“No excuses,” said the young man.

“No. Of course not. That’s not what I mean. I was bewitched, yes. I thought about her. Nothing dirty. I thought about her.” He emptied his mouth again.

“Don’t lie,” said the young man. The old man sighed, rubbing his hands together in his lap, hunched over the basin, and when he continued, he was almost inaudible.

“I used to imagine her naked,” he confessed. “At night I used to lie in my bed and imagine her . . .

breasts.” His voice trailed away.

“Her breasts.”

“Her breasts, yes,” the old man repeated loudly. He sighed. “I used to imagine touching them.”

“How many times?”

“I don’t know. It doesn’t matter. I didn’t do anything. At least, not like that. I used to . . .” His voice died down to nothing, and he emptied his mouth into the bowl.

“Tell me.”

“I used to beat her. I would find fault with her work.”

“Stop,” commanded the young man. He held out the box of powder and motioned towards the red compartment. Sighing wearily, the other took a pinch of red and put it in his lip. Then suddenly he pitched forward and clapped his skinny hands to his mouth.

“Keep it in,” commanded the young man. “Don’t spit it out.”

The old man’s eyes and nose were streaming water. “God, it burns,” he cried when he had recovered speech.

“Yes, it burns,” agreed the young man softly. He held out the box again.

“Ah, God, no more. Not again. Have pity.”

“Take it.”

Moaning and weeping, the old man took another pinch.

“Now, tell me. What did you do?”

“I . . . I beat her.”

“Louder. Stop mumbling.”

“I beat her.”

“How many times?”

“I . . . I don’t know.” The man was weeping and wringing his hands. “I can’t remember.”

“Think. Visualize each time.”

There was a pause. And then: “I beat her seven times.”

“How hard?”

“Not hard. I swear to God not hard.” The old man smiled pathetically. “I’m not strong. She was a healthy girl. At least . . .” He spat red drool into the pot. Abu could see it clearly, floating on a puddle of black. Action floating on the surface of the mind, he thought. He raised the bottle to his lips, but the movement changed the shadows on the floor. The old man looked up and sat back in his chair. “Who are you?” he cried, red drool running down his chin. “What are you doing here?”

Prince Abu moved out of the doorway to let the light fall on his uniform. The old man stared at him, astonished. The juice made strings of liquid down his clothes.

“I’m sorry,” said the prince. “I’m sorry to disturb you.” But the two men sat there staring without moving.

“My cousin is a doctor,” he explained to the sin eater. “We came to see your daughter.”

Still the men said nothing, and then slowly, as if unwillingly, they got to their feet to make the compulsory gestures of respect, knuckles to their foreheads, hiding their eyes.