Chapter 12 · Untitled Chapter

They light the north lamps at the same hour every night, one after another along the wall, and I have learned to read the hour by which one of them is still dark.

I came along the runner with my shoes in my hand and the book inside my Abaya, and I was at the rail before the first man entered. Nine nights. I know the tray. I know how hard the Dallah is set down when the pouring has gone badly.

I know that the man in the Sadr seat reads whatever is put in front of him with one finger, sliding it under each line the way a boy learning his letters does, and that he coughs once before he says a number.

In my book he is the Finger. That is all he is. A man is a habit, and I have written down the habit, and I have been very pleased with myself for nine nights.

Below me the hall filled from the edges, quietly, the way a low dish fills.

"The north rooms," the Finger said. "Say the number again."

"Forty. You said forty in Rajab."

"I said forty for the summer.