Watching the heat ripple off the tiles on the roof, I thought I should train myself for that day. I decided to walk – not hop, not run, but walk – in a line as straight as an arrow, without even arching the soles of my feet, back to the staircase. The staircase was to be my paradise. The first step didn't feel as bad as I expected, but after a few steps the soles of my feet were on fire and I found myself hopping and running, wondering if hopping and running were allowed on the Bridge to Paradise.

I wished I was like the Sheikh. Surely he won't feel any heat, I thought, the man is holy. He led the prayers at the local mosque. Baba liked his voice, and so after Friday prayer, later in the afternoon, he had him come to recite some Surahs to bless our house. His voice, soaring and expansive, seemed to reach and fill each room. He was blind. I never got a good look at his eyes, they were always hidden behind thick black lenses, but sometimes I glimpsed one from the side, open and searching for light like a snail waking up in the rain. I liked to sit beside him, to watch his body flex in a breathless, suspended moment: his face tilted upwards and his right hand beside his ear, before it comes, his voice, from wherever it comes, and sails throughout our house like a thing unbound. Sometimes it brought tears to my eyes that I wiped away quickly. Sometimes I wanted to ask what he saw, how he imagined us and the world, but I didn't know how to ask such questions then.

My feet were burning. I ran down the staircase to the garden and walked under the shade of the small fruit trees, digging my toes into the cool earth then flicking my feet ahead with every step, imitating Baba's walk. I picked a blue plum, but it tasted sour, so I threw it under its tree. Where it lay I could see my teeth marks and the white gap my bite had left. At the foot of the wall that separated our house from Ustath Rashid's house a few mulberries had fallen in the dirt and were being attacked by ants. This was the last surviving tree from the mulberry orchard that our street had erased. I looked up at its thin branches and the small berries that still clung to them, hanging over the wall. How much longer before they too will fall to the ants, I wondered.

I fetched the ladder and climbed very slowly. Each berry was like a crown of tiny purple balls. They reminded me of the grapes carved into the arches of Lepcis. I decided that mulberries were the best fruit God had created and I began to imagine young lively angels conspiring to plant a crop in the earth's soil after they heard that Adam, peace and blessings be upon him, and Eve, peace and blessings be upon her, were being sent down here to earth as punishment. God knew of course, He's the Allknowing, but He liked the idea and so let the angels carry out their plan. I plucked one off and it almost melted in my fingers. I threw it in my mouth and it dissolved, its small balls exploding like fireworks. I ate another and another.

I don't know how long I was up on the ladder, but the nearby branches had certainly begun to look barer when I started to feel dizzy. I touched the top of my head, and it was as hot as a car's bonnet at midday.

The mulberries were so ripe I could see now that many more had fallen on the other side of the wall. Armies of ants, I thought, were probably gathering to eat them. I looked up at the clear blue of the sky and thanked the angels and asked God to please forgive their mischief. I was full, and my stomach wasn't feeling good – this fruit was delicious in the mouth but turned as thick as blood in the stomach – but every time I tried to stop my mouth wanted more. So I decided I would sit over the wall, dangle my feet one on either side as if sitting on a horse and eat all the berries I could reach. I turned and pulled the branches closer. And when I couldn't eat any more I filled my pockets with them.

When I reached the ground I almost lost my balance. I turned on the garden tap and put my head under it. The cold water felt good, but when I stood up I saw the world spin. I quickly put my head under the water again and shut my eyes but saw colours and strange figures dancing. My eyes, shut or open, were covered in a curtain that blurred everything. My ears too filled with a whistling noise. The world turned even faster. I sat where I stood. I felt the damp earth come through my shorts. I must turn off the tap, I thought. Then I heard Mama calling. I pulled out all the berries in my pockets and stuffed them in my mouth, chewing and swallowing as fast as I could. Then I noticed Bahloul the beggar standing outside the garden fence. He was staring at me. How long had he been standing there, I wondered. He pointed his finger at me. 'I see you, I see you,' he shouted. Although I knew Bahloul was mad, these words, these meaningless words that he always repeated, increased my confusion. I wondered if he thought I was stealing my neighbours' berries and was announcing himself the witness. Was I stealing? I wasn't sure, but I was sure that even if I was I would be forgiven. After all, the berries belonged to Kareem and Ustath Rashid and Auntie Salma. But all that wouldn't matter; if Bahloul went spreading rumours someone will believe him, because 'there's no smoke without fire'. My heart shuddered. I tried to look, to seem, to feel innocent because, as Sheikh Mustafa had told me, the innocent have no cause to fear. Mama called again. I leaned against the wall for guidance, hearing the water beat into the dirt behind me. I thought of going back to turn the tap off, but continued walking towards the kitchen. 'There's no smoke without fire,' the sentence repeated itself once more in my head.

The cool shade of our house made the blood in my head disappear. Even though I could barely see anything except the movement of this strange curtain of light and dust, I sat down where I knew a chair was. In the distance – could Mama hear him too? – I caught Bahloul screaming fervently, 'I see you!' and I wondered if by walking away like that, weak and dizzy, I had confirmed my guilt and so hardened his conviction.

'Why are you wet? What is this red on your hands and face? What is the matter with you? What happened? What happened? And why, in the name of God why aren't you answering me?'

I sat arched over the kitchen table, my lower lip dripping with saliva. I wanted to speak to comfort her but I couldn't. My eyes stared into nothing, through a curtain of flickering light. I didn't know what was the matter with me, but was now more concerned for her. Normally, at this time, I would be pulling her hand up the stairs to my workshop to show her what I had made. She would kiss me then walk to the edge of the roof to look out on to the sea, her long silk house-robe, decorated by a giant fanning tail of a peacock, billowing behind her. The sun would be weak and many colours by that time, mirroring itself on the sea. I would stand beside her, leaning against her leg, and every time I looked up her eyes would be fixed and squinting at the shimmering water. She would tell me how the sea changed because the sea changes every day. At those moments I could ask her any question, and she would give me the answer, any question I could think of and as many as I could think of.

'What happened to you?' She banged the table and stood up. I could feel her moving all round me. She began to speak to herself: 'It's all your fault. If anything happens to him everyone will blame you, say you were napping while your own son needed you. He's only a child, Najwa, what were you thinking?'

It's very odd to hear your mother call herself by her name, it's very odd to hear anyone do that, but particularly Mama, because almost no one called her Najwa. To me she was Mama, to her family she was Naoma, and to the rest of the world she was Um Suleiman. Baba called her Um Suleiman or Naoma or Mama and only very occasionally Najwa. It came so sweetly from his mouth.