Kareem spoke with his mouth full, chewing on onions, tomatoes, and grilled meat. Between the rapid questions, he swigged mouthfuls from the juice bottle in his hand. I invited him for a cup of coffee. He hesitated a little before accepting my invitation. We sat inside so nobody would see us and bring the news back to Luqman.

Kareem got up to wash his hands. Then he came back, drying his hands on paper towels and saying, “I heard that the lady came back to the neighborhood to reassure herself about you. Did she get in touch with you?”

I asked if she had left a number or if he knew anything about her.

“I didn’t see her,” Kareem went on, “but the guys told me about the smackdown you received, about her arrival out of nowhere, and how she came back a few days later to ask about you. Luqman received her warmly, I heard, gave her water and juice, and hovered around her like a child. He must have fallen for her, they said! But seriously, don’t tell anyone what I’ve said. In any case, you won’t be going back to the shop again, will you? If you’re really so crazy as to return, you won’t mention I’ve seen you, right?”

Kareem raised his eyebrows with the question, and a line appeared, small and long, bisecting his forehead. After a few decades, that line would be etched so deep upon his brow that it would only be necessary to carve it just a little deeper with the tip of a knife in order to split the skull and peek inside. It was all hidden there, in that bony ball protecting a white, gooey mass. At that moment, a large refrigerator with a glass front on my right startled me when it gave two coughs and died out. It was time to switch the electrical current and turn on the generators, just as it was time for me to return to Kareem’s face, with his two foreheads, split across the middle, and his mouth still chewing a last bite as he ordered a cup of tea.