Here is the story of a young and infinitely curious boy, who was alone in the world. He owned a music box, which he would play every night before going to bed. One night, as usual, he sat beside his window and played his favourite song from the music box. He looked outside and happened to see a comet. Innocent as he was, he thought he was witnessing the falling of a star from the heavens unto earth.

Perhaps he had fallen asleep, or perhaps, it was his wonderful imagination - in his mind, he had run down the stairs, out the door and with the courage of children, chased through the open fields in search of the fallen star. Determined, he ran beyond the point of exhaustion, until finally discovering the object of his pursuit - and how beautiful she was.

He looked at her and she at him.

“Dear child, you must play me a song from your music box every night and, in return, one day I shall return and grant you one wish, understood?”

The boy nodded.

“Quickly now, go home and play me a song.”

He smiled, then thought for a moment and, with conviction only reserved for the most serious of tasks, turned around and ran back to his room as quickly as he could to play the music box. As it composed for him its delicate melody, he crawled into bed and sank into a comfortable sleep with only a single thought softly lingering in his mind: I wonder what I’ll wish for?

He dreamed he had asked her to stay.

Every night, he played the music box and watched the heavens, waiting. Though impatient, he dared not look away from the night sky, lest he miss the arrival of his star. He spent his days sleeping, eventually becoming a stranger to the day and friend to the night. After much waiting, still no sign of return from the one who would satisfy his yearnings. In-between sporadic bursts of doubt, he remained hopeful, and so passed the time by deciding what he’d eventually wish for when she did.

He decided he wanted the world to stop being to him as lonely as it pretended to be.

One night, as he wound the music box, the strange cruelness of life eventually chose to touch him. and so there was no more music to be heard. He tried and tried, yet the music box did not play.

For hours upon hours, he disassembled the music box and put it back together, over and over, without a song. Finally, it played, and in his triumph he almost hadn’t noticed the sunrise. The night had ended, the stars had been washed away and no songs were played.

The boy played the music box a few more times after that, but eventually, the boy grew older and abandoned the hopes and dreams of children.

Now a man, one night he catches a glimpse of the old wooden box lying on the corner of a shelf, and wonders if it still plays. He dusts it off, winds the handle, and remembers the star he had once loved as a child.

“You've brought the wrong colour apple!” snarled the white rabbit from behind his desk, and continued chewing on his oversized carrot. Gary was talking to an employee of the Bureau of Animal Affairs. He stared enviously for a moment at the rabbits’ carrot and said, “Pardon me sir, an apple is an apple, is it not?”

The rabbit scoffed. “Are all Grey Rabbits this dense? You don’t get it? Unbelievable. Get out of my office, please. I have lots of work to do”, he said, laying his carrot aside and attempting to look busy examining the other apples on his desk.

“Where shall I get the right colour apple then?”, asked Gary.

The rabbit looked up and, in a surprised fit of anger at the audacity of Gary, picked up some of the apples from his desk and said, “You see these?! RED! Each and every one of them. Now look at yours, what colour is your apple?”

“Green.”

Almost immediately, the employee fired back, “Exactly! Green! Not Red. Now get out.”

Gary, collecting the remains of his dignity, left the room.

Outside, he walked past the long line of animals, each brandishing their own apples, waiting to present them to the Bureau officer. Some were talking to each other, others were silent. Most notably, the rabbits, most of them white rabbits, a few grey like himself, seemed to be enjoying a very pleasant conversation amongst themselves. Unlike him however, each had a red apple, some even had more than one - different shades of red, a combination of green and red apples, one even simultaneously held a green, red and yellow apple together.

At the very end of the hall were the ironically, silent crickets. They seemed nervous; they didn’t have any apples at all.

This wasn’t the first time Gary had been rejected for having the wrong colour apple, he had heard the same line of clichéd excuses for denial many times before. He had after all, inherited his useless green apple from his parents, and although there were many other ways to obtain the red apple he required, none were within his reach without sacrificing a great deal of pride. He had almost mastered the art of resisting the growth of an immense amount of resentment for his green apple. Almost.

As he walked past the crickets, one of them whispered, “Pssst. Hey, buddy. How’d it go, any luck?”

Gary shook his head.

“That’s alright”, said the cricket. “Maybe soon they’ll change the rules. Maybe, they’ll even start a program for green apples, and they’ll become valuable. It’s still better than not having an apple to show at all”, he said, looking downward in disappointment. “The important thing is to stay positive, y’ know?”

The grey rabbit tried his best to seem as if he agreed, and left. When he reached home, it was already late in the afternoon, and he was tired. Gary placed his green apple on the bedside counter, and lay down.

