As Though She Were Sleeping Read Online Free Page A

standing before him, still in her brown overcoat, which disguised the white wedding gown almost completely, her big eyes sleepy and color beginning to suffuse her cheeks.
    What’s your name, bride?
    Milia turned her head as if to seek out the person whom the hotel owner was addressing. Raising her hand abruptly and gesturing toward her chest she asked if the question was for her.
    So who else would I be asking – aren’t you the bride? retorted a startled George Massabki before a wave of coughing engulfed him, doubling him over. He sat down on the sofa and waved his hand at the bride, inviting her to sit down next to him. Milia remained standing, though, waiting for Mansour to come back. She did not know why, but suddenly the thought seized her that Mansour was on the point of fleeing. She could envision him returning to the taxi, climbing in next to the driver, and telling him to drive off to Beirut.
    Then what will I do? Milia asked herself in a barely audible voice.
    Please, sit down and rest a bit, said Khawaja Massabki. Wadiia will come down now, and you two can go up to the room.
    Milia covered her eyes with her hands and heard Mansour asking the hotel owner for a second room.
    There were four of them now in the hotel’s large deserted reception hall. Near the front entrance a small black table sat in front of a board where the room keys hung. The board was full of keys, Milia noticed; the hotel must be completely vacant. Three couches upholstered in red plush formed a semicircle around the stove. A red-toned Persian carpet worked with animal motifs covered the floor almost entirely. On the facing wall some photos hung haphazardly. The three visitors stood still in the vestibule while Khawaja Massabki remained seated. He called again for Wadiia before getting to his feet and making his way to the stone staircase that led presumably to the rooms on the floor above.
    The heat coming from the stove was finally beginning to penetrate the bodies of the two men and one woman who stood waiting for Wadiia. Mansour walked up to one of the pictures hanging on the wall and beckoned to his wife. Come over here, look, here’s Faisal, this is King Faisal the First.
    Milia walked slowly over to where her husband stood. A gilded frame held a group of men in tarbushes who formed a close circle around a short, frail-looking man. His pale round face was set, and his eyes were fixed rigidly into the distance as if he could not see.
    That’s Faisal, said Mansour, pointing to the slight figure at the center.
    Did he spend his honeymoon in Shtoura, too? asked the driver sarcastically.
    You don’t understand anything about anything, said Mansour. Soon we can name our little boy Faisal, he said, looking into his wife’s eyes. How would you like that?
    She did not answer. She had thought Mansour would name his first son Shukri, after his own father. I don’t know, she said finally.
    And what do you think of the idea? Mansour asked the driver, who rubbed his hands in front of the stove and shoved them into his trouser pockets as if to hide away the warmth they retained.
    What’s this blasted cold, what a bitch. Your luck, fellow.
    The driver glanced at Milia, who stood next to her husband beneath the photograph of the king of Syria, who had been thrown out by the army of the République Française , whereupon the English had founded another kingdom for him next door in Iraq. He has all the luck, your husband, the driver said, and collapsed onto a little sofa nearby.
    The hotel owner reappeared followed closely by two women, both equally short. The first one was very pale and gave the impression of being half blind. She looked to be in her sixties. The second one had wheat-colored skin and seemed about thirty years old but otherwise they looked as alike as twins.
    Wadiia, take the bride and groom to Room Ten, said Khawaja George.
    The two women moved docilely as if they were a single person, coming toward the driver. Yallah , hurry up,