“Had he cut Fouzia off?” Aziz tried a turn to family spites.

“No, he was not so hard. He saw her and Amina, but not the way it would have been if he had loved the man she married like a son. But Amina, she was his only granddaughter, and in her he saw only good. He said to me, ‘Brother, she was a beautiful child. Nadia was not like Amina. Nadia was the plain one. And for her beauty, they will do unspeakable things to her.’ ”

“Amina.”

“Amina.”

That day, Aziz saw girls in the cars and wondered if they were twelve. After he ate lunch, toward evening, he threw up in the waste-basket below the cash register.

Chapter 10

10

After Amina, more came. Rafik called them ar’id. Later he corrected himself. Game were hunted. They were worth pursuit. But no one chased ants and beetles fleeing a dry well flooding. You step on them without thinking. We, he told Aziz, are catching the crawling before the heel comes down.

Like prayers, the tankers came every Friday. Through the spring and into the summer, Aziz and Rafik kept watch at the docks. They talked about how, when they had come, they swam alone. The new stowaways waited for committees. They drew up out of the water and were comforted by their kind.

Aziz avoided Friday services, so waiting for ar’id never bothered him. As for Rafik, his view was firm: Mosques cause problems. But others did mind. They complained, saying the shipping company timed the arrivals for Fridays as an insult. They brought prayer rugs, and bottles of water to wash their feet, and were impatient when Rafik and Aziz seemed ready only to pass the night smoking Marlboros. Sure, Rafik told them, we can pray. But Aziz would not bare his feet. They were still the color of poppies. His toes were a luster of pure scar. Rafik washed his feet, to mollify the prayer boys. Aziz worshiped dirty. “That was ridiculous,” Rafik told Aziz later that night. “Next Friday, we go around the other terminal.”