“What utility does the colour of an apple serve anyway”, he thought, as his resentment began bubbling its way to the surface. “I’m no different to those other grey rabbits, or the white ones for that matter, all laughing away today, not a worry in the world. The only difference is, they inherited red apples, and I green.”

He’d already attended hundreds of appointments, each ending the same, some politely, others, like today, not quite so amicable. Albeit, they were all the same - after all, he had the wrong colour apple. His next appointment at the Bureau was scheduled for the tomorrow morning.

“Perhaps I’ll steal one”, he thought. “Perhaps, I’ll even lie. What utility does the colour of an apple serve, anyway? What utility do pride and dignity serve?”

Gary yawned.

“To hell with you, green apple, yet you are all I have.”

“Tomorrow”, he thought, and fell asleep.

Ahmad had been waiting in the room for almost 4 years now. The all-too familiar orange and blue paint was now beginning to peel from age. Supposedly they had coloured it this way in an attempt to defend against feelings of despair and self-pity. He had stopped wondering after the second year about how much longer he would have to wait. The dreams however, were the worst. Every now and then, he would dream himself being brought into the room for the first time, and he would relive the same anxiety, the same foolish hopefulness, all over again.

“Every man shall face the wait. Waiting is suffering. Suffering is freedom. Freedom is purpose”, he had been told many times before the wait.

When they had first brought him there, he had hoped, believed even, that his sentencing would be minute. He had always been told, and felt, special. Why then, should the world punish him with a long sentence? No, he would be there only for a few hours, a day, even a week or two, but nothing more - nothing intolerable.

He spent the first few days fantasizing about his release. The door would swing wide open, he’d be congratulated by his peers, his father and mother would be standing on the other side, pride painted in their eyes. Word would be sent to his peers: the others, waiting anxiously in their own rooms, that Ahmad had been released, Ahmad had been successful and his waiting was all-too brief. He relished in the imagination of their jealousy of him. After all, ‘The Wait’ rewarded the special, as was well-known. Finally, he hoped for all of them to be successful too, but after him of course, as he believed that none deserved the cruelty of an eternal Wait.

As the hours wasted on, he’d eventually get out of bed and turn on the ‘iNFOTAINMENT(TM) system’, the presence of which had been made mandatory in every room a year prior to his arrival. The bluish tint on the screen was set to automatically turn to yellow in the nighttime in order to help the inhabitant of the room sleep, and be easier on their eyes. Since any light from the outside world was inconsequential to the room, as it had no windows, this served as the sun’s electronic replacement.

The first page was always the same: it was a ‘news reel’ of sorts, a never-ending page announcing all those whom the inhabitant knew that had been successfully released. It’s intention was to be uplifting; after four years of waiting, it was nothing more than a depressing display of good-news that literally every single person he knew had been successful.

Next, was the option of ‘Entertainment’ or ‘Education’. In his first few days of captivity, he’d opt for ‘Education’, he felt he might as well be productive while he was there, and prepare for freedom. However, as time went on and hope abandoned him, his soul dulled and eventually, to be ‘entertained’ was the only thing he chose to do.

On this particular day, which had nothing special about it, and was just like all the others, he sat in front of the yellow-tinted screen and watched through hours and hours of entertaining footage, the content of which neither interested nor excited him. He felt himself yawn heavily, and decided it should be time to sleep. Rather than switch off the screen, he opted to keep it on. There was something about it that denied the existence of reality; as long as it was there, playing random nonsense, the horrors of his reality weren’t quite fully there.

Ahmad lay down and closed his eyes. This was always the customary invitation for the unwanted thought to penetrate his mind. Usually it went something along the lines of:

“Better get used to it. You will be here, forever.”

Tonight, it spoke of something far more sinister:

“Have you ever even tried?”

Without warning he was violently overcome by the same mixture of anxiety and foolish hopefulness as the first day he had arrived, when he had hoped he wouldn’t be there for more than a few hours. His eyes fixed themselves across the room at the orange door that stood in stark contrast to the blue wall that housed it. He examined it up and down, as if searching for an answer. Was it possible? How had it never occurred to him? Could it really be so simple?

He stood up, walked nervously towards the door, cautiously placed his sweat-soaked hand onto the door handle, and squeezed.

Christmas Eve. We were driving home sometime during the early hours of the morning -- and what a night it had been. Abdullah, my neighbour, who was driving us both home yawned, as the music blared through the car’s speakers. Although we didn’t celebrate Christmas, the rest of the city did, so it was a good opportunity to capitalize on the fun. The tinted windows halfway down, a cool breeze caressed the inside of the car. I lit a cigarette first and offered him one, which he gratefully accepted. We were nearing our neighborhood when we reached the bit of construction that was taking place at the end of the highway.

