“Where are we going for lunch?” He looked at Elias, who lounged on a dining table chair, his long legs stretched out in front of him. “The Lamb and Flag was decent, but perhaps we should try something new, the Eagle and Child, across the road?”
Elias nodded. “We could do that, if you want it.”
“Why, what was your plan?”
“I thought we could eat here. Undisturbed.”
Nassim glanced at the long dining table. Tested the sturdiness of an ornately carved chair. “All right. Where shall we fetch the food?”
“I befriended the college cook and I gave him some of the jars.” Elias pointed at the diminished selection on the mantelpiece. “They’ll serve us our plates here.”
Nassim’s teeth gleamed in a wide smile. “Nice. I like it.”
He sat down in a chair and leaned back with a sigh. His hair was cut, no longer overlong like during his last visit. He looked ready to go home.
“You know I am a man of culture,” he said to Elias, “but the first thing I will do at home is eat toum with a spoon. Rich, creamy, fluffy toum.” He put his fingertips together and kissed them.
Elias could picture it vividly, almost taste it, the garlic paste slathered onto freshly grilled, thinly sliced, well-seasoned chicken, wrapped in hot, soft bread with a tangy pickle . . .
“You look hungry,” Nassim said, smiling. “Come home with me. We get a ticket for you at the docks, there’s always someone peddling a last-minute ticket.”
Tempting. “I have business here.”
Nassim made an unwilling sound. “You have business in Beirut, too—if the bulls move at the end of September, what will you do here for another six weeks?”
“Incredible,” Elias said. “The operation doesn’t happen on its own. I have to practice the moves with the men. The crew needs every detail of the schedule. I haven’t yet secured passage on a boat for the pieces because the man I hired to forge the export papers will need at least another week to finish.”
And he couldn’t leave without having seen her again and making things right—properly.
“All right.” Nassim shrugged. “I think it would be a good idea if you came, but it’s your decision. You were right about them finding me a wife, by the way. Apparently, Jabbar was busy.”
Elias paused. “Is that what you want?”
Another shrug. “Sure. Let’s wait and see what he proposes.”
Elias looked at him askance. His cousin’s face was oddly unreadable, a mix of pleased and yet wary.
“What is it?” Elias asked, because he had known Nassim long enough to know that face. His cousin was keeping something from him. Something other than the prototype.
“Let’s eat first,” Nassim said.
“Why?”
“You’re already in a bad mood, over the steam box.”
Elias came to his feet. “Nassim, I swear if you don’t tell me, I’ll—”
“All right. He’s finding you a wife, too.”
Chapter 33
Apressure built behind Elias’s eyes. “You are mistaken,” he said.
Nassim hunched his shoulders in a disarming manner. “I’m just telling you what I heard.”
“What?” Elias ground out. “What did you hear? How?”
“Layal.”
“Why is she telling you, not me?”
“She doesn’t have your address here. Look.” Nassim went to the garderobe, reached inside his jacket pocket, and took out a wad of pound notes and paper slips, among them a telegram.
Elias was next to him with two strides and snatched the telegram from his hand. His brows formed a harsh V while his gaze flew over the lines. At some point, his cousin Layal had had the news dictated to a telegraph officer in Beirut. Black on white, it said prospective brides . . . let Eli know . . .
Elias ripped the telegram in half.
“What the hell,” said Nassim.
Elias crumpled the bits in his fist and tossed the paper ball onto the table. Shaking from suppressing a great rage, he turned to Nassim.
“Are you not tired of others dictating your life?”
Nassim’s eyes were big. “You’re angry.”
He was incensed. “What are we? Are we eighteen-year-old peasants, having to take the girl our parents pick?”
“Eighteen? No, we’re not eighteen,” Nassim said, his hands moving, his voice rising. “We’re old, you especially, you will be thirty in a few years—what did you expect?”