As the women were busy slicing their apples, Cousin Juli said, ‘Let me introduce you to Yusuf.’

Her voice sounded so calm.

All heads turned towards a figure entering the dining room. He was taking careful steps. In this room of middle-aged matrons his youth shimmered. He was tall, his shoulders were straight, and his arms were sturdy. He wore a short-sleeved shirt that showed off his gleaming, chocolate flesh. His eyebrows were as jet black as his piercing eyes. For me, he was not so different from boys my age who were idolised by girls. He was simple but he radiated childlike appeal. His wild, curly hair, his strong cheekbones and his full lips all invited caressing.

Yusuf.

Time stopped. The women held their breath, staring at the young man. They didn’t blink; their hands clutched their knives. Faint sounds escaped their lips. Agonised groans as their fingers continued peeling. The tough skin of apples that had passed the point of ripeness. Were they even apples? I caught another scent. An ancient, intoxicating aroma. Blood flowed from my aunts’ palms, slicking the knives, coating the apples, staining the table-cloths. Chunks of apples were cast to the floor. Drops of fresh blood seeped out and darkened. Cousin Juli’s knives had been readied, but not to pierce the flesh of apples.

Yusuf bowed, pale. He was like a trembling angel, his wings rent by the penetrating gaze of the women, who were carried away in a frenzy. Soon he fell. Like Maenads, they crowded around him. Cousin Juli looked upon her victims, still under the spell of their own passion, a passion that had stolen in amid the blood and pain. Eventually everything blurred; it was no longer clear who was victim, who was tormentor, who enjoyed pleasure, who suffered pain. They scratched deeper and deeper at their lust. The women had come together in Cousin Juli’s web, enveloped in an aroma of meat and fruit, so fresh. She gave a winsome smile. She glanced at the chocolate angel, then her eyes turned towards me. I felt fragile and soon fell.

Your wings are torn, let me patch them. Like the way I patch my ties with others.

Slowly, so slowly, Juli licked her lips.

—

‘Ouch!’ She had hurt herself, cutting the apple carelessly. Was this involuntary manslaughter, or a premeditated act? My apple. I approached her.

‘Does it hurt?’

She closed her eyes, not answering.

‘Let me see.’

She held out a bleeding hand. I took hold of her long, tapering fingers. They brought back memories of Cousin Juli. Succulent, smooth, nails painted pink. We stood so close, this apple cutter and I. Her fringe fell on her forehead, strand by strand leading fingers astray.

My breathing gets rough when I see the colour red. A fragrance, so intimate, tickled my nose. It reminded me of beginnings. My mouth watered, but not because of the apple.

Slowly, so slowly, I licked the wound on her finger.