The roadworks had been ongoing seemingly forever, so much so that the awkward, winding S-curves the diversions would force the driver into now felt natural, as if this were the way the highway was designed to be. They city was building some sort of bizarre tunnel/bridge combo.

Abdullah was navigating the car through the first of the unlit S-turns of the roadworks, when I heard a high pitched whine which, at first, I mistook for part of the song that was playing. As it increased in pitch and volume, it became apparent it was coming from somewhere ahead in the distance. I turned down the music.

“You hear that? Sounds like somebody screaming”, I said.

Abdullah shut the music off completely, listened intently, and said, “It’s a car horn”.

The engine’s melodic rumble came alive as we raced through the familiar S-turns, tracking the origin of the sound. At first, nothing; only the high-pitched horn screaming louder and louder. Then, around the corner of the seventh turn, the taillights of a car that had crashed into the barricade, a single man buried under its hood attempting desperately to disconnect the battery.

We stopped the car in the middle of the road, got out, and killed the battery - silence. The three of us were the only waking beings for miles in all directions.

The Englishman stumbled backwards. “Thank you”, he said. “I don’t know a lot about cars”, he added, forcing a laugh.

I could smell the alcohol oozing from his breath. “What a cliché”, I thought. “A drunk foreigner on Christmas.”

“You okay, bro?”, Abdullah asked him. “Drinking, ha?”, a wry smile wrapped around his face.

It was obvious. The foreigner, clearly panicked and surprised by the question, anxiously investigated us both with his eyes, locked both his hands over his head, as if in surrender, and lied.

“No of course not”, he scoffed. “Just an accident. I didn’t see, I was on my phone.”

Abdullah laughed.

“Don’t worry, bro”, he interrupted. “We’ve all done this at least once. It’s okay. No problem. Don’t be scared.”

He looked at me, pointed to the car and said, “Get the water and chewing gum”.

I walked back to our car thinking, “Why the hell are we helping him? He’s not in any immediate danger, the police will be here soon. We shouldn’t be here. He probably deserves what happens next”.

I thought about what would happen next. It was a zero-tolerance policy on drunk driving in our city. He’d be in prison for a long time.

I rummaged around the car and picked up a water bottle, a packet of chewing gum and the half-empty thermos of lukewarm coffee we’d been drinking when we left our homes earlier that night.

Abdullah snatched the items from my hands, handed the man the water bottle and instructed him to drink. The foreigner greedily gulped down the entire thing, as if he had been handed his salvation. Then, Abdullah offered the packet of chewing gum and coffee, smiled, and said, “Merry Christmas”.

The man’s eyes lit up like a little boy. There was a chance at hope - he’d sober up, mask the smell of alcohol, charm the unsuspecting policemen, wake up in his bed the next morning and gladly deal with the minor nuisance of towing and repairing his car. He nearly cried.

Abdullah, being the pragmatic character that he was, interrupted the man’s internal celebration by asking, “Have you got any alcohol in the car? In case the cops search?”

The foreigner only managed a weak “uhm” as the gravity of his situation violently yanked him back into reality.

“No problem”, Abdullah interrupted, “I’ll check for you”, he added assuringly, and made his way to the passenger door of the crippled car a few feet away. “Talk to him. Calm him down”, he said to me, unlocking the door.

It was then I learned the distraught foreigner’s name was Michael, that he was an accountant, was new to the city, lived in a nice neighborhood and had simply become lost on his way home from a friend’s Christmas party. Unfamiliar with the roadworks, he hit the barricade while fumbling with the GPS on his phone.

I felt sympathy for him.

After all, he didn’t hurt anyone. Perhaps he’ll learn his lesson and never drive under the influence ever again. Surely, we’ve done a good thing here, haven’t we?

Abdullah emerged from the car, having found nothing, shook the man’s hand, wished him the best of luck, told him not to worry and remain calm, and finally, reassured him that he seemed sober and there was no longer the smell of alcohol on him.

We drove off. I’m sure I saw flashes of blue and red lights somewhere in the distance. Fifteen minutes later we were home, I was still thinking about Michael. I hope he made it out alright - there was a good chance, after all. He seemed lucid enough when I left him, and he was a likeable fellow, perhaps the police didn’t suspect a thing, or if they did, they decided to let him go.

Abdullah drove past my house. “Where are you going?”, I asked.

“Hang on.”

He dug his hand into his pocket, smiling, pulled out a black leather wallet, removed the driver’s license and vehicle registration, and proceeded to read aloud, “Michael Foles. Scotland. Born in 1992.”

He tossed them out of the window, pulled out the cash, and threw the entire wallet out.

