There are others, Majdy's new friends, so and so is good he says, friendly. He invites them here, men with kind eyes and women who like the food I cook. But I must be wary, there are things I mustn't say when they are here. I mentioned polygamy once saying we shouldn't condemn something that Allah had permitted, remarking that Majdy's father had a second wife. When they left he slapped me and fool that I was I didn't understand what I had done wrong. Why, why I asked and he slapped me more. It is worse when you don't understand, he said, at least have a feeling that you have said something wrong. They can forgive you for your ugly colour, your thick lips and rough hair, but you must think modern thoughts, be like them in the inside if you can't be from the outside. And what stuck in my mind after the stinging ebbed away, after the apologetic caresses, what clung to me and burned me time and time again, were his comments about how I looked. I would stand in front of the mirror and Allah forgive me, hate the face I was born with.