Sa’id went to the wardrobe and swung open its double doors. He took out the garment bag that Miss Zahra had brought in and threw it on Mr. N’s bed. Silently, efficiently, like an automaton, he opened the zipper and removed a jacket, followed by some pants, a white dress shirt, a black tie, and finally a leather belt. Setting everything to one side, he returned the hanger and the bag to the wardrobe. Then he took a pair of socks out of a drawer, and pulled a pair of black shoes with laces from underneath the bed. That done, he took off his own jacket and slung it over a chair. He reached over and opened the window because sweat had started running down his temples and his armpits. A sour odor filled the room, the kind that would invade the apartment whenever Sa’id came back dripping from one of his workouts, muscles gleaming with perspiration. Thurayya would hurry to dry him off with a towel, calling for Mary to drop whatever she was doing and draw a bath for him. Yes, Thurayya, Sa’id’s mother: she was the one who had died the day before yesterday, alone in the old folks’ home, without any friends or family around her.

Sa’id took in the sight of Mr. N frozen in the middle of the room, staring at the floor. Then Sa’id checked his watch. If he allowed his little brother to move at his own pace, they’d be late for the burial. He took charge and began dressing him, just as he used to do when N was a child—and Mr. N let him do it, just as he’d done when he was that child. Sa’id threaded one of Mr. N’s arms through a shirtsleeve, then he crossed behind his brother to do the other. Satisfied, he started on the buttons, moving from the top down.