Chapter 8 · Chapter 8

The Shamal had been at the shutters since noon, and by four o'clock the dust had got under the doors of the house and lay in the lamplight in a thin moving film. The Oud in the majlis was losing.

Every seat was taken. I counted from the threshold with my sandals in my hand: eleven men, and Ammi at the Sadr with the good cushion behind him.

They had set a chair for me at the near end, by the door, where the petitioners sit.

I put my sandals down, stepped onto the carpet, and did not take it.

"Haifa." Ammi's voice was mild, which it always was before it was not. "Sit down."

"I will stand." I drew the Tarha straight at my shoulder. "It is a short matter, and I would rather see the room while it is discussed."

The boy came round with the Dallah and poured high and short into the Finjan. I took it in my right hand. When I turned the cup once, the pot stopped. The dates sat at the edge of the tray; I left them there.

"You have read the paper," Ammi said.

"I have read it twice.