At least once a week, my father will lay back on a couch, put on an Umm Kulthum song – usually El Atlal or Rubaiyat el Khayyam – and listen for around an hour. Seemingly intoxicated, his fingers will move gently, like a lone corn stalk on a brisk afternoon, to the music preluding Umm Kulthum's arrival. Sometimes tears gather around his eyes right before her first word. Other times ...
