She seemed very old to Yusuf, cumbersome, bulky, and with a look of suffering when her face was unguarded. Her body shivered and straightened with an involuntary charge when she caught sight of him, and a small cry escaped her. If Yusuf had not seen her, she stalked him until he was near enough to squeeze him into her arms. Then, while he struggled and kicked she ululated with triumph and joy. On occasions when she could not sneak up on him, she approached him with ecstatic cries, calling him my husband, my master.

His hard-bitten air was a grotesque parody, making everyone laugh, for he was shrunken and unwell, dressed in rags, and was often beaten in the streets by other boys. No one knew where he slept for he had no home. Kahlil called him kifa urongo too. ‘Another one. The original,’ he said.

Every morning, the old gardener Hamdani came to attend to the secret trees and bushes, and clean the pool and water channels. He never spoke to anyone and went unsmiling about his work, humming verses and qasidas.

Whenever Yusuf rolled too close, Kahlil kicked him away savagely. Mosquitoes wheeled around them, shrieking for blood with high-pitched wails. If the sheets slipped from their bodies the mosquitoes instantly gathered to their sinful feast. Yusuf dreamt he could see their jagged-edged sabres sawing through his flesh.

Kahlil told him, ‘You’re here because your Ba owes the seyyid money. I’m here because my Ba owes him money - only he’s dead now, God’s mercy on his soul.

She seemed very old to Yusuf, cumbersome, bulky, and with a look of suffering when her face was unguarded. Her body shivered and straightened with an involuntary charge when she caught sight of him, and a small cry escaped her. If Yusuf had not seen her, she stalked him until he was near enough to squeeze him into her arms. Then, while he struggled and kicked she ululated with triumph and joy. On occasions when she could not sneak up on him, she approached him with ecstatic cries, calling him my husband, my master.

His hard-bitten air was a grotesque parody, making everyone laugh, for he was shrunken and unwell, dressed in rags, and was often beaten in the streets by other boys. No one knew where he slept for he had no home. Kahlil called him kifa urongo too. ‘Another one. The original,’ he said.

Every morning, the old gardener Hamdani came to attend to the secret trees and bushes, and clean the pool and water channels. He never spoke to anyone and went unsmiling about his work, humming verses and qasidas.