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university. Ibrahim greeted me like the
prodigal son and brushed away my attempts to thank him again for
his help. He had a nasty Marlboro habit and I quickly discovered he
made a natural comedy act with his wife Nancy, a wisecracking lady
whose deep-etched laughter lines were somehow at odds with her
sad-looking eyes.
    I was mildly
surprised to be offered a beer: When Aisha and I had gone to dinner
together, we had shared a bottle of red wine. We had been wrapped
up in Ministry talk and I hadn’t asked her about when or how she
drank. I had assumed her life at home, as a Muslim, would be
teetotal.
    My health was
enthusiastically toasted with a heavy-based crystal tumbler of
Black Label by Ibrahim before Nour sat me down on a huge, tasselled
sofa and interrogated me with such charm that I had pretty much
told her my life story in minutes. She was joined by Nancy, who
flicked cigarette ash randomly into the wide selection of ornate
ashtrays around us as she demanded to know what a nice boy like me
was doing all alone in Amman. The talk turned to an upcoming
exhibition of Aisha’s work in a gallery in Amman. Nour was every
inch the proud mother. I was forced to confess I knew nothing about
Aisha’s life as an artist.
    ‘ We’ve been
so busy with Ministry stuff,’ I explained. ‘It never really came
up. Although I noticed she always has inky fingers.’
    Nour laughed,
‘That’s Aisha. I can’t believe she didn’t tell you about her
sketches.’
    She called
over to Aisha, whose head was thrown back in laughter at the finale
of some scandalous story of Ibrahim’s, her hair tumbling down over
her shoulders. She came, still laughing.
    ‘ Yes,
Mum?’
    Nour gestured
fussily. ‘Why haven’t you told Paul about your sketches? You’re too
secretive. Show him the ones you’re taking to the
gallery.’
    ‘ Fine. Come
on, Paul.’
    I followed
Aisha into a room adjoining the entrance hall. It was crammed with
pen and ink sketches on paper and canvas, pads stacked up on the
surfaces, a desk in the centre strewn with brushes and pens. The
tabletop drawing board had an angle poise lamp to the
side.
    I stood,
awed. ‘Why didn’t you mention this?’
    She smiled;
Gio conda. ‘You didn’t
ask.’
    I ambled over
to a charcoal sketch of an old Bedouin woman, scanned the portraits forming a series around
it. They were vibrant with contrast, the craggy lines of their
sun-hardened skin scored in deft, lifelike sweeps.
    ‘ These are
the ones I’m showing at the Lines Gallery next month,’ she said,
holding up a large pen and ink sketch. ‘They’re a celebration of
life in the Eastern City.’
    A man and boy
walked hand in hand through a shabby street, the washing hanging
out of the windows and cables strewn between the rooftops. It had
an air of tragedy; there was a fierce pride in the man’s bearing
that contrasted with his battered, desperate air.
    ‘ It’s
stunning. You’re an inky-fingered genius.’
    She laughed.
‘Right. Come on, let’s get back to the family.’ She turned by the
door, a serious look on her face. ‘I’m really glad you like them,
Paul.’
    I followed
her out of the studio. To tell the truth, I was really glad,
too.
    I guessed the
man who walked into the living room just after Aisha and I rejoined
the family was her brother Daoud. Nour stood as he came in and so
did I. He was in his late thirties and handsome, but there was a
quiet intensity about Daoud Dajani that dampened the mood in the
room briefly. He wore a tight polo neck and I could see his build.
He moved like a boxer.
    His eyes
bored into mine as he took my hand. ‘Welcome. You are Paul
Stokes.’
    A statement
of two facts, unsmilingly delivered. I could feel myself tripping
over my words before I spoke them. ‘Yes. Thank you. You must be
Daoud.’
    He held my
hand, a grip of steel. His temples carved deep incursions into his
slicked-back hair, his dark eyebrows and strong chin carried an air
of belligerence. He wore a slim gold chain