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it is not Christianity nor Judaism nor Islam what can it be? Who are its prophets?’
    â€˜It’s not like that,’ I said. ‘There aren’t any prophets …’
    â€˜So you are like the Magi?’ he said, bright-eyed. ‘You worship fire then?’
    I shook my head vaguely, but before I could answer, he tapped my arm with his forefinger. ‘No,’ he said, smiling coquettishly. ‘I know—it’s cows you worship—isn’t that so?’
    There was a sharp, collective intake of breath as Jabir and the other boys recoiled, calling upon God, in whispers, to protect them from the Devil.
    I cleared my throat; I knew a lot depended on my answers. ‘It’s not like that,’ I said. ‘In my country some people don’t eat beef because … because cows give milk and plough the fields and so on, and so they’re very useful.’
    Ustaz Mustafa was not to be bought off by this spurious ecological argument. ‘That can’t be the reason,’ he began, but then his eyes fell on his watch and a shadow of alarm descended on his face. He edged forward until he was balanced precariously on the rim of the bed.
    â€˜You still haven’t told me about this “Hinduki” business,’ he said. ‘What is your God like?’
    I tried to stutter out an answer of some kind, but fortunately for me Ustaz Mustafa wasn’t really paying attention to me any more.
    â€˜Well thanks be to Allah,’ he said quickly, eyeing his watch. ‘Now that you are here among us you can understand and learn about Islam, and then you can make up your mind whether you want to stay within that religion of yours.’
    He jumped to his feet and stretched out his hand. ‘Come with me to the mosque right now,’ he said. ‘That is where we are going—for the noon prayers. You don’t have to do anything. Just watch us pray, and soon you will understand what Islam is.’
    I hesitated for a moment, and then I shook my head. ‘No,’ I said. ‘I can’t. I have many things to do.’
    â€˜Things to do?’ cried Ustaz Mustafa. ‘What is there to do here that you can’t do later? Come with us—it’s very important. Nothing could be more important.’
    â€˜No,’ I said. ‘I can’t.’
    â€˜Why not?’ he insisted quietly. ‘Just come and watch—that’s all I’m asking of you.’
    And just then the voice of the muezzin floated over from a nearby mosque, singing the call to prayer, and before I could say another word Ustaz Mustafa and the boys had vanished from the room.
    But I couldn’t go back to work even after I was alone again. Ibegan to wonder why I had not accepted Ustaz Mustafa’s invitation to visit the mosque and watch him at his prayers; he had meant well, after all, had only wanted to introduce me to the most important element of his imaginative life. A part of me had wanted to go—not merely that part which told me that it was, in a sense, my duty, part of my job. But when the moment had come, I’d known that I wouldn’t be able to do it: I had been too afraid, and for the life of me I could not understand why.
    But soon enough, Ustaz Mustafa came back to talk to me again. This time he had a child in his arms. ‘This is my son,’ he said, tweaking the child’s cheeks. He glowed with love as he looked at the boy.
    â€˜Say salâm to the mister,’ he said, and the child, alarmed, hid his face in his father’s shoulder.
    Ustaz Mustafa laughed. ‘I missed you the last few days,’ he said to me. ‘I was busy in the evenings—I had to go and meet someone in Nashawy, so I couldn’t come to talk to you. But today I decided that I would come over as soon as I got back from work.’
    I was better prepared for him this time, and I began to talk at length about the hamlet’s history and his