After Kaaffa left, Mansour fell to pieces.
He buried himself in the soil of the courtyard trying to put out the searing pain in his body, but he could not extinguish it. She left behind a single tarha, only because she forgot it. He spread that wrap out and slept on it. He buried his nose in it, and he rubbed his body with it until its color was all but gone. He dipped it into the falaj and squeezed the water into his mouth. But none of this gave him any relief.
On cold nights he paced back and forth along the rise from where he could see the fire in her father’s shelter. He threw sand over himself as he called out her name in a voice now hoarse with weeping. But she did not come at the sound of her name welling up from his raw throat.
His hair grew long. Bint Aamir began washing it regularly, getting the dirt out and braiding it as if he were a little boy again. Grimly, she spread out Kaaffa’s tarha in the sun until it was dry yet again. And then Mansour would wet it again and squeeze the water into his mouth. She fed him chilled camel’s milk and an infusion made from the leaves of the chaste tree. She boiled passionflower in water to calm the fire in his gut.
People came to visit him and he shut the door in their faces. Rayyaa and Raayah stood at the door and called out, “Here is the punishment for a man who celebrates his wedding when his folks haven’t even been in their graves for a full twelve months.” Bint Aamir opened the door and threw the dust-filled tiger skin at them. “What’s the punishment for those who forget the charity they’re given?” she barked.
Mansour, already half-mad, continued to deteriorate. Until one morning he woke up in terrible pain. A scorpion had stung him.
No one could believe that Mansour had suffered a scorpion sting. But the pain of it got him back on his feet. He recovered. He hid Kaaffa’s tarha, by now in tatters, in his wardrobe, and he reopened his father’s shop.