Chapter 6 · Chapter 6

The clerk had the page. That was the whole of it. A page went where the record went, and the record went where he went. I had set a name in the margin in ink, because in this house a name in ink was the only mark that was ever credited, and now the ledger lay before a reader with clean hands and no hurry in him at all.

I sat with that until the late light left the weave of the carpet. Then I went up and did not sleep so much as wait inside the bed.

At nine the majlis filled. They entered in their black Abayas with the Tarha brought across the shoulder, and the steward carried the cups, and the Dallah came behind him. The Gahwa moved hot in the brass, and the scent of cardamom reached the third cushion before the last woman had finished arranging her hem.

I sat on the third cushion. I always sat on the third. The Sadr belonged to the eldest. The second belonged to whichever woman had inhabited this house the longest.