A few days had passed since then, and as he mechanically ate the food offered to him, sometimes he’d vomit, or soil the bed without warning, as if his body had already made up its mind to die. Owens would curse him, then make him strip the sheets, but would leave them in the cell for long enough that the acrid smell would catch the back of Hamza’s throat, making him retch once more.

His mind had a new clarity; he would be awake for longer periods, his conscious thoughts becoming more ordered, his feelings sharpening. He knew that this was the only way, but it took him further and further from the memories that sustained him. Disappearing became harder, the food that fuelled his body turning his mind outwards. And when he yearned to lie down, to close his eyes once again, he would force his fingertips to reach for his inner wrist, searching again for signs of life, his tender pulse.

His body seemed to grow around him, the more he wore it. The more he came back to himself. The ribs that Fatima had played like a piano, when they had first married. Her fingers finding notes in his bones, his flesh. The stomach that she used to lay her head on to listen to the universe inside him. His jaw, the same jaw that she struck that one time when he unintentionally insulted her brother. The jaw with which he had failed to apologize and the hands that he had used to repair a cupboard for her. An indirect atonement. Oblique. This, after all, had always been his way with women. His father had told him never to look directly at the sun, and Fatima, he would soon learn, was equally full of fire and heat.

When he’d stated his intention to get married, he had been taken to see his uncle who possessed hikma. His uncle spoke of the family’s surprise at the suddenness of his decision. Told him a tale of a man who had married in haste and repented at leisure. Hamza had laughed, thanked him and married Fatima anyway. They had stayed in bed for a week after their wedding. Her appetite shocked and delighted him. The swearing. She enjoyed lying on the cushioned floor, the windows flung open. Smoking. He had not asked her if he was her first, not because he did not want to know the answer, but because he already knew it. They had slept together as the rain fell on the red earth outside, her limbs musky with the scent of laurel soap. For a moment, he swore that he could feel the weight of her head on his collarbone.