Un martedì, potenziato dalla sua nuova autonomia, Zainab lleva una cesta alle fueras del pueblo per raccogliere verdure. Sabé la camino: forty paces to the large stone, a sharp left turn upon perceiving the aroma of the tannery, e then straight ahead until the air cooled by the stream.
—Look at this— a voice whispered. It was a voice like broken glass. —The queen of the beggars went for a walk.
Zainab froze. “Aminah?”
Her sister invaded her personal space; the aroma of rose water was empalagoso and sofocante. “You look pathetic, Zainab. Of course. To think she traded a house for a dirty girl and a man who colors the sewer.”
—I am happy— Zainab said, her voice trembling but certain. —I am treated like gold. Something our father never understands.
Aminah laughed, a high-pitched, sharp laugh that startled a nearby raven. “Gold? Oh, you poor, naive blind fool. Do you think he’s a beggar because he’s poor? Do you think this is a tragic romance?”
Aminah leans against Zainab’s fear. “He’s not a beggar, Zainab. It’s a penance. He’s the man who lost everything in a fight he couldn’t win. He doesn’t stay with me because of love. He stays with me because he hides. Use your blindfold as a cloak.”
The world was silent. The sounds of birds, water, wind… everything faded away, replaced by a roar in Zainab’s ears. She staggered in front of herself, her little stick struck a root, almost exploding.
“He’s a liar,” Aminah whispered. “Ask him about the Great Eastern Fire. Ask him why he can’t appear in the city.”
