Ninety

‘Do you understand the gravity of that name to me?’ the goldsmith said when he had prepared tea upstairs.

‘Yes I do,’ Ghita replied. ‘And, believe me, I would not utter it in anything more than the grimmest of circumstances.’

Abdelkarim Hamoudi removed his glasses and cleaned them on his cuff. Then he furled the stems around his ears, blinked once or twice.

‘Please tell me the nature of your situation,’ he asked.

Ghita leaned forward, her face catching the light.

‘I am here on a matter of life and death,’ she said. ‘It concerns my father.’

‘And who exactly is your father?’

‘His name is Hicham Omary and he...’

‘He was on the television,’ the goldsmith broke in.

‘Yes, that’s right. He was accused of a crime he certainly did not commit. I promise it with all my heart.’

The goldsmith poured a little more tea, inspecting its colour as he did so. He praised God, as if drawing strength from above.

‘And tell me what you need from me.’

‘As an only child it is my grave duty to come to my father’s aid. It is a matter of family honour, as I am sure you will understand.’

‘But what can I do?’ the goldsmith asked again.

‘I understand that your relative works in the prison where my father is being held,’ Ghita said.

The old man frowned. He sighed, took off his glasses and wiped a hand over his eyes.

‘By speaking the name of the Prophet’s steed you have activated an ancient duty, a duty that has rested on the shoulders of my entire family for generations. It is my duty, our duty to help you,’ he said.

‘Thank you,’ Ghita whispered sombrely.

‘You must understand something though,’ he said. ‘If I help, it is not because of fraternity, but out of ancestral duty.’

‘Thank you...’ said Ghita softly. ‘Thank you from the bottom of my heart.’

The goldsmith looked away.

‘Return here just after dawn and I will give you your instructions,’ he said.