Despite their misgiving about his conversion to Islam, his parents eventually had to admit that he looked well; he put on a bit of weight, got a raise at work. If only he would not talk about religion. They did not understand that side of him that was theoretical, intangible, belonging to the spiritual world. If only he would not mention religion then it would be easier to pretend that nothing had changed. He was confident enough to humour them. Elated that the questions he had once asked – what’s it all for, what does it all mean, what’s the point of going on? – the questions that had tilted the walls around him and nearly smothered him, were now valid. They were questions that had answers, answers that provoked other questions, that opened new doors, that urged him to look at things in another way; like holding a cube in his hand, turning it round and round, or like moving around a tall column and looking at it from the other side. How different it was and how the same.

When he took her to meet his parents, the afternoon was a huge success. We’re going to get married, he said, and there was a kind of relief in his mother’s eyes. It was easier for his parents to accept that he was in love with a Muslim girl than it was to accept that he was in love with Islam.

From the balcony of his hotel room, he looked out at the Nile. Sunshine so bright that he saw strands of shimmering light. Palm trees, boats, the river so blue. Would the water be cool, he wondered, or tepid? He felt sleepy. The phone rang and he went indoors again, sliding the tinted glass door behind him.

Her happy voice again. What were you doing, why aren’t you asleep, everyone sleeps this time in the afternoon, it’s siesta time, you must be exhausted. Did you remember to bring dollar bills – not sterling, not travellers’ cheques? You mustn’t eat at the hotel, it will be terribly expensive, you must eat only with us here at home. Yes, we’ll pick you up later. You’ll come for dinner, you’ll meet my parents. Don’t forget the gifts. Are you going to dream of me?

He dreamt that he was still on the airplane. He woke up an hour later thirsty, looked up and saw a small arrow painted on the ceiling of the room. What was the arrow for? Out on the balcony, the contrast startled him. Sunset had softened the sky, rimmed the west with pinks and soft orange. The Nile was benign, the sky already revealing a few stars, the air fresher. Birds swooped and zigzagged.