'This is a new habit. Whenever he's upset he does this,' Mama told him, her voice distant, banished by anger or grief.

But it wasn't a new habit. I had done this for a long time, she knew I had, to stop myself from talking, from repeating the things she had told me when she was ill, the things that upset her to hear, the things she made me promise not to tell a living soul.

'What's the matter, Slooma?'

'Leave him,' Mama told him. 'He'll stop when he gets tired.'

My mind escaped to a memory: Baba was sitting reading a book by the light, I beside him. I had tried to snuggle into his side, but his body didn't give, didn't arch over me the way Ustath Rashid did over Kareem on the bus back from Lepcis. His jallabia was unbuttoned, and through it the hairs on his chest sprouted like little curled wires. I said something, but he didn't react. I rubbed his earlobe. His breath was steady and rhythmic. I pulled one of the hairs. He still didn't react. I took hold of a few and pulled them as hard as I could. The skin round them stretched out and slowly pulled them back from my grip. He held his breath for a second but that was all.

Later I asked him, 'How come you didn't feel any pain when I pulled your hair?'

'When did you ever do that?' he asked.

'Earlier today, when you were reading.'

'Your father feels nothing when he's reading,' Mama said, then after a cold silence added, 'He loves his books more than anything else. One day they'll come to burn them and us with them.'

Baba left the room. I looked at Mama for an explanation. Then we both heard him slam the door to his study shut.

I began to rock faster. I couldn't stop my lips quivering, I had to suck in air.

'He's crying,' Moosa told her.

'Why did you burn Baba's books?' I yelled at them. 'Baba loves his books.'

For a moment neither of them spoke. I sensed guilt in their silence. Then Mama said, 'It's not like you didn't participate.' I must have looked at her in horror because she said, 'I saw you standing there, watching Moosa working the fire,' then turned to Moosa for confirmation.

Something boiled in my throat, and like an explosion I yelled, Til tell Baba when he comes home that you burned his books, I swear I will.'

'It's for Baba's own good,' Moosa said. He was beside me now, standing on his knees the way he did a few minutes before in front of my tin bucket on the roof, my favourite bucket with the picture of a Greek family waving and smiling in an olive grove, blackened now with soot and ash, ruined for ever. He tried to whisper something in my ear. I pushed him.

'You are crazy. Crazy!'

'Be quiet,' Mama said. 'Behave. This isn't how I taught you to speak to your elders.'

I covered my face. Moosa carried me to the bathroom. 'Calm down, Champ,' he said and began washing my face with cold water. I sighed deeply. He held his handkerchief to my nose and said, 'Blow.' He combed my hair with his fingers, kissed my hand and shook it, as if to say, 'Firm up, Champ.' Then, looking into my eyes, he said, "We mustn't tell the men coming here about Baba's books. You must promise.'

I inhaled deeply and said, 'I promise.'

Then the doorbell rang, over and over, in Baba's special ring.

'Baba!' I said and shot past Moosa. I was first at the front door.

'Hello, Slooma,' he said, walking right past me. 'Where is your mother?'

There was so much I wanted to tell him, I didn't know where to start.

He slapped his hand into Moosa's. Moosa asked him something, and Baba answered, 'God willing, God willing. Where's Najwa?' then looking at me, 'Where's your mother?' It had been a long time since I had heard him call her Najwa. Mama walked through the hallway swing-doors. Something was different about her. He kissed her on the cheek and I noticed then that she had combed her hair and painted her lips. She must have run to her room when she heard the doorbell.

'I have been so worried,' Mama told him, following him into the kitchen.

'Baba,' I said, 'Moosa and Mama burned your books.'

Baba looked at Moosa. 'Did you burn everything?'

'Yes, Baba, even your papers.'

'What did you do with the ashes?'

'We buried them.'

'Well done,' Baba said and patted Moosa on the shoulder.

I was confused. Why wasn't he furious?

'You shouldn't be here,' Moosa said. 'We think they are on their way.'

'I am leaving now,' Baba said confidently and walked to his bedroom. Mama and I followed him.

'I saved your dream notebook,' I said, pulling it from beneath his pillow. 'I didn't let them burn it. See?' I handed it to him, but he wasn't interested.

'Can you pack me some clothes?'

'Where are you going?'

'Don't make a fuss, please, I don't have time. All of this will pass and you will see how right I was.'

'They'll destroy you…"

'Najwa.'

'… us, everything.'

'Najwa, please.'

'Baba?'

'Yes, Slooma,' he said, happy for the distraction.

'You need a new one. See, there's only one page left, barely enough for one dream.'

'Oh yes,' he said with exaggerated interest. He took the book from me and began to flick through the pages. 'You know what, you are right. I must remember to buy a new one.'

'I didn't read it,' I said, but he was talking to Mama now.

'Underwear, socks. I mustn't forget my wash bag. Put it all in a plastic bag. I am famished.'

'There's food on the table, or shall I make you something?' she said, her eyes anxious.

'No. I am in a hurry.' He walked out, adding as if to himself but knowing she could hear him, 'Haven't you made lunch yet?'

This froze her in the middle of the room. Then she began collecting his clothes, mumbling, 'I haven't had time, and it's too early anyway, we haven't even finished breakfast,' knowing he couldn't hear her. She opened his underwear drawer, her hands trembling. I stood by the door watching her, then I left for the kitchen.

I found Moosa and Baba not sitting at the table, but standing, leaning against the counter. Baba seemed excited. His cheeks were rosy and he was busy telling Moosa something. Every so often Baba would lean over the breakfast table and pick a piece of cheese or a slice of the apple Moosa had carved. There was plenty of food on the table.

Mama walked in, carrying a small suitcase, and caught him picking at the food.

'I'll make you something to take with you,' she said.

'No, I must go.' He slapped Moosa's hand again, and the two men looked into each other's eyes for a couple of seconds. Then he took the small suitcase from Mama, lifted it to his waist. 'It weighs a ton,' he said and Moosa laughed. 'Do you not want me to come back, Um Suleiman?'

'No…'

'You want to get rid of me, I get it.'

'Of course not, I just wasn't sure… I wanted to…'

Baba was already walking out, smiling broadly at Moosa.

Outside, there was a car waiting for him. Someone was sitting behind the wheel. I ran after him to the car, but stopped when I saw the driver's face and realized I didn't know him. When Baba got into the car with the stranger he reached above his head and pulled down the big sunglasses that I saw him wear on Martyrs' Square. They had been perched on top of his head all along.

'What did he tell you?' Mama asked, clearing the dishes noisily.

'Nothing,' Moosa said calmly, sitting at the breakfast table smoking a cigarette.

'What do you mean, nothing?' Mama shouted at him. 'He spoke to you didn't he? What did he tell you?'

Moosa left the kitchen.

'Where are you going?' she called after him, then in a lowered tone told me, 'Go. Make sure he doesn't leave.'