Chapter 13 · Chapter 13

He stood up out of the Sadr line without hurrying, walked to the center of the carpet, and stood there with his hands at his sides.

That is what the room would remember and not say aloud. Men rose in this hall the way they rose from sleep — complaining, adjusting, looking for somewhere to put a hand. He rose and stood, and the majlis understood that it was being addressed before a word had been spent.

The man with the Dallah stopped pouring.

"Pour," the elder said, without turning his head. "It is not a funeral yet."

The coffee came on, cardamom and the burnt edge of the roast, and behind it the Oud the Mabkhara had been feeding into the air since the third paper. I kept my hands in my lap, on the Abaya, and I did not look at him. Looking at him would have made me a party to it, and no one in this house had made me a party to anything for a long time.

"This matter has been carried between meetings," Hatim said, "for longer than anyone in this room will agree to count.