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she was a jumble of nerves.
    “Kathy, please—” he started.
    “I just get scared when you drive!”
    “I ask you,” he said, beginning what Kathy knew was one of his frequent thought experiments. “Let’s say the average person drives maybe two hours a day, every day, and that person gets, on average, two tickets a year. I drive maybe
six
hours
each day
. How many tickets should I have? This is what I ask.”
    “I’m just saying, I personally get scared.”
    “I get only two, three tickets a
year
, Kathy! I knew this man, a cab driver in New York for thirty years. No license, and this man—”
    Kathy didn’t want to hear about the man in New York. “I’m just saying …”
    “Kathy. Kathy. In Syria we have a saying, ‘The crazy person talks, the wise person listens.’”
    “But you’re the one talking.”
    Zeitoun had to laugh. She always got the best of him.
    “I’ll call you later,” she said.
    Zeitoun headed to the West Bank to get a look at the tangerine bathroom. He tried to be amused by the fickle nature of clients’ tastes; it was part of the job, and if he got exasperated every time someone changed their mind, he’d never survive. The upshot was that it ensured no day was dull. The intensely personal nature of his business, the subjectivity of taste, the variables of light and curtains and carpets, guaranteed that minds would reevaluate and work would have to be redone.
    Still, the most unusual requests often came from the most normal-seeming people. One customer, a Southern belle in her sixties, had called Zeitoun Painting and had been happy to talk with Kathy, with her chatty demeanor and familiar accent. But when the painters showed up to begin work on the exterior of her home, the woman immediately called Kathy.
    “I don’t like these men,” she said.
    “What’s wrong with ’em?” Kathy asked.
    “They’re swarthy,” she said. “I only want white people working on my house.” She said it like she was choosing a kind of dressing for her salad.
    “White people?” Kathy laughed. “Sorry, we’re fresh out of those.”
    She convinced the woman that the men who had been sent—all of them Latino, in this case—were skilled professionals who would do an excellent job. The woman assented, but continued to call. “He’s too short to be a painter,” she said about one worker, Hector, who was oversix feet tall. Realizing that no matter how much she complained, she would not be able to replace these painters with taller, Caucasian ones, the Southern belle resigned herself to watching the men, checking on them frequently.
    Of course, every so often, would-be clients could not get past Zeitoun’s last name. They would call for an estimate and ask Kathy, “Zeitoun, where’s that name come from? Where is he from?” And Kathy would say, “Oh, he’s Syrian.” Then, after a long pause or a shorter one, they would say, “Oh, okay, never mind.” It was rare, but not rare enough.
    Kathy sometimes told Zeitoun about such incidents, sometimes not, and never at dinner. Usually he just laughed it off, but occasionally it got under his skin. His frustration with some Americans was like that of a disappointed parent. He was so content in this country, so impressed with and loving of its opportunities, but then why, sometimes, did Americans fall short of their best selves? If you got him started on the subject, it was the end of any pleasant meal. He would begin with a defense of Muslims in America and expand his thesis from there. Since the attacks in New York, he would say, every time a crime was committed by a Muslim, that person’s faith was mentioned, regardless of its relevance. When a crime is committed by a Christian, do they mention his religion? If a Christian is stopped at the airport for trying to bring a gun on a plane, is the Western world notified that a Christian was arrested today and is being questioned? And what about African Americans? When a crime is committed by a