When she did come across Iman in public, riding Mullin’s bicycle on the path leading to the forest, Moni’s reaction was completely different from Salma’s. She found Iman without her headscarf indistinguishable from other women, one and the same. The special aura of vulnerability and preciousness that had surrounded her was gone. She was another glossy, wind-tousled head of hair, bland and common. And because Iman was small, there was even less reason for her to stand out. When she whizzed past and waved at Moni, who was on the phone to the nursing home, it took Moni a beat to recognise her.

Iman avoided her friends. She no longer cosied up to Salma or hovered around Moni while she cooked. Instead, she stayed out most of the time or up in her attic room. The cupboard continued to yield costumes. One was a US army marine. Iman put it on and rummaged in the cupboard for a gun. It was not there. She sat on the floor of her room and waited. The idea of a loaded heavy gun excited her. She did not want to harm any person or animal but walking about with a gun would indeed grant a sense of power and protection. No one would dare hurt her. They would be afraid. No one had ever been afraid of Iman. She attracted others and did not repel. But she was tired of all that. The emphasis on her beauty. It had not given her security or allowed her to understand herself. Beauty itself was a mask, a barrier, all that other people could see of her. They did not want to listen to her, they did not want her skills or her opinions. They were content with her presence, like a flower in a vase, pleasing and uplifting, a lovely scent to refresh and intoxicate, a brilliant colour against a drab, unappealing world.