‘Muftau – the superintendent – will be here soon. He just stepped out,’ she said. Her voice was clear, a little high-pitched. Her English was correct, each word carefully pronounced and projected. Like in a classroom. I was struck by how clean she looked, squeaky clean; her skin glowed like a child’s after a bath. She had obviously taken a lot of trouble with her appearance: her blue evening dress looked almost new, but a slash of red lipstick extended to the left cheek after missing the curve of the lip. She crossed and uncrossed her legs, tapping the left foot on the floor. She was nervous. That was when I realized I had not said a word since I entered.

‘Welcome to the prison,’ I said, unable to think of anything else.

She nodded. ‘Thank you. I told Muftau I wanted to see you. The poems, I just knew it wasn’t him writing them. I went along with it for a while, but later I told him.’

She opened the tiny handbag in her lap and took out some papers. The poems. She put them on the table and unfolded them, smoothing out the creases, uncurling the edges. ‘After the Sappho I decided I must see you. It was my favourite poem in school, and I like your version of it.’

‘Thank you,’ I said. I liked her directness, her sense of humour.

‘So I told him – look, I know who the writer is, he is one of the prisoners, isn’t he? That surprised him. He couldn’t figure out how I knew. But I was glad he didn’t deny it. I told him that. And if we are getting married, there shouldn’t be secrets between us, should there?’

Ah, I thought, so my Sappho has worked the magic. Aloud I said, ‘Congratulations.’

She nodded. ‘Thanks. Muftau is a nice person, really, when you get to know him. His son, Farouk, was in my class – he’s finished now – really, you should see them together. So touching. I know he has his awkward side, and that he was once married – but I don’t care. After all, I have a little past too. Who doesn’t?’ She added the last quickly, as if scared she was revealing too much to a stranger. Her left hand went up and down as she spoke, like a hypnotist, like a conductor. After a brief pause, she continued, ‘After all the pain he’s been through with his other wife, he deserves some happiness. She was in the hospital a whole ear before she died.’

Muftau. The superintendent had a name, and a history, maybe even a soul. I looked at his portrait hanging on the wall. He looked young in it, serious-faced and smart, like the cadet warders outside. I turned to her and said suddenly and sincerely, ‘I am glad you came. Thanks.’