Abbas rhymed avid and fervid. What more could Zana want? So, on that Saturday morning, Halim staggered into the Biblos. His eyes focused on the girl in the middle of the room. The widower Galib saw the fire in the visitor’s face. He stood stock still, paralyzed, with the fish, openmouthed and eyes bulging, on the tray balanced on his left hand. Knives and forks went silent, and faces turned around towards Halim. The blades of the fan made the only sound in the heavy, warm atmosphere. He took three steps towards Zana, stood up straight, and began to declaim the gazals, one by one, in a firm, deep, melodious voice, accompanied by enraptured gestures with his hands. He didn’t stop, couldn’t stop declaiming; this flood of emotion, this sudden outburst of passion had overwhelmed his shyness. Zana, a girl of fifteen, was stunned, and took shelter by her father. The hum of the fan was drowned by mutterings; someone laughed, a few others followed suit, but the wisecracks didn’t change the expression on Halim’s face. His gaze was fixed on Zana, and every pore seemed to exude the heady wine of happiness. Shy, but capable of moments of audacity, he himself had no idea how he crossed the room and took hold of Zana’s arm, whispered something to her and then moved away, facing her, staring at her, his eyes full of promise, with a hungry, docile look. He stayed that way until the laughter stopped, and a solemn silence underlined the power and meaning of his gaze. No one interrupted him; not a voice was raised. Then he left the Biblos. Two months later he was back, as Zana’s husband.

How beautiful Abbas’s gazals sounded in Halim’s voice! He sounded like a Sufi in a trance as he recited each rhyming couplet to me. He looked at the green, damp foliage, and spoke with energy: his voice came from deep within, pronouncing every syllable, celebrating a moment from the past. I didn’t understand the words when he spoke in Arabic, but even so I was moved: the sounds were strong, and the words vibrated as he intoned them. I liked to hear his stories. His voice still resounds in my ears, aflame in my memory. At times he forgot himself and spoke in Arabic. I smiled, and gestured my incomprehension: “It’s beautiful, but I don’t understand what you’re saying.” He touched his head and mumbled: “It’s age; in old age you don’t choose the language you speak in. But you can learn a few little words, dear boy.”