That night Nelio slept badly, tormented by disturbing dreams. The dreams that plagued him all had faces and reminded him of the young bandits who had clung to their bloody weapons. They had taken away his trousers and his ability to think and feel. He found himself near a river and caught sight of his face in the water. He was looking at a ghost, an old man with sunken eyes and a grimy stubble on his face. From the other side of the river Yabu Bata shouted something to him, but he couldn't understand what he said. Nelio woke up before it was light. Alfredo Bomba was sleeping next to him, on his back with his mouth open, like a little child. Nelio thought it would be wise for him to start this important day by trying to understand the dreams he had had during the night. From his father he had learned that dreams often contain omens. They might be puzzling, but it was a person's task to interpret the omens and to act accordingly.

'People sleep in order to dream,' his father had told him. 'The reason we wake up afterwards is so that we have the chance to interpret our dreams.'

Nelio thought that it would have been easier if he were lying inside the horse's belly. There he was used to studying his dreams. He needed to be alone if he was going to listen to the voices of the night that spoke to him. Here, surrounded by the sleeping band, he had no peace.

With the first glow of morning light in the sky, Nelio got up, carefully so as not to wake the others, and walked across the deserted street to Abu Cassamo's shop. He listened at the door and could hear the sound of shuffling footsteps inside. He knocked gently and waited. Abu Cassamo peeked from the doorway after undoing all the locks and the safety chain, which were his security against the world he mistrusted. His eyes that were always melancholy regarded Nelio standing outside.

'I've brought my maps again,' Nelio said. 'And I also have a question to ask you.'

Abu Cassamo let him into the dim studio. Then he squatted down next to the spirit stove where he was making coffee according to a complicated ritual. Nelio sat on a stool and waited. On the walls hung torn tourist posters in gaudy, implausible colours, and Nelio assumed that they were scenes from the Indian subcontinent, which Abu Cassamo would never see.

When Abu Cassamo had emptied his little coffee cup, he wiped his mouth and sat down on a stool facing Nelio, who was already holding the tattered atlas in his hands. He explained to Abu Cassamo why he had come. But he spoke of Alfredo Bomba's wish as if it were his own.

'I once made a promise to my father to visit this island,' Nelio said. 'Last night I dreamed it was time for me to make the journey. My father will be very annoyed if I don't do as we decided.'

'I assume that your father is dead,' mused Abu Cassamo.

'He'd be angry even if he was alive,' replied Nelio. 'I don't think it's got any better since he drowned in a ditch full of water when he was groggy with malaria.'

Abu Cassamo took the book of maps and turned on the last of the glaring photographic lamps that still worked. Nelio waited, aware that he was slowly being pulled back in time, to a point long before the bandits came and burned his village. Not until many hours later, as Abu Cassamo turned the final page of the maps, did he come back to real life again.

'I can't help you,' Abu Cassamo said. 'The island where your father is waiting for you isn't shown. This is a very poor atlas.'

'I found it in a rubbish bin,' Nelio said. 'Now I understand why someone threw it away.'

'The world can only be shown on poor maps,' Abu Cassamo said. 'How could anyone make a complete map of something that is so badly tended as our world?'

They were quiet for a moment.

'How do you find an island that isn't shown on any map?' asked Nelio at last.

'You can't find it,' Abu Cassamo said. 'The best thing you can do is to drink uputso and dance and talk to your father. Sometimes the dead can show us ways that we didn't realise we knew.'

Nelio couldn't help noticing the faint undertone of scorn in Abu Cassamo's voice. He knew that Indians were like whites in the sense that they had never understood why black people often danced and talked to their ancestors. Just like the whites, Indians were afraid; they hid their fear by showing their contempt, although with much greater discretion than the whites, because they were businessmen and they didn't want to make enemies with anyone who might some day unexpectedly become a customer.

'I'm going to take your advice,' Nelio said. 'But I have another question. Who might give me all the money I need to make the long journey and also buy a new suit for my father?'

'I didn't know that the spirits wore suits.'

'My father claims they do. When I dream about him, he's always wearing the same suit, which is now much too shabby and worn.'

'I only know one person who might be able to give you the money,' Abu Cassamo said. 'His name is Suleiman, and he's just as rich as the great Khan, but everybody pretends he's not because he doesn't give any money to build new mosques.'

'Why would he give me the money?'

'He's Indian, like me,' Abu Cassamo said. 'But his soul has gone astray by living so many years among blacks, like you. He's so afraid of evil spirits and omens now that he doesn't even dare to conduct business any more. He has shut himself up in his house and never goes out. If you give him my greetings, he might let you in.'

'How do you happen to know him?'

'He was my last customer,' Abu Cassamo said sadly. 'In the last photograph I took, you can see the fear shining in his eyes.'

'Maybe he ought to go with me to the island,' Nelio said. 'Where does this man named Suleiman live?'

'There's a house next to the old prison that looks as if it's had its top chopped off. 'Suleiman tore down the upper storey with his bare hands after he was swindled in some big deal. He was punishing himself for being so gullible. That happened many years ago, before he believed that the evil spirits and omens could harm him.'

Nelio got up to go. It was already late afternoon. He was very hungry.

'Don't you ever eat?' he asked.

'Only when I'm hungry,' Abu Cassamo said. 'But today is not one of those days.'

'I'll let you take my picture,' Nelio said, 'when I come back from my journey. And you'll take pictures of the others that I live with here on the street. You'll develop the pictures, we'll pick the best ones, and then we'll frame them. And we'll pay you for your work.'

'Which wall should we hang the photos on?' asked Abu Cassamo after he had shown Nelio out.

'At the back of the petrol station,' Nelio said. 'There's a beautiful wall there. When it rains, of course, we'll have to cover them with sacks.'

The next day Nelio walked through the city to Suleiman's chopped-off house. He opened the gate and walked into a yard that looked like an overgrown cemetery. In the dry grass lay rusty dog chains, a reminder of furious barking. Nelio knocked on the door. A tiny slot opened just above the doorstep. A fat brown finger stuck out and indicated that Nelio should lie down so that his face was level with the slot. The finger disappeared, Nelio lay flat and stared straight into an eye.

'I've come to talk to Suleiman about an island where fear is erased,' he said. Abu Cassamo sent me here.'

The eye vanished and the door opened a crack. It occurred to Nelio that all Indians open their doors only halfway, maybe out of fear, but also out of thrift. Nelio went into the chopped-off house where all the curtains were drawn. There was an unfamiliar smell, and it was very dark. When his eyes had grown accustomed to the darkness, he saw that the house had no furniture at all. The only thing inside the house was money. There were bundles and stacks of banknotes everywhere, all tied up with string. It was the money that was making the smell that Nelio hadn't recognised. In the midst of all the money, as if surrounded by protective walls of banknotes, stood Suleiman. He was short and very fat. His hair had fallen out, his beard was skimpy, and the frames of his glasses were held together with dirty tape. Nelio explained to Suleiman the purpose of his visit. He listened with his eyes closed. When Nelio stopped talking, Suleiman threw out his arms in a gesture of weary resignation.