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be – ’
    ‘Moslem because I chose to live in Egypt?’ Mustapha cut in. ‘Not at all; I am a skeptic. But I picked on Egypt because it was here that the cycle of the seasons, the rise and fall of the Nile, taught men to create absolutes: strict measures of distance, area, time elapsed … I often think of death. When I do, I feel certain I would rather die in the faith of the modern upstarts than in the faith of my ancestors. Has that notion never crossed your mind …? Forgive me; it is not something one asks a friend. Being blind occasionally makes me tactless.’
    ‘You … ’ One could hear Satamori moistening his lips. ‘You hold Moslem ceremonies here at your home.’
    ‘Indeed, indeed. But as to the Koran – well, without wishing to appear arrogant, I could have compiled a more convincing book of divine revelation myself. The same goes for the Christian Bible, and the Little Red Book as well!’ Mustapha laughed to diminish the weight of his words.
    ‘And you could no doubt also have edited the doctrines of the Way of Life?’ Satamori snapped.
    ‘My dear friend, I did – I
did
!’
    The silence was half-strangled. At long last Satamori forced out, ‘If this is another of your subtle jokes, you must pardon a foreigner for not – ’
    ‘Ah, I am doing what I always do without being able to help myself!’ Mustapha cried. ‘When I’m interrupted duringthe composition of a poem – no, don’t blame yourself, I was making very poor headway and the result will be all the better for being punctuated by a night’s sleep – but when I
am
interrupted I tend to grow snappish. I’ve given offense without intention. Let me hear that I’ve apologized for it to your satisfaction!’
    ‘No offense was taken,’ Satamori muttered.
    ‘Ah, I’m glad. But I did provoke you into suspecting me of a somewhat silly joke, did I not? I should erase that notion too. I meant what I said to be literal. I did edit many of the sayings of Prince Knud – from an English version admittedly, not the original Swedish – and if there is any form, shape, structure to the texts which leave our ateliers it’s because I imposed it.’
    Satamori indrew a hissing breath, and with it seemed to come all the chill of the northern winter (the Erikssons’ home locked in Arctic night!) and the threat of Ragnarök that rode the flood-tide of the skelter. Some time passed.
    Eventually Mustapha said, his tone thoughtful, ‘One is inclined to wonder how the world views what one does . . For an artist, it’s rare to be pleased that what he is proud of is anonymous and uncredited, but in this instance that paradox is the truth. It was painful to discover that all the tenets I had been brought up to were false. But I am not alone in that. What perhaps I may claim to be alone in, is that I did something about it.’
    ‘I’m glad that you said nothing about this before,’ Satamori snapped. ‘I might not have – ’
    It sounded as though he was threatening to rise. Mustapha reached out a hand, unseen, to check him.
    ‘My friend! Remember, I did not do what I did to insult you and your creed, only to give what light I could to the world after the light was stolen from my eyes.’ A wave at his bright but sightless gaze, turned by sound to confront and transfix the older man.
    ‘I … Yes, granted.’ Satamori resumed his chair. ‘Even so, I – ’
    ‘You still believe that doing honor to the ancestors is among a man’s primary obligations. I will not contradict. I would prefer to – to
supplement.’
Mustapha’s tone was persuasive without being downright wheedling, a narrowpath to walk with words. ‘You must at least concede that it’s better to honor the ancestors for what they did right than for the mistakes which, had they the chance, they would repent?’
    Satamori hesitated. ‘I believe I read a poem of yours on that subject,’ he muttered. ‘In translation, I’m afraid.’
    Mustapha wanted to tremble – this was so