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constantly been there and she had thought, With time it will go. Time had come and time had gone and the smell was still there. Maybe he’d had the flat repainted? Herhand, moving along the wall, found the light switch. No, it had not been repainted. The walls were the same: olive green on one side, beige on the other. It must be a ghost smell, she thought. Like a ghost limb. When they cut off your legs you go on feeling the cramps in your toes. Only now they are incurable. I’m smelling fresh paint because I’m used to smelling it. It’s not really here, but I’m smelling it.
    Her eyes traveled along the entrance hall and fell on the white marble basin in the middle of the green living room wall. A sheet of cardboard had been laid across it and balanced on it were some telephone directories. What plans they had had for it. It was to be a small fountain, the wall behind it to be inlaid with antique ceramic tiles and its pedestal surrounded by plants in large brass urns. They had had to wait— a question of money. But the basin had been there. It was the very first thing they had bought for the house. Wandering down the old bazaar one day, they had found it thrown carelessly into the dusty corner of a junk shop. The owner had wanted ten pounds, but they had got it for eight. All three pieces: the basin, the back panel, and its pedestal. They had carried the heavy marble carefully to the car and later she had made inquiries about getting it scoured and polished. Someone recommended a shop in Taht el-Rab’ and she had gone with her mother-in-law. When they got there it turned out that the man specialized in cleaning tombstones. Saif ’s mother had been shocked and urged her not to leave the basin with him. But she had laughed. No omen could dim her happiness, no headstone mar their future, and she had leftthe marble basin to be cleaned among the winged angels and the inscribed plaques. Later it had been fixed—with its beautiful shell-like back panel—into the green wall. And sometimes she had filled it with water and put in it a small machine that made a miniature fountain. It had always delighted their friends, and she had sat on the black rocking chair and watched it for hours.
    She craned her neck. The rocking chair was there. In exactly the same position she had left it six years ago: angled by the French windows under the smaller bookshelves. A present from her white-haired professor of poetry, it had arrived three days after the wedding with a huge bouquet and had immediately become her favorite seat.
    She stepped inside the flat and closed the door quietly behind her. It needed oiling. The handle was hard to turn. She faced the darkened flat and felt it tilt. She headed quickly left down the long corridor to the bathroom. She did not switch on the light but crouched in front of the toilet, retching. She wondered whether the cistern worked. It did. That had always been a good thing about the flat: they’d never had trouble with the plumbing.
    Washing out her mouth she glanced up and saw her reflection dimly in the large mirror hanging beside her. She looked. It had been part of a Victorian hall stand which she had found in a junk shop and he had declared hideous. So they had compromised: the top and bottom of the stand had been cut away and disposed of, and the mirror with the intricately carved frame now hung suspended on the wall. Sheswitched on the light, then went back to the mirror. The reflection staring back at her was not the one she was used to seeing there. The changes moved into focus. A slimmer face framed by shorter, more curly, though still black hair. A string of now-taken-for-granted pearls shone around her neck. She fingered the pearls. She remembered a hotel bedroom in Paris and the wonder and delight when the pearls were thrown into her lap as she sat up in bed. He had created Paris for her. As he had created Rome. Then he had stopped. Brussels, Vienna, Athens. They were all untouched by his