“Not even enough for a pack of cigarettes. What an idiot.”

Thalam was awake long before he was. Alnilam sat upright, and watched as the dawn began it’s slow, sure defeat of the darkness. He looked over to his friend, and stroked the back of the falcon’s head, who was staring out onto the open desert plains, enviably calm and unworried – this was his home, and he understood his purpose in life, and so nothing ever concerned him. The fire was already out; Alnilam collected the remainder of the firewood, picked up the flask of water, and perched Thalam on his arm.

Alnilam did not know, nor care, in which direction the village existed – he was determined to find it, and that was all that mattered. No matter what distance, or how long it would take, he would return to Esma – that was his resolve. That was the place, where he knew that he belonged in the world. With a great deal of patience and hope, Alnilam began his slow, uncertain journey towards the Place which he believed belonged to him.

The sun drenched the desert in such a rich, honey-coloured gold, that he could almost taste its warm sweetness at the edge of his lips. He had not seen the desert this way before, nor had he witnessed such a beautiful sunrise in his life. This time was different, because for the first time, he truly believed that as long as he kept moving in the large, empty desert, eventually something extraordinary would be discovered. The promise of life’s interruptions is dangerously fantastic.

He walked all through the day, never stopping once to rest. No weariness could exhaust his hope of returning to that village he so desperately wanted to call home. He felt undefeated - defiantly optimistic that somewhere, in a desert that refused to end, there was some thin slice of heaven waiting for him. No – not heaven, there would be suffering, as always, just as the nomad had taught him. But he would at least find love. That was for certain – he hoped.

He imagined the nomad walking beside him, not leading him in any direction as he usually did, but rather only observing. The nomad smiled, proud of his companion, the lost wanderer who now finally understood.

“The desert has a way of changing things, wanderer. It is the natural way. If you walk long enough in the desert, you will eventually learn its lessons”, he said.

They finally stopped to rest at sunset. Alnilam sat down on the soft sand that was now beginning to cool with the pleasant winter breeze. He perched Thalam, stroked the back of his head and looked out onto the horizon – to the hopeful sunset that promised him what he wanted. First, he thought of Sara.

Would he one day forget her? As if a bucket of cold water had suddenly been poured over his heart, all at once, every fibre of his being shuddered. An abandoned heart always leaves behind an emptiness where someone once belonged. Given enough time, that emptiness begins to disappear, until eventually there is no longer enough room for even their memory to return – at least never fully.

Next, he thought of Prince Waleed and his family.

“I wonder why they try so hard to hide their suffering”, he thought. “If suffering is an inevitable consequence of life, why hide it?”

The nomad turned to face Alnilam.

“Perhaps it is because they think that others would not understand their suffering, so that is why they hide it. Perhaps, we are all hiding”, said the nomad.

The first stars were now beginning to take their places in the darkening evening sky, as the sun dipped below the horizon. Alnilam lay on his back and decided to watch them. The stars, he thought. The wonderful dreams of the desert. Esma.

He took a deep, satisfied breath and smiled. It was then that he realised the profound, simple beauty of life. The blind belief that one day he would find his Place; that he would eventually find the one who would call his name, now inspired him to be as ridiculous as to wander the Arabian desert. With no guarantee of success, or certainty, he still hoped, believed and even knew, that this was something worth enduring the agony of life for. Suddenly, the dull ache in his heart, the longing and torment all became beautiful things, and for which he was grateful. The fabric of inspiration exists not in the experience of beauty, but in the imagination of it.

He smiled, took another deep breath, closed his eyes and began to imagine what he might feel, when he would finally find Esma.

He walked alongside the nomad for almost two days without the sun ever rising, until they finally found what they had been supposed to find all along. Old and weary, but still determined to fulfil its purpose, there it stood. The nomad had finally found his lost camel.

They tried to direct the camel towards the three stars of Orion’s belt, but this camel had always been stubborn, and only moved wherever it wanted to go. After a while, he learned not to fight it, and, like the desert and life itself, to let it lead him where it may. The camel kept on moving slowly through the desert, sometimes changing direction only slightly, and at other times turning around and moving in completely the opposite direction, though it never stopped moving. This eventually caused Alnilam a great deal of frustration.

“Patience”, reassured the nomad.

Eventually, the camel became thirsty.

As is the natural way of things, the camel found its way to the large body of water that existed beside the village. The camel moved in its direction, slowly, unconcerned and indifferent to the excitement and lack of patience that Alnilam felt, now that he could see the village. He dismounted, and began to sprint towards the nomad’s house. Esma was already standing outside the door.

“Alnilam!” she cried.

