Excerpt from The Parisian by Isabella Hammad, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

"I cannot imagine it."

He waited for Faruq's scorn. But Faruq only shrugged, and dropped his eyes to the table.

"Were you ever in Montpellier?" said Midhat.

"No, only Paris. Of course, the university is famous for medicine. Didn't Rabelais study there?"

"Ah, you know about Rabelais!"

Faruq chuckled. "Have some marmalade before I eat it all."

Faruq returned to his cabin a er breakfast, and Midhat climbed the staircase to the deck and sat beside the stern. He stared at the sea and listened with partial comprehension to a group of European officials—Dutch, French, English—shouting from the next bench, first about the technology of the vessel and then about the German advance on Paris.

Boards quaked beneath Midhat's feet: a child was scampering along the deck. Beyond, a pair of young women compared cartes postales, and the wind harassed the tassels on their parasols. Those were the same girls who last night at dinner had displayed their lovely hair like hats, crimped and waved and decorated with jewels that sparkled under the chandeliers. At last, the door to the bridge opened and a red-haired man, Captain Gorin, stepped out and cracked his knuckles. A uniformed official leapt from the bench to address him, and as Gorin's lips moved—soundless to Midhat in the wind—the grooves in his face deepened. He cupped his hands over a cigarette, shook a match free of its flame, and held the lit end in his palm against the wind. The other man departed, and Gorin smoked over the rail for a while. His curls flung about; they seemed barely attached to his head. He flicked the butt overboard and retreated below deck.

Midhat decided to follow. He crossed before the shouting Europeans just as Gorin disappeared under the hatch, and swung after him down the metal stairs. The first door on the passage gave onto a saloon, which was full of people. In the corner a gramophone sang. He scanned for Gorin, and met the eyes of Faruq, who was sitting at a table with a pile of books.

"I'm glad you're here," said Faruq. He had changed his clothes and was now wearing a dark suit and a yellow tie with green hexagons. "I found these for you. They are the only ones I have with me. Some poems ... poems again, this one is quite good actually ... and Les Trois Mousquetaires. Essential reading for any young man on his first trip to France."

"I am very grateful."

"I will buy us something to drink, and then we shall practice French. Whisky?"

Midhat nodded. He sat, and to hide his nerves, reached for The Three Musketeers. The page fell open at the authorial preface.

While doing research at the Royal Library for my History of Louis XIV, I accidentally fell upon the Memoirs of M. d'Artagnan, printed—as were most works of that period in which the authors

Two glasses half full of trembling liquid slid across the polished table.

"Santé. Now, I'm going to tell you some things. Are you ready?" Faruq leaned back against the bench, and pulled the prayer beads from his pocket as he reached for his drink. "First of all, women in France. Now, this is strange, but they are treated like queens. Always they will enter a room first. Remember that. Expect a few things that might make you uncomfortable. Try to have an open mind. Remain true to your origins, in French we'd say rester dèle à vos racines, fhimet alay? You know I have many French friends. And Spanish. The Spanish are more like the Arabs—the French are something different. They are mostly Christians, so consider them like your Christian friends in Nablus. I presume you have met or at least seen French pilgrims in Palestine. Are there missionaries in Nablus?"

"Yes. But I also went to school in Konstantiniyye. I know many Christians."

Faruq was not listening. "Well you should know that missionaries are always different from the natives. The religion is less strong in France, first of all. So try not to be shocked by their kissing, and their alcohol, and so on."

Excerpted from The Parisian by Isabella Hammad. Copyright © 2019 by Isabella Hammad. Excerpted by permission of Grove Press. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.