Safiya stands in the doorway, glares at Sadrodien, then turns on her heel and walks away. They drink their tea, joined now by Aunt Hanifa and the silent Sadrodien, his face a mask of contained outrage. Michael guesses that he is about twenty-three or twenty-four. His beard is too fierce to be any younger. Aunt Hanifa creates an amiable, talkative atmosphere, histories are gently explored, the whereabouts, pursuits, well-being and occupations of various relatives and acquaintances are established. Michael has to confess his ignorance of half the people she asks about. She smiles and says, ‘All that will come with time.’ She senses that he is on some holy quest.

Soon two sets of wives and children join them (Sadrodien is unmarried – ‘I have no time for such weakness,’ he will tell Michael later), a quick succession of greetings, hugs, kisses. Michael is introduced, his presence is acknowledged, he is peeked at curiously, but the discussion is overtaken by mundane talk about the state of cars, minor illnesses suffered, plans for the evening, the routine trials of lives lived as well as possible, all in a glorious babble of musical accents that lends the gathering a beguiling warmth. The purpose of his visit, his ‘search for his roots’, seems pretentious to Michael now. He feels immersed in his family, these are his people, these dark-faced, hook-nosed hybrids; he longs to go and look in a mirror, seek confirmation of his desire to belong. Lydia must be wrong! How can Du Boise be his biological father?

Michael announces that he has to go, he must catch the last taxi to town. No, no, Uncle Amin says, someone will drive him home. Haroon offers, Sadrodien insists on going along. Haroon drives, quietly intent on following Michael's directions. But Michael senses that this is in deference to Sadrodien, who sits at the back, a brooding, hawklike presence.

When they approach Berea, Sadrodien leans forward. ‘Brother, come and join us at the mosque on Wednesday night. You will meet some interesting people. It is the Griffith Street mosque, where our grandfather was Imam.’

Michael realizes that Griffith Street is to Sadrodien not only an address, but a holy appellation. He accepts the invitation (curious, intrigued, why the pointed reference to our grandfather?), confirms the time, where to meet, what to wear. He turns to give Haroon directions, sees the somewhat grim, disapproving look on his face. Nothing is what it seems to be, with this long-lost family, Michael thinks.

The meeting at the mosque is not what Michael expects. There are no formal prayers, there are no rows of worshippers sinking to their knees in ritual supplication, repeatedly touching their heads to the ground in obeisance to God, all the while emitting huge sighs, in unison with each other and in rhythm with the Imam's prayers, until there is only one great expulsion of breath, and in its aftermath, a great hush. There, in that moment of peace, you can find God.