‘You always talked about giving the place a fresh coat of paint.’ ‘I was thinking about doing just that. Don’t know how come I never got the chance.’ ‘You know you never quite liked this neighbourhood. I always figured you’d have moved out by now.’ ‘Why the hell should I? The rent’s cheap, even though the landlady’s still a snotty old bitch.’ Lincoln nearly sputtered out his tea as he tried to fight back his laughter but was unable to. Michelle laughed with him while she got up and picked up a cloth to wipe his tea off his shirt and from the table’s surface. The laughter though didn’t last long before they resumed their foreboding silence. She reached her hand across to touch his. ‘Linc, are you scared?’ ‘You ought to know the answer to that, Mich. Hell yeah, I’m scared. Why else do you think I ran away from you and Monique? I was so scared, I thought I might have passed it down to her or something … or maybe that I’d given it to you.’ ‘I don’t think you did. I had a blood test done. It was Ramadan, the holy month, and the Moslems of the city had abstained from repast all day. ‘It is only fitting,’ said the mamluk, ‘that just as we fast during the day we should enjoy good food and good wine and good company that much more of the night.’ So they sat in the belvedere of the mamluk’s home, relaxing on embroidered rugs and drinking spiced wine and telling stories. Arram, giddy from his day of adventures, wanted to tell a story of his own, but he felt shy in the midst of these older, more worldly men. Now that the wine had gone to his head he’d finally spoken up. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘my family line is Assyrian, but really I’m from Sicily, and even in Sicily we hear stories of the great caliph of Baghdad—’ ‘Do you hear that?’ said the mamluk. ‘Even in Sicily they tell stories of our beloved caliph! Even in Sicily!’ The others muttered that yes, they had heard it, and the mamluk grinned as though he’d told them first. Arram continued: ‘They say that on nights just like.
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