The mother comes in. “What are you doing?” she screams in horror. She rushes toward the children, grabbing them by the arms. “Get out! Come with me!”

“A fly! Daddy’s eating a fly!” shriek the girls, almost in concert. “Be quiet!” orders their mother.

They leave the room.

The fly struggles on the kilim, drowning in saliva.

The woman comes back into the room. Before reinserting the tube into the man’s mouth she looks around, anxious and intrigued. “What fly?” Noticing nothing, she replaces the tube and leaves.

Later, she comes back to pour sugar-salt solution into the drip bag, and eyedrops into the man’s eyes.

Her tasks complete, she does not remain with her man.

She no longer puts her right hand on her man’s chest.

She no longer tells the black prayer beads in time with her man’s breathing.

She leaves.

She doesn’t return until the call to midday prayer-and not to take out the little carpet, unfurl it, lay it on the ground, and say her prayers. Just to put new eye-drops into the man’s eyes. One, two. One, two. And then leave again.

After the call to prayer, the mullah’s hoarse voice beseeches God to lend his protection to the area’s faithful on this, a Wednesday: “… because, as our Prophet says, it’s a day of misfortune during which the Pharaoh and his people were drowned, and the peoples of the Prophet Salih-the Ad and the Thamoud-were destroyed…” He stops and immediately starts again in a fearful voice. “Dear Faithful, as I have always told you, Wednesday is a day on which, according to our Prophet, the most noble, it is right neither to practice bloodletting, nor to give, nor to receive. However, one of the hadith, quoted by Ibn Younes, says that this practice is permitted during jihad. Today, your brother, our great Commander, is furnishing you with weapons that you may defend your honor, your blood, and your tribe!”

In the street, men are shouting themselves hoarse: “Allah O Akbar!” Running: “Allah O Akbar!” Their voices fading as they near the mosque: “Allah O…”

A few ants prowl around the corpse of the fly on the kilim. Then grab hold of it and carry it off.

The woman arrives to gaze anxiously at the man. Perhaps she is afraid that the call to arms will have put him back on his feet.

She stays near the door. Her fingers stroke her lips and then, nervously, stray between her teeth, as if to extract words that don’t dare express themselves. She leaves the room. She can be heard making something for lunch, talking and playing with the children.

Then it’s time for a nap.

Darkness.

Silence.

The woman comes back. Less anxious. She sits down next to the man. “That was the mullah. He was here for our prayer session. I told him that since yesterday I have been impure, that I am menstruating, like Eve. He wasn’t happy. I’m not sure why. Because I dared compare myself to Eve, or because I told him I was bleeding? He left, muttering into his beard. He wasn’t like that before; you could have a joke with him. But since you people declared this new law for the country, he’s changed too. He’s afraid, poor man.”

Her gaze settles on the Koran. Suddenly, she jumps: “Shit, the feather!” She looks for it inside the book. Not there. Under the pillow. Not there either. In her pockets. There it is. With a big sigh, she sits down. “That mullah is driving me out of my mind!” she says as she puts the feather back inside the Koran. “What was I talking about?… Oh yes, bleeding… I was lying to him, of course.” She glances keenly at the man, more mischievous than submissive. “Just as I’ve lied to you… more than once!” She pulls her legs up to her chest and wedges her chin between her knees. “But there is something I’d better tell you…” She looks at him for a long time. Still with the same strange wariness in her gaze. “You know…” Her voice goes hoarse. She swallows to moisten her throat, and looks up. “When you and I went to bed for the first time-after three years of marriage, remember!-anyway, that night, I had my period.” Her gaze flees the man to seek refuge in the creases of the sheet. She rests her left cheek on her knees. The look in her scarred eye loses some of its wariness. “I didn’t tell you. And you, you thought that… the blood was proof of my virginity!” A muted laugh shakes her crouched, huddled body. “How thrilled you were to see the blood, how proud!” A moment. A look. And the dread of hearing a cry of rage, an insult. Nothing. And so, soft and serene, she allows herself to visit the intimate corners of her memory. “I shouldn’t really have had my period then. It wasn’t the right time, but I was a week early; it must have been nerves, fear about meeting you. I mean, can you imagine-being engaged for almost a year and then married for three years to an absent man; not so easy. I lived with your name. I had never seen, or heard, or touched you before that day. I was afraid, afraid of everything, of you, of going to bed, of the blood. But at the same time, it was a fear I enjoyed. You know, the kind of fear that doesn’t separate you from your desire, but instead arouses you, gives you wings, even though it may burn. That was the kind of fear I was feeling. And it was growing in me every day, invading my belly, my guts… On the night before you arrived, it came pouring out. It wasn’t a blue fear. No. It was a red fear, blood red. When I mentioned it to my aunt, she advised me not to say anything… and so I kept quiet. That suited me fine. Although I was a virgin I was really scared. I kept wondering what would happen if by any chance I didn’t bleed that night…” Her hand sweeps through the air as if batting away a fly. “It would have been a catastrophe. I’d heard so many stories about that. I could imagine the whole thing.” Her voice becomes mocking. “Passing off impure blood as virginal blood, bit of a brainwave, don’t you think?” She lies down right close to the man. “I have never understood why, for you men, pride is so much linked to blood.” Her hand sweeps the air again. Her fingers are moving. As if gesturing to an invisible person to come closer. “And remember the night-it was when we were first living together-that you came home late. Dead drunk. You’d been smoking. I had fallen asleep. You pulled down my knickers without saying a word. I woke up. But I pretended to be deeply asleep. You… penetrated me… you had a great time… but when you stood up to go and wash yourself, you noticed blood on your dick. You were furious. You came back and beat me, in the middle of the night, just because I hadn’t warned you that I was bleeding. I had defiled you!” She laughs, scornful. “I had made you unclean.” Her hand snatches memories from the air, closes around them, descends to stroke her belly as it swells and slackens at a pace faster than the man’s breathing.

Suddenly, she thrusts her hand downward, beneath her dress, between her legs. Closes her eyes. Takes a deep, ragged breath. Rams her fingers into herself, roughly, as if driving in a blade. Holding her breath, she pulls out her hand with a stifled cry. Opens her eyes and looks at the tips of her nails. They are wet. Wet with blood. Red with blood. She puts her hand in front of the man’s vacant eyes. “Look! That’s my blood, too. Clean. What’s the difference between menstrual blood and blood that is clean? What’s so disgusting about this blood?” Her hand moves down to the man’s nostrils. “You were born of this blood! It is cleaner than the blood of your own body!” She pushes her fingers roughly into his beard. As she brushes his lips she feels his breath. A shiver of fear runs across her skin. Her arm shudders. She pulls her hand away, clenches her fist, and, with her mouth against the pillow, cries out again. Just once. The cry is long. Heartrending. She doesn’t move for a long time. A very long time. Until the water bearer knocks on the neighbor’s door, and the old woman’s rasping cough is heard through the walls, and the water bearer empties his skin into the neighbor’s tank, and one of her daughters starts crying in the passage. Then, she stands up and leaves the room without daring to look at her man.