I could never get my fill in those scattered visits during vacations. For my brother and mother, or even my father, marriage to someone of another nationality was not a problem; but for me, it would be a disaster. My mother could not bear to remain in Cairo after his death, especially after she felt reassured about my brother Nasr, who had married an Egyptian girl. He would close his eyelids over it and sleep contentedly, preserving the image he wanted, and perhaps the image he left behind before the passing of all those years. He would drink his Yemeni coffee every morning. He would open the atlier, clean it and receive visitors, and by the time I arrived might have sold them any handicrafts and paintings that the atelier had for sale.
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