Well, he imported the Polish tyres and, as with the chickens, he didn't order a few to try out first, he bought a whole shipload. 'When the market demands, Slooma, you must be in a position to respond,' he said, walking me through the warehouse where they were stored. It was strange and wonderful to be surrounded by columns and columns of black rubber tyres piled on top of one another. Moosa's lips were moist, and he had a big proud smile on his face.

The tyres sold very well, but, as soon as August came, Moosa's Polish tyres melted. It was a big problem – and it definitely wasn't funny – because his customers, feeling cheated, returned to him furious, demanding their money back. On one occasion the tyres melted completely, gluing the car to the road. In a fit of rage, its owner threatened to teach Moosa a 'good lesson'. On more than one occasion Baba had to intervene to rescue Moosa from an angry customer. He would pay them back their money, apologizing repeatedly, unable to completely lose his smile. And to the man who wanted to teach Moosa a good lesson, Baba paid more money, apologized harder and, after the man was gone, burst out laughing.

Moosa refused to talk about this venture. The only explanation I ever remember him giving for his mistake was, 'It doesn't get very hot in Poland.' Mama and Baba didn't allow him a grieving period, they immediately started teasing him about the episode: 'Moosa, how's the weather in Poland today?' 'Listen, do you think we can have another set of those world-famous tyres for next winter?' 'For God's sake, Moosa, if you marry a Polish girl, remember to take her home during the summer.'

And there we could have all been, talking, reading and laughing. Instead Mama was now sitting in front of me at the kitchen table, her eyes like a bird's, dark and full of grief. Moosa was still vacuuming the reception room. And Baba… I hadn't seen him since I came in from the garden, when Mama ran and frantically shook him to wake up. 'Where's Baba?' I finally said. 'Why isn't he home yet? What time is it?'

Mama didn't reply, she seemed to be thinking about my questions: why I was asking them and what the thoughts were behind them. Then she broke out, 'Why are you asking about your father now? What's the matter, am I not good enough for you? Why don't you speak up and explain to me what's going on?'

I heard the vacuum cleaner's loud hum fall to nothing. Moosa must have heard her shouting and was now coming to my rescue, I thought.

'I want to know where Baba is. Why isn't he home?' I yelled at her.

Moosa walked in, he tried to say something, but Mama told him to mind his own business. I began to cry.

'Now you listen,' she said. 'I have enough to deal with here, don't drive me crazy. And… And… What's this smell?' she said and began searching with her nose. 'Piss!'

'No, it can't be,' Moosa said.

'I smell piss,' she said, her eyes wide open.

I squeezed my thighs together and pressed my mulberry-stained palms on my wet lap. She pulled my hands away, I struggled against her but she was stronger than me. She rubbed the wet fabric of my jallabia and smelled her fingers.

'What's going on with you?' she shouted. She faced Moosa, slapped her own thigh then pointed at me and said, 'He peed himself She pulled me up on my feet and shouted, 'You are no longer a baby. Why didn't you go to the toilet? Talk!'

'Where is Baba?' I cried.

'What were you up to in the garden? Why did you flood the entire place? Why are your hands stained red? Why did you pee yourself?' she said, shaking me with each question, then she fell into her chair and began to cry. 'What do you all want from me? Do you want me to lose my mind?' She buried her face in her hands and, not moving, not making a sound, sat like this.

'I am sorry, Mama,' I said into the cold silence. 'I promise I will never do it again, please don't cry.'

A low, strangled sound came muffled through her hands. Her crying was not normal. Mama's ill again, I thought. I looked at Moosa. She began speaking, but I could hardly make out the words, things about her bad luck and how since childhood she had been cursed with bad luck, bad luck bad luck bad luck, calling for her dead Baba to come back and help her, pleading with him to return and save her because it was too soon, she said, all too much and too soon. She wept. Then she spoke to Baba, blaming him for his dreams, his crazy dreams that put the whole world at risk. 'Who do you think you are?' she said, as if there was a small version of him standing on the breakfast table in front of her, 'Saying, "We must inspire the young. We must open their eyes to other ways, other possibilities." Well, there you have gone and opened their eyes all right. Happy now? Now they have been inspired. Inspired to madness, inspired to craziness. What have you done, you crazy fool? What have you done?' she cried, holding her head.

'Praise the Prophet, Um Suleiman, and bid away evil spirits,' Moosa said from behind me.

This is a good trick. Whenever someone is very upset or angry, ask them to praise the Prophet and they have to stop yelling or crying and praise.

After a long silence she sighed deeply and said, 'Peace and blessings be upon him.'

I was still standing beside her, facing her, waiting for something, something she would say or do to make everything different. She looked at me and smiled, but quickly her smile collapsed into a frown. She held her arms out and tilted her head like a girl wanting to hide. She hugged me. I could feel her wet lips on my neck, her breath warm and irregular. 'I am sorry, habibi,' she mumbled. 'You were frightened. Forgive me.' I patted her back and whispered what I sometimes said when she was ill, when I had nothing to say but couldn't remain silent: 'Everything is going to be fine.' She dried her tears, took a deep breath and nodded. 'Did you know how hard the angels worked and how they risked everything to give us mulberries?' I said to make her better, to make her cheeks rosy again. 'And all because they knew how hard life was going to be for us here on earth. I wish you were there with me, to taste them. You know how you say that everything we know will be more beautiful in Paradise? Well, everything except mulberries, they taste just as good here, they are the angels' way of making us patient. I think they are the only thing here from Paradise. I wish I had saved some for you. Perhaps tomorrow I'll find some more, I'll see.' She held my cheeks in her hands and kissed my forehead. 'You are my prince. My beautiful prince,' she said and smiled.

After I had showered and gone to bed, Moosa came in and switched on the light. 'How about a rub before you slumber, you prince you,' he said, hoping to make me laugh. I said nothing. I was upset at him for doing nothing, for standing there watching it all, and now for switching on the light just when my eyes had become used to the dark. I was lying on my stomach, I didn't even turn to face him. He sat beside me and began digging his big fingers into my shoulders, running them like giant forks up and down my back, sideways too. I heard him sigh with the effort. Apart from that he was silent.

I never liked being upset at Moosa, but I couldn't stop, didn't know how, to be normal again, to laugh and play with him. He didn't finish, didn't give me one of his mammoth rubs where every limb, every finger and knuckle was squeezed and twisted and pulled. He quickly kissed the back of my head, switched off the lights and left.

I heard them talk, then the front door shut. Moosa had left. Walking into the night. His car dark and cold, I imagined. I heard the engine not start until the third or fourth time, then gaining speed, leaving us, vanishing into the silence.