The Music Trilogy Read Online Free PDF Page A

her. She is. Isn’t she, Jamil?” Ibrahim said with pride. He turned to his friend and partner who was playing his flute. Jamil didn’t answer. “Ah, you’re not paying attention. You just play and play. Why is that, anyway?”
    “I am playing for the fish,” Jamil answered.
    “For the fish?”
    “Yes, so that many will come to our boat. That way we will bring in a good haul.”
    “That’s nonsense. The fish can’t hear you. And if they did they would swim away in a hurry!”
    “Are you saying that I don’t play well?”
    “I’m just joking. You know, I’m just trying to get your mind off of… things.”
    “I don’t know what I’m going to do,” Jamil said with a lump in his throat. He tried to hold back his tears, but he actually didn’t care. He let them flow down his cheeks. “They say that whatever this illness is, it can’t be cured,” he sobbed. “They say he will die.”
    “Who says that? That’s nonsense! You can’t give up; he’s your only son!”
    “Don’t you think I know that?” Jamil said heatedly, his sorrow turning to anger.
    “I’m sorry,” Ibrahim said, “I didn’t mean that you haven’t been trying. Have you gone to the Greek doctor?”
    “Ah, doctors, what do they know? No one can save my Ali, my little Ali.”
    “Well, there’s nothing to lose. Go see the Greek, maybe he can help, perhaps he has medicine.”
    Jamil shook his head. All he knew was that his son was dying. There was no hope.
    Late that evening they pulled in their nets. Their catch was decent, not great, but adequate. It would keep their families in food and clothing for a little while. They returned to Alexandria and docked the felucca.
    “You know, Ibrahim, you’re right, I’m going to take Ali to the Greek doctor. I’m losing him, so why not?”
    “Excellent, Jamil, excellent. You never know, Allah works in mysterious ways.
     
    The next day Jamil took his son to the doctor’s office. It was located at the port where at one time one of the great wonders of the world stood, the Great Lighthouse. Now it was the Ministry of Health and the city’s hospital. He carried the boy in his arms. Ali’s young face was ashen and wet with perspiration, his black wavy hair pasted to his scalp. The boy was very brave through the unbearable pain, and he fought not to make a sound. Jamil walked in and looked around. He saw signs written in Arabic, French, English and Italian, but could not read them. He stopped a nurse, desperate to find the doctor.
    “Please, I am looking for the Greek doctor,” Jamil asked.
    “Go down the hall. Dr. Simeon Vidalis is the last office,” she answered.
    Jamil followed the hallway. He saw another nurse. “Please, I am looking for the Greek doctor,” he repeated.
    “Doctor Simeon is very busy. He cannot see anyone right now.”
    “Please, this is an emergency, my son is dying,” Jamil pleaded, holding out his child so that she could see him.
    “What is wrong with him?”
    “I don’t know. They say that whatever he has cannot be cured, and that he is going to die.”
    A tall, very large man with a trimmed beard, wearing a white medical smock came out of another room. He was an imposing figure. One would think twice about crossing him. He looked at Jamil with deep, dark, yet soft eyes. “What do we have here?” He asked the nurse, seeing the child in the man’s arms.
    “This man does not have an appointment, Doctor.”
    “That is not what I asked,” he said, rubbing his beard.
    “He says his son is dying.” The nurse said.
    Jamil nodded in confirmation and held out his young son for the doctor to see. Simeon looked at the boy. He was about his daughter’s age, maybe a year or two older.
    “Mm, he’s very pale. Come into my office.”
    Jamil quickly followed him. “Thank you, Doctor, thank you. He has been in terrible pain.”
    “How long?
    “Two days.”
    Doctor Simeon took the child in his arms as if he were a mere feather. Jamil stared in amazement at