Talk. That’s all his father ever does, and he never remembers to leave some silent space to listen to anyone else’s words.
He stares at the picture. The air-conditioner blows on his face, but he can almost feel the heat of the sun on his shoulders. A camel in the distance.
He stands on the stepladder, flipping through the pages: a minaret. The Jewish ghetto. An aron kodesh, painted in sky-blue and gold.
Heat, dust, color.
Is this where Mr. Hassidian comes from? Is this what he calls home?
He thinks of his parents’ home. The smells: onions sautéing, washing powder, old leather, the faint metallic taste in the air from his Tatte’s silver soldering.
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