It was a cave of clothes. He tripped and landed softly on the bed, which took up so much of the room. He lay there for a moment, replaying his memory of the Djara. He smelled it then, the soot of hash. He sat upright. He looked for the foil by the bed; there was none. He paused, listening for sounds of Heather, but there were none. She wanted nothing of cleanup. She wanted Rafik to see her on that sofa when he walked through the door. She would wait there, he guessed, until he did.

He promised himself he would confront Rafik. But he knew he only would if it were—what? More than a shoe box? More than a pillowcase? He crunched into the bed, already not wanting to know. Under him were Levi’s and Armani and pink panties and more. He pulled up one and then another. A tie in pearl yellow, label: Missoni. A brocaded camisole: La Perla. A boot, its leather like the inside of a new lamb. Small black felt pouches, almost like velvet, dozens and dozens of them. What were these? He checked many of them, but they were empty.

A dozen or more suitcases, their handles threaded with a clothesline, hung from the ceiling. He had never noticed them when he came home from work. This was, for as long as he could do it, eighteen hours a day, seven days a week, until he got sick and then got fired, because if you were sick you had to go; you were no use. Sick he would be, his weight down too far, his sleep so foreshortened he could not be trusted to paint, or to man a register, without his head slumped—so. He touched his chest. And then it was, Find the next job. Sleep came between jobs. It was the only way. And after that, it began again. So why were you out drinking? his brother asked him in his head, not angrily. How is it you find time to wear this jacket, which is stolen, and go to these nightclubs?

He ducked beneath the row of suitcases and around to their other side, tapping one to see if it was heavy. The first two were empty, but the third was tight. He pushed the next one, a mustard vinyl. It was cement. The line swayed dramatically. He imagined a body, in its requisite pieces, inside the suitcase. He burrowed under the bed’s clothes and hoped nothing would give. The smell of hash was once again unmistakable.

“What are you doing?”

Heather was in the doorway, her voice a stunned whisper.

Aziz stayed still. Heather, always Heather, he thought, wondering if he should pretend to have passed out. He lifted his head up to see her.

“Sorry. Sorry.”

“You pervert.”

He understood only You.