She would sit with her back to the television, kissing her photos goodbye. Bruises covered her knees and forehead from stumbling unsuccessfully around the house. Then her exasperated father would snatch away the ribbon and she would be exposed to the sudden glare of sunlight and shapes, movements and colours. And still, she went on practicing.

One day there was a knock at the door. Sister Carlotta stood in the doorway. She looked exactly the same with her white habit, long skirt and the large cross hung around her neck. Farida had never seen those huge eyes outside of school before. Sister Carlotta was back in town; she had not stayed in Rome forever.

‘Who is it?’ her mother’s voice called out.

Farida couldn’t reply.

Sister Carlotta smiled, ‘Tell your parents that I am here to talk about your eyes.’

Afterwards, Farida would remember glimpses of that visit like a series of photographs placed one after the other. Her mother’s anxious face, the way she fussed over this most unexpected of guests. Her father, woken hastily from his siesta, bewildered and resentful yet as bashful as a boy; Sister Carlotta holding the baby in her arms. Her firm, calm voice, ‘I came here today to talk about Farida’s eyes.’

How did she convince Farida’s parents? She explained, she coaxed, she threatened that they would earn the reputation of being miserly and negligent. And they took heed because she was European and they were not, because she was educated and they were not, because she was a nun and had authority, because she was a teacher. And most importantly, because she spoke the truth. She scolded them. She shamed them. And she reasoned too. How much money did the good man spend on cigarettes? Didn’t they know of the free health clinic? That was where they could go to get cheap frames.