Not another word! Listen! Don’t turn me into an infidel and make a mockery of my prayers.’I was silent. I watched a fly swoop down on to my mother’s hand. My throat muscles tightened. The fly took off again and I sat facing my mother without speaking, watching it hover over her dry white skin.‘Tamr, Tamr. Don’t let me regret the past. Four years …’I didn’t want her to finish and I got to my feet irritably. ‘I’m not listening. I’m not listening,’ I shouted, and went into the kitchen. I put the kettle on the stove and waited for the water to boil. I felt as if I had something sweet like Turkish Delight in my mouth and it passed down over my throat muscles, making them relax. If I’d stayed in the other room I would have seen my mother put a hand up to her face to adjust her veil; she would have disengaged a finger to touch her nose and the sweat under the eyes, before shaking it in my face. ‘Four years,’ she would have said, ‘and not a day went by without me saying my prayers, not a year without me fasting; I missed my period and the doctors said, “There’s a child in your stomach,”
