For a moment, there was chaos, even Malik shouting at her, until her aunt Najla appeared and towed her back to the group of women and younger children.