'What do I want with that?' Mama told him.

'It's a camouflage,' he said.

'But it's huge!'

'Did you gather all the papers and books I told you about?'

'Yes, everything is ready.'

'Are you sure? Bu Suleiman doesn't want us to miss a thing.'

When they heard me walk out they stopped talking. After a short silence Mama whispered, 'He's up.' 'Slooma!' Moosa yelled in the exaggerated way football fans do when their star player appears on the field, whistling, making the sound of a crowd's roar, raising his fist above his head.

I went to the bathroom. I heard them resume their conversation, whispering. When I entered the kitchen they fell silent again. He was sitting at the breakfast table, she stood with her back to me, washing fruit.

'How did you sleep, Champ?'

'Good,' I said.

'Mama told me you had a bad dream.'

'I don't remember,' I said.

'Well, it might have been the after effects of the sunstroke. The heat probably melted your brain,' he said and laughed so loudly even Mama couldn't resist. She covered her mouth with the back of her hand, but she made no sound. She could have been crying for all I knew. She turned and placed a plate of fruit on the table. I looked into her eyes, they weren't crying.

'How did I come to be in your bed?' I asked.

'Good morning, habibi.' She kissed me. 'You had a bad dream. You don't remember? You were crying.'

I shook my head. I remembered the dream I had of Baba in the sea, his silver fish spine beneath the water.

'You lay beside me mumbling and trembling.'

I held her hand to kiss it as I did every morning, but the telephone rang, and she went to answer it.

Moosa grabbed an egg, cracked it against his forehead, peeled it, squeezed half a lime on it, rolled its shiny white body on the three small mountains of salt, black pepper, and cumin, then handed it to me. He took to reading the paper out loud, but I was feeling myself become restless, as if I was neglecting something else much more important. This made me unable to concentrate, and it irritated Moosa. He flexed his jaws, jiggled his leg, lit a cigarette and read to himself.

Resting behind him against the kitchen counter was the back of a framed picture. This must have been the heavy object he had carried in. Mama was right, it was huge. She ran back into the kitchen.

That was them,' she said. 'I am sure it was them. I could hear a man breathing on the other end. I tried to get him to speak. But he hung up.' She was rubbing her palms together. 'Come on, let's get on with it before they arrive.'

Moosa stared at the table. His jaws flexed rapidly and every time they did two small round pockets inflated below his ears. 'Where's the hammer?' he said.

'I don't think we've got a hammer,' Mama said, pulling open a few drawers in the kitchen. 'Honestly, I don't think we've got one.'

'It doesn't matter,' he said and took off his shoe. 'Just give me a nail.'

'I don't think we've got nails either.'

'I should've known,' he said irritably and with his shoe in his hand limped to the reception room. I followed him. He took down Baba's picture, the one that hung too high up on the wall. He tested the strength of its nail, then whacked it a couple of times with the heel of his shoe. 'That should do it,' he said to himself and left the room.

Baba's picture stood on the floor, leaning against the piano stool. His smile changed, he looked as if he was embarrassed now, and the trees behind him looked even less lifelike. Moosa returned, hugging the huge frame. On either side of him I could see a man's shoulders. They were decorated with stars and eagles. Moosa was breathing heavily. He nudged the picture up, came down a little, then pushed it up again. 'Suleiman,' he said hoarsely, and I put my ear against the wall. 'Up a little,' I said. But he put the picture down. He caught his breath then gripped the frame again. 'Down a little,' I said. 'A bit to the right.' We stepped back and watched the Colonel stare up and into the distance. His cap down to his eyes, as if something in the sky bothered him, black tufts of hair gathered around his temples and ears and the sides of his neck, two mysterious lines carved into his cheeks like brackets on either side of his mouth. The brass plaque on the frame read: Colonel Muammar el-Qaddafi, the Guide of the Libyan Popular Revolution. 'The Benefactor, the Father of the Nation, the Guide!' Moosa said with a smile. He punched the air with his fist, chanting, 'El-Fateh, el-Fateh, el-Fateh,' pretending to be several thousand people. I didn't laugh. He then hid Baba's picture behind the piano and put on his shoe. When we returned to the kitchen Mama wasn't there. Moosa took his chair by the table and lit a cigarette. I remained standing, watching him. After a little while he yelled, 'Urn Suleiman, how are you doing?' And under his breath he said, 'The bastards.' When he saw that I was watching him he smiled weakly. 'Why don't you sit down?' I didn't know why I didn't want to sit down, and didn't like feeling the pressure of having to explain myself.

'Come and give me a hand,' Mama yelled from her bedroom.

He put out his cigarette and said, 'Sit down.'

I remained standing. He left the kitchen. He was acting as if suddenly he was the man of the house and I the guest. His broken cigarette burned in the ashtray, I watched it until it died.

Then they both reappeared carrying mountains of books and papers. He held the garden door open for her, she ran out. Before he could follow a book fell. I was about to fetch it for him but hesitated. He looked at me. I saw a shadow of disappointment in his eyes. I wonder now in what way I had disappointed him: was it by not picking up the book, by lacking that thing that enables people to act quickly and without doubt? Was it by not obeying him when he asked me to sit down? Or was it something else, something more intangible than a single act? Disappointment was a series of shadows each pointing to the other. He left the book on the floor and went after Mama. After a moment I picked it up and followed them.

Outside, the morning air was sweet and the birds sang as if they were clearing their throats for the day. When I reached the stairs I saw the peacock on Mama's house-robe disappear on to the roof, Moosa following close behind, taking two steps at a time. I climbed at my own pace, occasionally slapping the book against my thigh, rubbing it against the wall. On its spine the word Democracy' was written, below it the word 'Now'.

Moosa was on his knees beside the water tank where I had my workshop. He took the tin bucket where I kept my tools and with one motion chucked its contents to one side. He tore a few pieces of paper, then lit and threw a match after them. Dark smoke appeared. He blew at it, and it stopped smoking, and although you couldn't see the flames you knew they were there by the way they made the air around them ripple. I thought of protesting the use of my bucket, but it was too late. Their urgency seemed to cancel everything around them.

Mama quickly shuffled through the papers in her hand, and when the fire was good and strong she began throwing them, one at a time, as if feeding a dog, into the bucket. I watched Baba's writing curl, turn red, grey and vanish into black ash. I came closer to hand Moosa the book, but caught Mama, from the corner of my eye, looking at me. I feared she would send me away to practise my scales so I held the book behind my back and didn't move. Moosa continued tearing the books. I was surprised by how easily they came apart in his big hands.

Holding the hot tin bucket with his white handkerchief, he took it down to the garden. Mama followed him, saying, 'You find a spot, I'll get the spade.'

I remained on the roof, holding the book behind my back, looking down at them. He chose the spot I had flooded in the garden by the glue tree. Mama came running, her peacock robe flying behind her, and handed him the spade. I watched him digging and burying the ashes. After they were finished they walked back to the kitchen.