the Hand of Faima

A STOry FrOM LEbAnOn

neesi paused outside the dining room. She had spent thelong, hot summer morning helping Sitt Zeina prepare a lavishlunch, had waited on the guests without a single slip, and had justnished clearing the dessert dishes. She was tired and hungry, andher plastic sandals chaed rom so much running back and orth.All she wanted right now was to sit down in the kitchen and enjoy the leovers.But something had caught her attention. Holding the silverserving plates still hal ull o pastries, she lingered in the hallway to listen.Sitt Zeina was telling her husband, in no uncertain terms, “We

must

have that garden wall repaired, Yusu. You know, where theold g tree is pushing it over. You’ve put it of long enough, andcosts are going up every day. Besides, there’s a lot more we shoulddo with the garden.”Beore Dr. Jubeili could answer, one o the guests broke inwith a laugh. “What are you thinking o, Zeina? Big ideas or theJubeili estate?”“Oh, nothing too extravagant,” she answered. “Just terraces ormy roses, with good walls o well-tted stones. Tere aren’t many