N went out to the landing, and no one in the salon called him back. He sat beside Mary, not talking and not telling anyone that he had witnessed his father’s suicide. He hid the matter for a long time; he was still hiding it now. For his father to have killed himself in N’s presence was too much to endure. For his father to have let go of N’s little hand forever and jumped; for his father to have left N sitting in the corner, just like that, and jumped; for his father to know that N had no real family but him and yet still to jump; for his father to know that he was forever abdicating the role of N’s father, ensuring that N would never again be a son to anyone for the rest of his life.

It wasn’t that Thurayya treated his father badly, though it was very likely that she had a lover. After the doctor’s death, however, Thurayya refused to marry her other man in order to spite the one who had dared to leave her, her and the two children—and also so it could not be said that the doctor had done himself in because of her, and so that no one could possibly find fault in her performance as a widow. She cried for days and looked good in mourning. She chose a black dress that left her neck exposed, revealing its slender profile. She was splendid in her sadness, like some actress from the golden age of Hollywood. That’s how she saw herself, and that’s how others saw her. She kept her head held high. You could see the two tendons on the sides of her neck, long and taut, looking as though they alone were keeping her head from rolling off in sorrow.

Thurayya would always say that the war was what killed her husband. She would tell how he had escaped a terrible massacre, and how he made it home and told her he had seen the face of the killer, knew his name, and that even so, the man had not opened fire upon him. No! cried Mr. N in his heart: you are the one who killed him with your neglect and your betrayal. You are the one who sparked a war inside him.

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