longer there.”
He restrained me, carried me to my room and locked the door on us. On the outside Naima cried, begging to be let in. Father opened the door and with astonishing tendernesspulled her to his chest and kissed her head. He held me too and began muttering that from here on life was never going to be the same, that God had felled his only tree and shelter. I searched but could not find a tear in either eye. This should not have surprised me, for I had never seen Father cry.
CHAPTER 8
The following day seventy-five wooden chairs, the sort most commonly found in Egyptian cafés, with a profile of Nefertiti printed on the seat, arrived. The porter, Am-Samir, and his silent children carried two huge speakers up the stairs. They slid off their slippers at the door, their stiff bodies swaying momentarily beneath the weight, and placed them, each taller than Father, in the middle of the hall. The angle at which the speakers were left facing each other suggested a quarrel. Then the porter and his children carried each piece of furniture that was in the reception hall into the dining room. Capsized armchairs were placed over the dining table, and their cushions were stuffed beneath. I watched Am-Samir’s dark, hard feet sink into the rug. Each toenail curved forward into the thick wool. Each joint was crowned with little gray stones of skin, and each heel waslike the thick end of a club. At what point, I wondered, will his sons’ feet look like this? Noticing me follow him, Am-Samir placed a heavy hand on my head and, after a second’s hesitation, kneeled down and kissed my forehead. He looked at Father. And Father, choosing to give Am-Samir the approval he requested, said, “Thank you.” With lowered heads the sons followed Am-Samir out.
Urgency and grief had rendered Father, Naima, and me nearly equal. We arranged the chairs together. And at one point Father asked Naima her opinion.
“Where shall we place the speakers?”
“By the entrance,” she said, embarrassed, and when he hesitated, she pressed on. “But that is where they are always placed, Pasha.”
“Perhaps in your district,” he said.
The possibility of a smile brushed both their faces.
“But it’s people’s duty to attend, Pasha. It wasn’t I who set the custom.”
“Enough. Lift,” he said, and together they carried the speakers to where she had suggested, placing one at either side of the entrance.
We arranged the seventy-five chairs against the walls in conspiratorial silence. When we were done we stood in the middle of the room, and I hoped there would be something else for us to do, but then Father disappeared into his room and Naima returned to the kitchen.
The front door was left open. The reception hall began to resemble a waiting room. Not knowing where to go, I sat onone of the rented chairs. I counted the chairs that now stood in a chain. The first time I came up with seventy-four. On the second attempt I had seventy-seven. Only the fourth or fifth time round did I get seventy-five. Then I saw our next-door neighbor walk out of the lift. He did a double take. The Quran was not playing yet, so he could have thought we were preparing for a party. But something about me must have suggested bad news. I went to Naima in the kitchen, and the man followed in behind me.
“Greetings, Ustaz Midhaat.”
“What happened?”
“Madam passed away,” Naima told him, and, just as she did, tears appeared in her eyes.
Ustaz Midhaat looked at me now with eyes as wide as coffee cups. I moved behind Naima.
A few minutes later he returned with his whole family. Father came out dressed in a white galabia. He only wore a galabia to bed and so he looked as if he had wandered out from a dream. He sat beside our neighbor, saying almost nothing, his cheeks covered in stubble. Naima served them unsweetened black coffee and asked me to pass around a plate of almonds. Then Father waved to me to come.
“The Quran, turn on the Quran,” he