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whose women are highly sought after by Arab men. Women with fair skin, light hair and eyes that are neither black nor brown are deemed more than just attractive, they are believed to produce the most handsome offspring. Looking at Dalia and her four brothers, the theory clearly held a lot of truth.
    I found Dalia in her room, sitting on her bed, reading the last few pages of Taher al Edward’s The Fact of Time.
    “Sabah al khair, ya gazallae. What are you reading?” I said.
    “Oh my God. How did you manage to escape so early
    morning?” she asked as she stood up to embrace me. I got lucky, my father and brothers have gone to check on Cidi (my grandfather), and I ran over here so we could finally
    talk.”
    “I’m so glad you did, I feel as if I’m going to burst. First, let’s
    make sure the coast is clear,” and she bolted out of her room.
     
    I sat on her bed and looked around at her possessions, noting how many of them reflected our friendship. Some of the things dated back to our childhood the fossils we found at the age of seven while playing on my family’s farm, or the sweet dish that housed her collection of sea shells, bits of coral, and a starfish that we discovered on the coast of Aqaba. Others were more recent, including the Samar Hadaddin canvas we’d bought at Riwak Al Balkaa Art Gallery in Fuheis a few weeks before and now hung above her headboard. The artist, a woman, quickly became a favourite of ours and the painting’s mate hung in my room.
    Dalia’s furnishings and curtains were clearly chosen by her mother, but everything else reflected her.
    She came back holding two small fanageen (small Turkish coffee cups) brimming with coffee.
    “Pull out the folding table from behind the dresser,” she said. After I positioned the little table near the bed, she set down the coffee and started rummaging through the bottom drawer of her dresser.
    “Close and lock the door,” she instructed. Seconds later she pulled out a pack of Gauloise Blondes, matches, and a small, handmade earthenware ashtray. Then, before sitting on the bed, she grabbed the radio from her window ledge, switched 11 on, lowered the volume, and placed it on the floor behind the locked door so no one walking along the corridor could listen to our conversation.
    “Now we can talk,” she said as she handed me a cigarette. I placed the cigarette on the table next to my coffee and turned to her.
    “You’re not going to like what I have to say,” I started.
    “What do you mean?” She was steeling herself, composing herself.
    “Well, I think Michael may be married.”
    A wild range of emotions played across her face as she tried to stay poised. “I don’t think so. I mean, he’s not the kind of person who would hide something like that.”
    “You remember Jehan, the woman he brought to the salon. Well, they came together and left together and it was late in the day.”
     
    “That doesn’t mean that she’s his wife.”
    “No, but they live together, too.”
    “That still doesn’t mean that she’s his wife. Did she say she was his wife?”
    “No, but she did say that she loves and respects him.”
    “Well, she can love and respect him if she’s his relative.”
    “I know, but at that hour, Dalia, most single women aren’t allowed out. You know that. We’d only be allowed to go to a relative’s home at that time.”
    “I know, but still, she could be a married relative, a cousin, or … She lives with him? Are you sure?”
    “Yes, I’m sure.”
    “Well then, she’s probably one of his sisters. He has three, you know.”
    “I didn’t remember that. I suppose she could have been his sister, but if she’s not his sister, promise me that you won’t talk to him again.”
    “I can’t promise that. I mean, if she’s his wife, then I won’t want to talk to him again.”
    “Good.”
     
    “Did he say anything that night? Did you talk to him?” \020”I didn’t get a chance to, I was working on Jehan’s