Out of Egypt by André Aciman

Princess’s husband, all the while staring at his new hand. “You can’t even play cards.” Then, as an afterthought, he added, “Or maybe all you can do is play cards.”
    â€œPlay,” came his wife’s rebuke.
    â€œNo, no, let him be as bitter as he wants, that won’t change the fact that he’s losing,” Aunt Flora taunted.
    â€œLosing to you never makes one bitter,” he replied without
lifting his head. “But losing to her,” he indicated the Saint, “is a devastating affair.”
    â€œBecause he thinks I’m stupid,” said the Saint. “Let him think whatever he pleases. I may not be learned, but I’m very sharp, and I’ll show him who’s stupid tonight.”
    â€œWith your luck tonight, it’s no great feat to appear a genius,” he added.
    â€œLuck and a few other things as well.” The Saint indicated her nose.
    â€œAh, yes, the nose. The nose, ladies and gentlemen!”
    â€œLet him rant all he wants—but am I listening to him? No.”
    â€œI would come to my mother’s defense if I were you,” said the Princess’s son to the Saint’s daughter.
    The girl lifted up her face, smiled politely, and shook her puzzled head as if to say it was not her place to speak on such matters.
    â€œSuch discretion,” commented the son after all the guests had left that evening. “Never a misplaced syllable, always sweet, and so very gentle. Where have they been keeping her all these years?”
    â€œDon’t you know Syrian Jews?” his father asked, helping his wife clear the cards off the table. “Stealthy to the bone, every one of them, including her, don’t you worry.”
    â€œShe’s serene and priceless, she is,” added the Princess. “And rich too. Her father’s in bicycles.”
    â€œShe’s stunning,” continued her son.
    â€œStunning or not, it still wasn’t kind of you to play that nasty trick on her at the door. You should have apologized.”
    â€œBut I did apologize. So I played a little trick on her—”
    â€œIt would be just like you not to have noticed,” she said.
    â€œNoticed what?” he asked.
    â€œNoticed that she’s deaf.”
    â€œBut I spoke to her—”

    â€œDeaf all the same. That loud voice you hear from across the street is hers.”
    The son looked totally bewildered. His mother watched him and, reading his mind, hastily added, “Stay away. She’s a good girl.”
    Soon someone rang at the door; it was the friend her son had been expecting for more than an hour.
    â€œThey’re celebrating at the French Consulate tonight. I’ve been invited.”
    â€œBut I haven’t.”
    â€œIt’s all right, I’m inviting you now. Hurry. Everyone is celebrating.”
    â€œWon’t it be too crowded, though?”
    â€œOf course it will be too crowded, come on.”

    When he returned late that night, my father wrote in his diary that he had finally met her. He did not portray her as the woman of his dreams, nor as the most beautiful, nor did he describe any of her features. Superstitious as ever, he even avoided mentioning her name. She was simply and so clearly her that the need to capture her on paper or to probe the more elusive aspects of her personality proved too elaborate a task for the man who had merely written: I want to think of her. He did not write what he felt upon first setting eyes on her or what he thought of each time he caught his mind drifting toward her. He merely described her gray skirt and maroon cardigan and the way she crossed her legs when she sat behind her mother, the skin of her knee pressed against the edge of the card table as she kept her eyes glued to her mother’s cards. At one point she had smiled when she caught him looking at her, a kind, indulgent smile filled with languor and mild apology.

    She tapped him