Fares Bozeid Moujaes
1 Fares Bozeid Moujaes At the time of the emara lfred woke up in the early hours of the day, as was customary for him. He Awore his dark gray striped suit and white shirt that bore his initials, and he sat on the porch on his caned wooden seat. He faced the garden and the Mamluk- style fountain, his back to the household through the entrance door, open as always. He sat there, as did the farm owners in his dear Louisiana on their rocking chairs on a hot day, passing the time and talking to the passersby. His wife, Najibeh, prepared coffee for him, a whole pot, which she placed in front of him with the small, cone-shaped cup that held small measures, enough for just one sip, or shaffeh as it is called. Of shaffehs he will have many, whether freshly brewed or cold, as he will sit there all day only moving to the dining table, the sufra, when called for lunch, which Najibeh dexterously prepares for her large family. Alfred never set foot in Najibeh’s kitchen, not that he couldn’t brew his own coffee, but she wouldn’t allow it. “Men should be served,” she would say and motion him off to his throne whenever he came close to suggesting he help himself. In the house, she laid down the law, to the extent that Alfred more than once suggested, “She should wear the pants.” Strong she was, yet she never deviated from the age-old social intricacies that reflected the conservative and patriarchal tendencies so prevalent in the Middle East.
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