When their father left them, so to speak, this was precisely how Sa’id had positioned himself to do up N’s necktie. N was nine, Sa’id sixteen. Thurayya had been too preoccupied with the ideal forms her own grief might take—what to wear, how to do her hair, and whether to put a black scarf over her head or not—to pay much attention to her boys. Her stylist, Isa, hurried to find her, as did her tailor, Angel, and many of her friends—those she felt she could trust with the news of her widowhood, and who she thought would behave well under the circumstances. N sat alone in his room, not wanting to see anyone. Mary kept looking in on him from time to time, afraid for him. She brought him water to drink and used some to wipe his face. “God protect you, my dear,” she said, concerned. “How could he not think about you … ” And then, with tears, she added, “What have you done, poor Doctor!”

N—though he was not called N at that time—had been sitting in the office with his father when it happened. It was a Sunday, one of those depressing Sundays that neither adults nor children know how to use. His father was behind his desk, his eyes glued to a book lying open in front of him, and N’s eyes were glued to his father.

At first, he thought his father was playing a game. He sometimes pretended to be a statue, then moved as soon as N came near, making N jump in fright and run away, squealing. N had snuck through the door and was sitting on the leather sofa in the corner, holding in his laughter with both hands and pressing his back into the cushions. The leather was smooth, soft, and cool on his bare legs below his shorts. It took some time before N decided that his father wasn’t playing with him but was entirely absorbed in whatever he was reading. The waiting made N sleepy, and he dozed off for some seconds or minutes—he didn’t know how long—until he was woken by the noise his father made by standing up and scraping his heavy chair over the tiles. N looked at the clock on the wall; the hands pointed to 10:25.