“I was supposed to be getting a book for school.”

“Look,” he says. “If you’re not gonna knock, I will.”

“All right. All right. Just…gimme some space here.”

He steps back. I take a deep breath and square my shoulders.

It’s hot. The sky is a limpid blue.

I knock.

61

The door is thrown open and what greets me is this: hair—shaved on the top and sides and, at the back, drawn up into a ponytail of beaded dreadlocks. Ears—pierced and run through with twisted ash-black bones. Goatee, grey and clipped. No moustache. A silk kimono, bunched in his fist. Moroccan Frenchman and frequent nudist, Gad Moudnib. Aka the Hippie.

“Ana!” he says. “Ça va?”

“Gad!” I fall into the front room and give him a bear hug and I slap him on the chest. “You won’t believe how good it is to see you.”

Gad narrows his eyes. “You have been in my secret stash again?” He looks at Malik suspiciously. “And this? Who are you?”

“This is a friend,” I say. “Gad, Malik. Malik, Gad.”

“Enchanté,” Gad says.

Malik shakes his hand. Without his pistol, he looks uncomfortable and awkward. “Good to meet you, sir.”

Gad raises his eyebrows. “Sir?” He turns to me, flashing a smile. “I like him.”

“Hey, Gad?” I say.

“Oui?”

“Do me a favour, don’t ever buy a suit. OK? Stick with the kimonos.” He frowns and gives me a confused look.

“And never cut the dreads,” I add. “You’re perfect the way you are.”

He throws open his hands. “Mais évidemment, ma chérie.”

—

We find the Old Man in his ceramics studio off the terrace. A terrace that’s open to the sky. No conservatory. The studio is steeped in dry heat from the kiln and a hot stone smell assails us at the door. The Old Man—at his kick-wheel, wearing a canvas smock and sandals—has his hands cupped round a lump of clay. He taps a foot pedal and the wheel spins. He digs his thumbs into the clay and draws it up between his fingers, pushing and moulding. The clay changes shape as we watch. Miraculously, a fine-neck pot emerges. The Old Man looks up with red cheeks, only now aware of us standing here. He blows air up over his nose from his bottom lip to swish the hair out of his eyes and he frowns. “Hello? Who’s this then?”

My heart leaps. It’s him. The Old Man. The way he was.

Un-blind.

“I’d shake your hand,” the Old Man says, brushing his forehead with the back of his hand, his palm grey with wet clay.

“That’s OK,” Malik says.

“This is, uh…this is Malik,” I blurt.

The Old Man looks from Malik to me and my heart pumps in my chest. I feel like pinching myself. I’m home. I’m home.

“Ana,” the Old Man says. “Are you OK?”