whose breath was getting shorter as she hurried to keep up with her striding charge, began to grow suspicious. What would a grocery store have that would make a normally reasonable girl march ardently to the end of the world for it like this? There was only one answer possible. Fa-heema pursed her lips, collected her melaya around her, and puffed after Milou.
Yanni Panayotis was a big man with a great deal of shaggy black hair streaked with silver. He made up for his broadening forehead by growing a wild beard and mustache. He liked the looks of both women and sat them down in his dark, cool shop and offered them tea and chocolates. From then on, Milou always went to Shari el-Khaleeg on Sunday. She went one week and then the next, and the third time he was there. He was helping his father stack a delivery of large tins of white cheese. Milou sipped at her scalding tea and watched his broad back move under the fine white cotton shirt as he bent and straightened and lifted and reached. She glanced at the gray linen trousers shaping themselves around him as he squatted down infront of the cheese, but then she bit her lip and kept her eyes on the sawdust-strewn floor. When he had finished, Philippe took out a pressed white handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his brow. He was formal as he declined his father’s offer of a cold drink. “I will leave you to conduct your business.” He bowed over Milou’s hand. “Enchanté, mam’selle, a most happy opportunity.” He smiled into her eyes and left. Yanni turned to Milou, shrugging and spreading his hands wide, and saw at once her passion for his son in the girl’s high color and rigid posture. Ah, so that’s it, he thought. It is for this that it is Sunday, and always Sunday; the little Philippe has lit a fire.
“And what a fire that will be,” he commented to his wife that night. “The girl is beautiful and her hair is in flames already.” Nina turned down the corners of her mouth and pouted at the husband who—after two married daughters and a son who could, if he wished, grow whiskers and a beard— could still sweet-talk her back into bed with him on a Monday morning when the shop was closed and the boy had gone to school and Nina was in her flowered silk dressing gown, belted to show off her still-tiny waist. She would glance up at the mahogany display cabinet hanging in the corner above their bed with her bridal veil and its crown of orange blossom inside it and remonstrate that it was unseemly to behave like a honeymoon couple and draw the blinds in the morning after twenty-five years of marriage—what would the neighbors think? Khawaga Yanni grunted affectionately as he nuzzled his mustache into his wife’s neck. “They will say, ‘The old fool is still crazy for her,’ and they will be right, no? Is that not so,little one? Ah, my little one …” and Nina would hold him gently and let him love her and think what a wonderful stew she would make for his lunch. Now she pouted and stared down at the petit point in her hand: the girl is too old; she is four years older than Philippe. Yanni should not be easygoing on such matters. A man can tire easily of a wife older than himself. Of course, on the other hand, she has no mother or brother to make trouble with, and when Monsieur Vasilakis— God grant him long life—goes, she will be the sole owner of a restaurant in a very good part of town.
The discussions continued and Milou’s visits to the shop continued. Philippe left the Frères and joined the Faculty of Commerce and still every Sunday morning Milou would walk across town to the grocery store in Shari el-Khaleeg, take tea with Khawaga Panayotis, and hire a calèche to carry her and her provisions back to the rue Sarwat. Sometimes she began to despair, to lose heart, but then she would see him, and each time she was freshly convinced that he had “intentions;” their glance had met for a fraction longer, his smile had asked a question—a question
Yanni Panayotis was a big man with a great deal of shaggy black hair streaked with silver. He made up for his broadening forehead by growing a wild beard and mustache. He liked the looks of both women and sat them down in his dark, cool shop and offered them tea and chocolates. From then on, Milou always went to Shari el-Khaleeg on Sunday. She went one week and then the next, and the third time he was there. He was helping his father stack a delivery of large tins of white cheese. Milou sipped at her scalding tea and watched his broad back move under the fine white cotton shirt as he bent and straightened and lifted and reached. She glanced at the gray linen trousers shaping themselves around him as he squatted down infront of the cheese, but then she bit her lip and kept her eyes on the sawdust-strewn floor. When he had finished, Philippe took out a pressed white handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his brow. He was formal as he declined his father’s offer of a cold drink. “I will leave you to conduct your business.” He bowed over Milou’s hand. “Enchanté, mam’selle, a most happy opportunity.” He smiled into her eyes and left. Yanni turned to Milou, shrugging and spreading his hands wide, and saw at once her passion for his son in the girl’s high color and rigid posture. Ah, so that’s it, he thought. It is for this that it is Sunday, and always Sunday; the little Philippe has lit a fire.
“And what a fire that will be,” he commented to his wife that night. “The girl is beautiful and her hair is in flames already.” Nina turned down the corners of her mouth and pouted at the husband who—after two married daughters and a son who could, if he wished, grow whiskers and a beard— could still sweet-talk her back into bed with him on a Monday morning when the shop was closed and the boy had gone to school and Nina was in her flowered silk dressing gown, belted to show off her still-tiny waist. She would glance up at the mahogany display cabinet hanging in the corner above their bed with her bridal veil and its crown of orange blossom inside it and remonstrate that it was unseemly to behave like a honeymoon couple and draw the blinds in the morning after twenty-five years of marriage—what would the neighbors think? Khawaga Yanni grunted affectionately as he nuzzled his mustache into his wife’s neck. “They will say, ‘The old fool is still crazy for her,’ and they will be right, no? Is that not so,little one? Ah, my little one …” and Nina would hold him gently and let him love her and think what a wonderful stew she would make for his lunch. Now she pouted and stared down at the petit point in her hand: the girl is too old; she is four years older than Philippe. Yanni should not be easygoing on such matters. A man can tire easily of a wife older than himself. Of course, on the other hand, she has no mother or brother to make trouble with, and when Monsieur Vasilakis— God grant him long life—goes, she will be the sole owner of a restaurant in a very good part of town.
The discussions continued and Milou’s visits to the shop continued. Philippe left the Frères and joined the Faculty of Commerce and still every Sunday morning Milou would walk across town to the grocery store in Shari el-Khaleeg, take tea with Khawaga Panayotis, and hire a calèche to carry her and her provisions back to the rue Sarwat. Sometimes she began to despair, to lose heart, but then she would see him, and each time she was freshly convinced that he had “intentions;” their glance had met for a fraction longer, his smile had asked a question—a question
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