52
PARTISAN REVIEW
sucked his lips, pulled at his mustache and kept repeating
Ahalan
v'Sahalan
ceremoniously. When the black coffee had been served, the
most distinguished of our hosts rose, brandished a bunch of keys that
he took out of the folds of his adorned abeya and turned to Major
Golan. "Noble brother, this is a blessed day for us. We are deposit–
ing into your hands today the keys of our town. Receive them with
our appreciation and affection for you are bone of our bone, flesh of
our flesh. Take them. Keep them. May Allah be always with you!"
The other Arabs got up to their feet too . Major Golan delivered
a thankful speech, interspersed with the pleasantries and stock
phrases that produced nods of assent.
It
was time for the presenta–
tion of the gifts to the other guests, the same gift to each of us - a
curved blade in an ornamental silver scabbard.
My refusal to take it started a flurry of whispering among our
hosts. Major Golan raised his brows, gazing at me pensively.
"Please tell them I don't wish to embarrass anybody but I can't
accept it."
Stroking his mustache, he turned back to our hosts and, with
impeccable finesse, made the necessary apologies. The notables ac–
quiesced with nods of the head and tugs of the beard, and then with
a handshake consented to forget the whole incident.
We were standing in the square beside our jeeps. Major Golan
placed his hand on my shoulder.
"Look, young man," he said. "I thought what you did was in
bad form. What did you want to prove anyway? We may not be here
much longer, you know. Why leave a bad impression on them in our
last days?"
He signaled to his driver and the man started up the jeep. Ma–
jor Golan got in and took his seat. The jeep lurched forward and
rolled off down the road into the alleys.
The sun was still strong, but twilight was fast approaching. I
felt the breath of evening spreading across the water. Soon the colors
would change, the air would quiver under the autumnal spell of the
desert and the sea. I could slip away to the beach and stroll past the
palm trees in the soft twilight. I had done that before, escaping from
the hospital, watching a lonely moon climb, a hot desert moon send–
ing its slivers of light upon the water and the white minaret. But I
was in no mood for that now .
The Forsyte Saga
lay closed on Muna's bedside when I entered
her room . Wide awake, she answered my routine questions calmly.
Yes, she felt fine. No, she had no pain. No, she didn't feel like