The calm that settled within him, when he saw her again, had washed away all of the pain, and the suffering, and the long and arduous journey, to get to where he was now, to finally look upon her face. He needed no more flowers, nor escape, nor wealth. He knew, that no matter what road he had taken, or however long it may have taken him, he would have always, eventually reached this place – for this, was his Place.

He married her, and soon after they had a child together. They named him Zayed, after the nomad.

Zayed had many people throughout his life, to call his name.

He also took Esma to see Cairo, and she had insisted on walking throughout the entire city, barefoot. He took her and the nomad to meet Ismail and Mr. Salama, and they all had tea together. Finally, he took Esma to Lyla’s house – to the apricot orchard, and it was the horses that she loved the most.

Inside the house, they found a deflated football, and a storybook – it was a story about the stars, just like he had always wanted, when he had asked Lyla for one as a child. He decided to title it after that which he had learned to love: The Desert.

The sun was rising now, and he was once again awake. The sunrise was just as beautiful as the sunset he had witnessed the evening before. The familiar, cool winter chill was in the air. He looked over to Thalam and smiled.

“This winter will bring good things, dear friend. I’m sure of it”.

THE END

He was standing in the balcony of Sultan’s apartment, looking up at the stars. He always looked to the stars in times of uncertainty, and he was questioning whether or not they had all been foolish, in succumbing to the power of the white flower – which is what they had permanently begun to call it. He wanted to discuss these thoughts with Sara, but she was away on holiday with her family, in the city of Alexandria, and her return wasn’t expected for another week.

His thoughts felt, out of focus – he needed more of the flower. It had that absurd effect on people, one always felt, even when considering its abandonment, that they needed more of it, in order to more clearly contemplate the matter. The white flower was full of lies, which most people believed.

Sultan came out and joined him on the balcony.

“Looking at the stars again?” he asked.

Thalam did not reply.

“When is Sara coming back, do you know?”

Both of them knew very well aware of when she was expected to return, and that, Sultan was only trying to start a conversation about her. It was no secret that Sultan was in love with Sara, they all knew this; it was clear in the way that he was protective over her, and Sara herself perhaps felt something for him in return. Nothing was ever admitted or announced, as Sara’s parents would never have approved of Sultan, which, rather than make him want to change his ways, only increased his determination in continuing to be exactly the person that people expected him to be. Sultan was not an uneducated man – he had almost completed a university degree in the sciences, had it not been for his greater ambitions of wealth, no matter at what cost.

For Thalam, Sara was more like a little sister. Although they were both the same age, there was something about the way she talked to him, always looking up to him, respecting him, asking him for advice, whenever she needed it. It made him feel uncomfortable to talk to Sultan about her, because he knew, that if he ever entertained the subject, there would be a train of questions that followed.

He was there at Sultan’s apartment almost every night – and it was always, in the night. He didn’t see much of Ismail these days; the flower, and his friends, demanded too much of his time, and he treated the little room where he lived with Ismail, much like people treated the Windsor hotel – a place where he would have lunch, and sleep, nothing more.

Sultan opened his hand, and revealed a small, green, emerald jewel, with six marks engraved upon it.

“You think she’ll like it?” he asked. “It’s the closest colour I could find to her eyes. Look, I had them put six marks, one for each of us. Always friends. Always a family – Eh, brother?”

It was a Saturday afternoon when they got the news. Once upon a time, he would have spent this peaceful afternoon playing a well-deserved game of football with his friends, after reading the books that Mr. Salama had assigned to him. On this day however, there were no books, or stories, or laughter, or games. There was only, an ending.

When Sara had arrived in Alexandria, and as soon as the day was over, she left her family and went to seek the white flower. It was always easy enough to locate those who knew where to find it - they all had that same, vacant look in their eyes, which they all saw in their own eyes, every time, in the mirror that the flower was placed upon. There, on the beaches of Alexandria, it was her fate to discover, the two young men who knew the flower. She asked them if they knew where to find it, and, delighted at the discovery of a fellow prisoner of its power, they invited her back to the place where they, and the flower, lived in hiding, away from the magnificence and the terror of life.

Sometimes, that which is beautiful is best kept reserved. Those infected with the vile disease of greed know no satisfaction, and they always want to take from the world, a little more. They feel, that they are owed something in return for their life’s suffering. When the two young men had stripped her of all of her wealth, and taken from her, all of her belongings; tempted by her hair that turned to gold in the sunlight, and her special-green eyes, they wanted to take from her, a little more. When she resisted, and she resisted honourably, they took instead, that which was perhaps only just as valuable to her – her life.

The greatest trial of life is to lose a child, a brother, a sister, a friend. Unable to bear the harsh trials of life, Thalam consumed the white flower until he could no longer even remember her name. That was another one of the flower’s lies – it made him believe, that he was consuming it, when in fact, all along, it had been consuming him, and all that he had found to be dear.

