‘One by one, led by the crow, the animals laid their life down before the king. ‘‘The crow is a scrawny thing, there is more meat on me,’’ said the jaguar. ‘‘The jaguar is old and tough,’’ said the hyena. ‘‘Eat me instead.’’

‘Roused by these noble sentiments of sacrifice and altruism, the camel cried out, ‘‘Your Majesty, I am young and healthy. Please eat me. Look at the lustre of my coat and the plump meat that covers my bones. I am the one most worthy of your palate.’’

‘ ‘‘He’s right,’’ said the crow and without further ado the jaguar leapt at the camel’s throat.’

‘Oh no,’ Iman cried out. ‘What did the lion do? Didn’t he stop them?’

‘No,’ said the Hoopoe. ‘The lion looked away.’

Chapter Seven

Chapter Seven

Salma was talking to Amir. She knew she shouldn’t, but here she was in the cloister of the monastery where the phone signal was strongest, using up her data. He was miles away and she was safe from sin, the disloyalty symbolic not actual, too airy to be incriminating. This gave her courage, or arrogance; she could not be touched and so could not be blamed. This was a virtual game, which she could enter and exit, unscathed, incurring no losses. What was it like hearing his voice? Exactly as she remembered. Nothing had changed. All these years – eighteen, nineteen years – could have been weeks or months.

‘What’s your daughter’s name?’ she asked and immediately forgot his response. Her mind couldn’t retain the new changes, though this was what they talked about at first. Bringing each other up to date, although they had already done that with messages and emails. There was a need to repeat the facts, though the facts continued to remain abstract. He now had a six-year-old daughter. So what? It had nothing to do with their shared memories, the future they had planned but never executed, the places they had sat in and talked about how much they meant to each other.

They spoke about mutual friends. Who was working where, who had married whom, and the ones who had died prematurely. They lingered a little over this last small group – the particulars of their illnesses or fatal accidents, where they last were, how old, but then they quickly moved on, leaving them behind. It was awkward talking about death when they now felt electrified with life. The deceased had exited too early, left the party in full swing, didn’t see their children grow up. It was Amir doing most of the talking, filling in details. She listened to him, ignoring the chill gathering around her, the instinct to be inside. The door of the refectory was locked. She had tried opening it.

‘Do you still play tennis?’ she asked.

‘Yes. I am on the board now.’