Mid-morning in Ghamhouriah Street, after they had bought ebony to take back to his parents, he felt a tug on his shoulder, turned and found his rucksack slashed open, his passport missing. His camera too. He started to shout. Calm down, she said but he could not calm down. It was not only anger – there was plenty of that – but the eruption of latent fears, the slap of a nightmare. Her brother had parked the car in a bit of shade in a side street. They reached it now, her brother tenser than ever, she downcast and he clutching his ravaged rucksack. He kicked the tyre of the car, f- this and f- that. Furious, he was, and out to abuse the place, the time, the crime. The whole street stood still and watched a foreigner go berserk, as if they were watching a scene in an American movie. A car drove past and the driver craned his neck to get a better look, laughed. Please, she said, stop it, you’re embarrassing me. He did not hear her. Her voice could not compete with the roar of anger in his ears.

We’ll have to go to the British Embassy and get him a new passport, she said to her brother.

No, we’ll have to go the police station and report this first. Her brother got in the car, wiped the sweat on his forehead with his sleeves.

Get in the car, she said to him. We’ll have to go to the police station and report your stolen passport.

He got in the car, fuming.

The police station was surprisingly pleasant. It was shady, cool. A bungalow and several outbuildings. They were treated well, given cold water, tea. He refused to drink the tea, sat in a sulk. Do you know how much that camera cost, he hissed, and it’s not insured?

She shrugged, less shocked by what had happened than he was. Soothed by the drink, she started to tease him. They’ll chop off the hand of the thief who stole your camera. Really, they will. Her brother laughed with her.

I really can’t see what’s so funny.

Can’t you take a joke? she said and there was an edge to her voice. Afterwards they drove in silence to the British Embassy. There, they endured a long queue.

The Embassy staff hummed and hawed. They did not like to hear of passports getting stolen. And as one question led to another they were not overjoyed either to hear of people getting married in a few days’ time. They interrogated her and her brother, broad, flat questions but still she felt sullied and small.

Coming out of the embassy, she was anything but calm. What did they think, what were they trying to insinuate – that I stole your passport, as if I am desperate to go back there?

What’s that supposed to mean?