He took so much, until he was blue in the face, and he could no longer breathe. He let out a sound that was somewhere between a groan and a sad, painful moan, and collapsed off of his chair. He heard a scream, and the sound of something shattering, and then closed his eyes.

In their own state of delirium, his friends panicked. After the back-and-forth screaming, and arguing, and presuming his death, or at least, his closeness to an inevitable death, Sultan, finally, paid some men that he knew, to dispose of Thalam’s body where it wouldn’t be found.

On that starry night, where the stars covered the sky from one horizon to the other, he regained consciousness, there, in the middle of the Arabian Desert.

He was lost, but not afraid. Confused, and only barely back to life, not knowing who he was, or how he had gotten there, he began following, a star.

It had been two months since he had started working at Prince Waleed’s palace. He had not actually met the Prince yet, but he knew enough about him through the poisoned whispers of the others who worked at the palace, and he judged him and the rest of his family, and their strange behaviours, mercilessly. He felt that they had everything, and never needed to worry about anything, unlike him, or Mr. Salama, or Ismail. They could do anything they wanted, and go anywhere they liked, whenever they pleased. He had met the Prince’s children, whom he found to be very intelligent, friendly, and welcoming. When they walked around the palace, they always moved slowly, and lazily, as they were never in a rush to get anywhere. Life, to them, was an inescapable prison of formalities and repeated experiences. Nothing to them was ever new, or exciting, and any small achievement they ever hoped to accomplish in their lives, was always made insignificant by the colossal size of the status they were born into.

As he walked down the giant, blue, hallway that made him feel dwarfed and irrelevant, he felt the constant tear in his mind and his heart that caused him to resent the Prince and his family in one moment, and in the next, want desperately to become one of them. He tried to convince himself that wealth and status were not important, and that a man, is instead, judged by his character. But then, he would wonder if, say, he were to one day fall in love with the Prince’s daughter, would he ever be accepted? If he could prove impeccable character, and talent, and all the qualities that he had always aspired to, would the Prince embrace him as a husband to his daughter? Or, instead, would he laugh at his request and brush him aside, like some unimportant dust?

His mind was riddled with nests of questions, and they would never end, so he decided instead to think about something else. He thought about Sultan’s apartment. He thought about, how he had been outraged with Sara, when he discovered the nature of what she and the rest of his friends had been doing. He thought about how he hadn’t talked to Sara for an entire week – something he had never done before. Finally, he thought about the hypocrisy he felt, when, after only a week, and after having a particularly bad day, and getting into an argument with Ismail, he made his way to Sultan’s new apartment, and joined Sara and his friends.

He now reached the door of Prince Waleed’s study. He had been summoned here, and was about to meet the Prince for the first time.

He knocked on the door and waited for a response. Upstairs, he caught a glimpse of the Prince’s wife, who always tried to look happy, whenever there was anyone around. He could see the anxiety in her eyes – an anxiety which he was now well acquainted with. They both wanted the same thing – she was waiting for Sultan to arrive, who always supplied her with the white, powdery escape, and he couldn’t wait to be done with the day, so he could return to Sultan’s apartment.

“Enter”, a voice announced from behind the door.

He opened the door and walked into the room, closing the door gently behind him.

The Prince was sat behind a large wooden desk, leaning back on his chair in a very relaxed manner. On his desk were a cup of tea, and a slice of cake.

“You must be Thalam, the new letter-writer”, said the Prince.

He nodded.

“I need you to write me a letter to Lady Miriam Grosvenor”, he said, looking out of the window. “I met her niece once, Lyla - truly wonderful girl. Never did belong among her kind, though.”

The Prince laughed.

“You know, we were on a train when we met, she was impossible not to notice. She was in a loud argument with the train conductor, when I went to see what all the commotion was about, it appeared she had refused to sit in the first class seat she had been assigned. She wanted to sit in the Standard class.”

“She liked to sit with the poor people. Their lives are so much simpler. Among them, there is no distinction of class, or wealth, or title – they all see each other as equal, and, whenever it is needed, they always help each other. Always.”

The Prince now looked directly at him, and gestured for him to occupy one of the seats across from his desk.

“Last I heard of her, she had intended to cross the Arabian Peninsula - a dream of hers, I suppose.”

Thalam sat down.

“Isn’t it a shame how many people don’t ever get the chance to follow their dreams?” asked the Prince.

“Not everyone has the luxury of wealth and status, your highness”, responded Thalam.

“And, you think that, this wealth, and status, would allow people to chase their dreams, eventually finding that which provides them with happiness?”

