HABIB SELMI

into bed and I laid down beside him.

Just as my thoughts were once more turning to Naïma, he asked me a question: “Is the mosque in France big?”

“Yes . . .” “As big as ours?” “Uh-huh . . .” “And is the minaret as high?” “Yes, it is.” “And is it clean, like ours?” “Yes.” “And is there an imam?” “Yes . . .” “Like ours?” “Yes . . .” “And does he have a white beard?” “He does.” “And does he know the entire Qur’an by heart?” “Yes.” He snuggled up close, putting his head on my chest. “The teacher at school told us that people who don’t pray are infidels,” he went on.

“Do you know what infidel means?” “Infidel means that you don’t love God . . .” He looked up and gazed at me. It was clear that he expected me to voice my own opinion, make a comment or say something in response. But I said nothing.

“The teacher told us that French people and Jewish people are infidels . . .”

There was a very long silence, at the end of which he added: “I told him my uncle lives in France . . . and he prays at the mosque in France . . . I also told him that my uncle’s wife Catherine is French . . . but she’s not an infidel, I said, because she loves my uncle . . . and she loves my mummy and my daddy . . . and me.”

After he had gone back to his room, I closed the shutters and turned off the light. I could not get Naïma out of my mind, however hard I tried. I reviewed the entire sequence of events and then went back to the times I had seen her on my previous visit – I tried to remember if there had been any kind of gesture or look, any sign or indication that might help me make sense of what had taken place earlier tonight. My mind went from scene to scene until I was finally overcome by sleep. When I woke in the morning, I hurried over to the window. I opened

136 BANIPAL 43 – CELEBRATING DENYS JOHNSON-DAVIES