The next morning Farida and her mother went to the clinic. It was crowded and they had to wait for hours, during which Farida squirmed with boredom and her baby brother cried. Finally inside, the doctor’s room was cool. He was smiling and wearing a clean coat. Farida had to sit on a special chair; one eye was covered and she was asked to look at figures on a screen. They were rows of the letter ‘C’ sometimes upside down, backwards or facing up. The doctor explained that he wanted her to say which way the ‘C’ was facing. How easy it was! Farida sailed through the first lines but she started to falter as the ‘C’s’ got smaller. The doctor fitted round frames over her eyes and slid different lenses in the frames, sometimes on top of each other. They made a shlick, shlick noise. The tiny ‘C’s’ on the bottom row became sharp and distinct. A lens for her right eye, a lens for her left eye. Everyone, the doctor explained, needed a special prescription. He smelt nice, he was clever and he cared about her eyes. Farida decided she had changed her mind and wanted to be a doctor when she grew up.

On the first day she wore her glasses to school, the frames felt heavy on her face. She imagined that all the girls were staring at her but only a few reacted. One of them said, ‘Congratulations.’ Another covered her mouth with her hand and giggled, another screeched in surprise – but only one girl said she looked ugly.

Souvenirs

They set out early, before sunset. Not the right time for visiting, but it was going to be a long drive and his sister Manaal said she would not be able to recognise the painter’s house in the dark. The car slipped from the shaded carport into the white sunlight of the afternoon, the streets were empty, their silence reminiscent of dawn.