“Well, yes, your highness”

“Then you are a fool, my child”, he said. “Do not join the ranks of all of the subjects and servants and guests of this palace. They are all envious of the wealth and status of the family whom this home belongs to, because they do not understand.”

He paused for a moment before speaking again.

“It is human nature to always choose the path which is easiest, even if it is not the best one. You can never understand this difficulty, because the path of suffering has already been forced upon you – you have no choice, you were born into struggle, and so you must fight every day, to gain a little more. Like you, we also had no choice in being born into what we are. The difference is, that we were forced into a path absent of all suffering. That, in itself, my child, is the greatest form of suffering there is.”

The Prince was looking him in the eyes with a deep intensity, seeming as if wanting to make him understand something of incredible importance, that he did not yet understand.

“The poor, I do my best to help them, but it seems, all I can ever manage, is to donate food. However, I am expected to do more. Tell me, how can any one person be expected to relieve others of their suffering, when there exists no person at all, that can even begin to comprehend their own suffering, let alone resolve it? Yet, we all have a choice, and in this, I have not always made the right ones. I am envious of them. You see, the poor are sentenced to a different kind of suffering, to them, their concerns are well-understood – they worry about whether or not they have enough food, and how best to educate their children, and pay rent, and, because, they all collectively share the same concerns, together, they suffer as one, and so, they share together, the burdens of life, and suddenly, the weight is not so heavy anymore.”

“My wife, is unwell, and not to be blamed”, said the Prince. “Unlike our children, and myself, she was not born into this circumstance. Her fault, was that she loved a man, and accepted his ring, not fully understanding that it carries the weight of a heavy name, and that she would be forever bound to it, and so will those whom she will love most in this world – her children. She carries a great deal of pain in her heart, but for the sake of our children, and out of her love for them, she pretends otherwise.”

“My children, who were born into this suffering, find great difficulty in discovering the purpose of their lives. What point is there to life, if everything is simply handed to you? They suffer, and sometimes, because they are children, there is a light that shines in their eyes, and for a few weeks, maybe even a month, they become motivated, and find passion in something. My wife and I, we know that it never lasts, but as parents, and because we love them very much, encourage their brief passions, with a desperate hope that perhaps this time, our children might finally escape the excruciating weight of their wealth, and status.”

Prince Waleed took a sip of his tea.

“What is the greatest love one can receive, Thalam? Do you know? It is not the one taken from a lover, or a spouse, but it is the love shared between a child and their parent, would you not agree?”

He nodded.

“My children and I, we have lunches and dinners together, and I do not burden them with breakfast, because I know they hate rising early. A father’s responsibility is to provide for his children – but they do not need me, they will always have more than they ever need, by virtue of their birth right. I love them very much, and I worry, that if I burden them heavily, they may cease to love their father. The important things in life, Thalam, are not status and wealth. The things that bring happiness, are family, and love, and if you have these things, and if you have enough to eat, and a place to sleep, then you have gained the world. He who is content with what is little, has gained a lot.”

“Anyway”, said the Prince. “Enough of this, the letter, write to Lady Miriam that we have still not received news of Lady Lyla’s whereabouts, and that Grosvenor House remains her property alone, as per the will of her father, and as such, is under the protection of the crown, and shall remain so, until her return.”

Thalam felt guilty that he had, at one point, judged the Prince and his family. He learned never to judge another soul, before understanding it, and that no soul, no matter who it belonged to, was free from suffering. He tried not to judge Lady Miriam, either.

He was twenty-two, and it had been almost a year since Mr. Salama had died, from a combination of old age and a bad case of pneumonia. He still lived in the small room at the Windsor hotel, which now belonged to Ismail, who, shortly after Mr. Salama’s retirement, had been told by the hotel’s manager that he had been promoted from the position of elevator operator to the “prestigious and enviable occupation of hotel doorman.”

Today was the first day of Thalam’s employment as a letter-writer, and, as young people often are, he was ambitious and bursting with excitement at the wonder of possibility. He had woken up earlier than Ismail, made tea for the both of them, and even polished his inherited fortune before wearing, Mr. Salama’s shiny black shoes.

He took a sip of his tea and gently tapped Ismail on the shoulder.

“Uncle Ismail, it’s time to wake up. Tea is ready”, he said.

Ismail jerked slightly, and his wrinkled, old, eyes opened. He saw Thalam’s face and the grumpy expression on his face transformed immediately into a wide smile. There is something powerful about waking up to the face of a loved one - it has the ability to defeat all the difficulty that exists in the anguish of rising early on a winter morning.

“I’m up”, said Ismail, and sat upright. “Are you ready for your first day at work?”

