“Two spinal cords and two brains!” shouted someone from outside. There were containers of them in the refrigerator, next to other meats and not far from the hummus, cauliflower, and fried eggplant. When my father was still alive, brain and sweetbreads were his favorites, but Thurayya didn’t allow anything of the sort inside her home; she couldn’t even stomach hearing the words mentioned. So my father brought me to a sandwich shop and pointed out a container at the back of the refrigerator that held sliced brains, boiled in salt water and soaked in vinegar and oil. “Nothing comes close to the brain,” he told me. “Up till now, we haven’t grasped all its capabilities. But on top of all that—it has a flavor to die for.” When his order came, he took his first bite with eyes closed in order to savor its deliciousness. He offered me a taste, but I declined, preferring to finish the grilled cheese sandwich I’d ordered. My father laughed. “Don’t be afraid! It’s just a sheep’s brain. The things in the refrigerator that look like white worms are spinal cords, while the red pieces are cheeks. Your grandfather Nadeem used to order such things in advance from the butcher, along with raw esophagus, just as his father, the farmer, did before him. Then he would gather us around him as he enjoyed his feast with a glass of arak … Your grandmother Eugénie, a girl from a fancy family in Jaffa, always declined, declaring that she wasn’t hungry, or that she had never eaten ‘that’ in the house of her father, the great merchant. Your grandfather would quarrel with her, saying that next time he would treat her right and offer her a meal of trotters … Here, have a taste and see how it melts in your mouth, just like Turkish delight.”

Kareem answered a phone call from one of his friends. Then he excused himself and went off with a final reminder that he hadn’t seen me, nor I him. He seemed annoyed by how distracted I was anyway, and how I kept staring at his forehead. I looked at my watch. It was 10:25. I decided to walk around a little until I could gather my thoughts and reach a decision.

I reached Armenia Street and walked in the direction of Baladiya Square, away from the big roundabout that formed the border of Luqman’s neighborhood. I didn’t want to run into him then, not when I was still uncertain what was going on with me and with the angel who had returned to ask about me. Was it possible that she had come only to reassure herself? Or had she been impressed by Luqman, that stud, and come back for him, using me as an excuse? I didn’t know of any woman who noticed him without falling under his spell, despite his coarseness and his criminality. But a woman like her? So light and soft, she almost floated above the ground—how could she be attracted to a vulgar hulk like him? I recalled melting at the scent of her perfume, the velvet touch of her hands, and the way her voice trembled with compassion as she repeated, “Don’t be afraid! I’m here with you.” Who could have sent me such an angel? My father? No, he had not actually been a believer. To his final hour, he never spoke about what comes in the hereafter, about faith, or about the fear of death. Mary? Had one angel sent another to help a fallen angel get back up? My grandmother Eugénie? But if she could send angels, wouldn’t she have sent one to stop her mad son from going out the window?