ONE
ecember 5-I o， i9 z z
She could hear him coughing， spasmodically， from somewhere
in the dark recesses qf the house. Every so often he would stop，
half-heartedly mumbling his Turkish exercise for the morning，
and she would wait， h~ - own breathing suspended momentarily
in sympathy， for the hiss of his breath and the raw rasp of his
throat. Listening to him， she thought， was like listening to her
mother snoring in the next room when she was a child. The calm
silences between her mother s snores， filled only by the sound of
night crickets， were worse than the snores themselves， for they
were filled with frustration and anticipation--a longing for quie-
tude yet with the expectant knowledge that it would not come.
Hell~ put down the copy of Wordsworth she had been read-
ing. Here on the veranda， the sun was hot， the air dry and mo-
tionless. In these hot hours， when the shade of the cypress was
most deep， there was no birdsong. She had noticed the absence
as soon as they had arrived in the Lebanon.
Out in the garden， nothing moved except for the cat in the
shadow of the cypress tree. Every so often， it flicked its tail from
within its sleep， and she pondered whether the animal was dream-
ing or if this was a reflex action to drive ants or fleas from its fur.
Every twitch of the tail brought up a soft puff of dust which did
not blow away but settled on the cat s hindquarters， lightening its
chocolate-brown coat.
\"I ve had enough! There s no beauty in it.\"
She turned to see her husband standing in the doorway. His
light-gray flannel trousers hung limply from his belt and his shirt-
sleeves were rolled up. He wore no collar， having snatched it off，
but the stud remained in the white cotton. It was， she thought，
like a tiny jewel at his throat.
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