neighbors considered him wise in matters relating to anything that required a good education—medicine, law, religious philosophy—and they often sought his advice. Over the years people had discovered that he wasn't much use for setting broken bones or understanding the nuances of jurisprudence, but he knew nearly everything about the human gaze—its history, its power, even its cultural peculiarities. Word spread that he was wise on this matter above all, and before long he could count on three to four visits a week, mostly from strangers, and most of them complaining of the evil eye.
Samir obliged anyone who came to his door with the same serious questions a doctor might ask a patient. If he found it ironic that he, a legitimate scientist, should be delving into a subject with a greater history of fraud than witchcraft, telekinesis, and faith healing combined, he never shared this thought with his guests. He recorded their complaints and took care in transcribing each disease from its start. While he could generally offer his visitors nothing more practical than a pendant for protection and the name of a good Bedouin exorcist, he did manage, with his kindly tone and general air of professionalism, to assuage some of their suffering. He also pursued his pet subject at no great cost to himself. And with that he was pleased.
Much as a doctor builds immunity from a constant exposure to germs, Samir had never suffered from the evil eye himself—although he claimed that this resulted from his excellent use of protection. He wore a blue glass amulet beneath his shirt, but more important, he preempted every threatening gaze with a subtle sign of five. It could come in any form. He scratched his chin five times. He blinked five times. He drew five strokes down his arm with his hand. On occasion he even protected Nayir, giving him five soft pats on the shoulder or repeating his name five times.
For Nayir, the habit had never stuck. He had a secret scorn for impractical gestures; they generally drew attention and invited more evil. But a quiet part of him was willing to concede that the evil eye was not a mere myth.
He was sitting in his uncle's study on the leeward side of a titanic oak desk, just where the ceiling fan dropped a gentle caress. They had lingered over a very late dinner, and the musky smell of lamb still clung to their robes. He could feel the miswak in his pocket jabbing his thigh, but he didn't take it out—there was nowhere to spit bristles in Samir's house—so he looked at the walls, at the map of the world and the
Bombyx mori
specimens all perfectly framed and labeled. To the right loomed a shelf of textbooks of various shapes and sizes, their only commonalities a certain outmoded chemistry topic and a very thin layer of dust.
On the other side of the desk, Samir sat smoking a Western pipe,
a stubby brown artifact that a British archaeologist had given him in 1968. He blew a smoke stream toward the ceiling fan—which blew it back down toward Nayir—and tapped the pipe's mouthpiece on his carbuncular nose.
"How was the desert?" he asked.
"Good," Nayir said, and they fell into one of the comfortable silences they often shared.
After Nayir's parents had died in an accident when he was a baby, Samir had raised him. He was Nayir's father's brother, and the only family member wealthy enough to take in a young boy. Samir had fought the state for the privilege of raising Nayir. The only other option was to let him grow up in Palestine with Samir's sister, Aisha, who already had seven children but had no husband and no money. Samir liked to remind Nayir that Palestine was a terrible place to raise a child, and that if he had grown up there, he would likely be dead or imprisoned by the Israelis today.
Samir had long ago found a niche for himself working with archaeologists all over the Middle East, analyzing artifacts and training archaeologists to use the latest chemical analysis equipment. Nayir
Samir obliged anyone who came to his door with the same serious questions a doctor might ask a patient. If he found it ironic that he, a legitimate scientist, should be delving into a subject with a greater history of fraud than witchcraft, telekinesis, and faith healing combined, he never shared this thought with his guests. He recorded their complaints and took care in transcribing each disease from its start. While he could generally offer his visitors nothing more practical than a pendant for protection and the name of a good Bedouin exorcist, he did manage, with his kindly tone and general air of professionalism, to assuage some of their suffering. He also pursued his pet subject at no great cost to himself. And with that he was pleased.
Much as a doctor builds immunity from a constant exposure to germs, Samir had never suffered from the evil eye himself—although he claimed that this resulted from his excellent use of protection. He wore a blue glass amulet beneath his shirt, but more important, he preempted every threatening gaze with a subtle sign of five. It could come in any form. He scratched his chin five times. He blinked five times. He drew five strokes down his arm with his hand. On occasion he even protected Nayir, giving him five soft pats on the shoulder or repeating his name five times.
For Nayir, the habit had never stuck. He had a secret scorn for impractical gestures; they generally drew attention and invited more evil. But a quiet part of him was willing to concede that the evil eye was not a mere myth.
He was sitting in his uncle's study on the leeward side of a titanic oak desk, just where the ceiling fan dropped a gentle caress. They had lingered over a very late dinner, and the musky smell of lamb still clung to their robes. He could feel the miswak in his pocket jabbing his thigh, but he didn't take it out—there was nowhere to spit bristles in Samir's house—so he looked at the walls, at the map of the world and the
Bombyx mori
specimens all perfectly framed and labeled. To the right loomed a shelf of textbooks of various shapes and sizes, their only commonalities a certain outmoded chemistry topic and a very thin layer of dust.
On the other side of the desk, Samir sat smoking a Western pipe,
a stubby brown artifact that a British archaeologist had given him in 1968. He blew a smoke stream toward the ceiling fan—which blew it back down toward Nayir—and tapped the pipe's mouthpiece on his carbuncular nose.
"How was the desert?" he asked.
"Good," Nayir said, and they fell into one of the comfortable silences they often shared.
After Nayir's parents had died in an accident when he was a baby, Samir had raised him. He was Nayir's father's brother, and the only family member wealthy enough to take in a young boy. Samir had fought the state for the privilege of raising Nayir. The only other option was to let him grow up in Palestine with Samir's sister, Aisha, who already had seven children but had no husband and no money. Samir liked to remind Nayir that Palestine was a terrible place to raise a child, and that if he had grown up there, he would likely be dead or imprisoned by the Israelis today.
Samir had long ago found a niche for himself working with archaeologists all over the Middle East, analyzing artifacts and training archaeologists to use the latest chemical analysis equipment. Nayir
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