“Of course” he replied, positively.

Ismail then noticed that Thalam was wearing Mr. Salama’s shoes, which he had not seen removed from the corner of the room where they sat, for quite some time now.

“He would have been very proud of you, you know”, he said. “I’ll give you the same advice he always used to give me: He who is content with what is little, has gained a lot.”

He nodded, and with that, they parted ways, and Thalam began walking in the direction of the letter-writing office that had only two-days ago, agreed to employ him. He walked past all of the shops in the neighbourhood, that were just now opening, and wished good morning to all of the shopkeepers, who all knew him and greeted him with merry smiles.

He reached the three-storey building where Sara lived, put two fingers to his tongue, and let out a loud whistle to let her know he was there, waiting for her, as he always did. Long gone were her football-playing days, and volunteering to be the goalkeeper. She was a young, middle-class woman, and a university student – something that Thalam was a little jealous of, though he never admitted it. He himself had only just completed the examinations necessary to receive a certificate of secondary education - something that Mr. Salama had insisted on, and he had promised to fulfil.

Sara had always been a good friend to him, and he usually walked with her to her university’s gate. The door of the building unlocked, and she stepped out in a sunflower-yellow dress, which was made infinitely more beautiful by the fact that her dark-brown hair turned to gold in the sun. Her eyes were a green so unique, that Thalam often wondered whether nature had at one point reserved this special green, just for her eyes.

“Nice shoes” she said. “Must be excited for your first day.”

He nodded, and smiled.

“You should come by Sultan’s new apartment after”, she said. “We’re all meeting there.”

He had not yet visited this new apartment. Sultan had garnered a somewhat notorious reputation among those who knew him, and had very recently purchased an apartment in one of the more expensive parts of Cairo. Nobody knew exactly where Sultan had acquired the money for this purchase, and they didn’t ask – that was Sultan’s business, and no one, wanted to be a part of Sultan’s business.

“Sure”, he said.

He walked her to the university, then made his way to the letter-writing office, where he was assigned one of two available desks, and told to wait for a client. It was twenty minutes before an old woman in black approached him, and sat on the chair across from his desk.

“Hello, my child”, she said. “I need you to write me a letter to Prince Waleed. Tell him that I am a widow, and that I don’t have many people around me to support me. Tell him, that the apartment that I rent, the owner, he wants me out, and I have nowhere else to go. I have lived there for a very long time now. Ask him for help. Ask him, to buy the house for me”

Prince Waleed al-Farouq was the eldest son to the first-cousin of the King of Egypt, and by virtue of his royal blood, was appointed the Governor of Cairo. Poor people often sent letters addressed to the Prince, asking for help. This was Thalam’s first client, and, being ambitious, he spent an hour producing the most exquisite letter he possibly could.

When he had finished, he sealed the letter in an envelope and handed it to the old woman. She opened her bag and rummaged through it, which made him very excited, as he was about to receive his very first payment. From her bag, she produced, to his utter disappointment, a single loaf of bread.

“Here you go, my child”, she said.

This made him rather angry, and he nearly snatched the letter back from the woman’s hand, as he had exerted so much effort into producing such a beautiful letter, in exchange for very little. But, he calmed, as soon as he remembered the words Mr. Salama had said to Ismail: He who is content with what is little, has gained a lot.

He accepted the loaf of bread from the woman.

The rest of the morning was dull and uneventful, and when it was lunchtime, he walked back to the small room at the back of the Windsor hotel to have lunch with Ismail. At least I have bread, he thought.

When he arrived, there was a man in uniform standing outside the door, talking to Ismail.

“From His Majesty Prince Waleed al-Farouq”, he said, and handed Ismail a pot containing food, and a letter. Then, he turned around, and walked away in wide, urgent strides, barely even noticing Thalam.

“Look! I think there’s meat in here!” said Ismail, who was overjoyed about the food.

They sat and ate the food that the Prince had sent them, along with the loaf of bread that he had earned, and he shared the story of the old woman with Ismail.

“Poor woman”, said Ismail. “The prince is so generous though, look at all this food he sent us! He’s always sending food to the poor, bless him. I’m going to share the rest with the other staff at the hotel. They’ll be very happy. The Prince will help the woman. I’m sure of it”

Thalam picked up the letter that had been sent alongside the food, and opened it. It said he was being summoned to the Prince’s palace - they were offering him a job, as a letter-writer for the Prince.

What he thought had happened, was that the Prince had read the letter he had written on behalf of the old woman, and was impressed by his writing and so, offered him employment.

In truth, nobody at the palace had or would ever pay much attention to his letter, or the old woman. What had actually happened, was that Mr. Salama, during his tenure as the doorman of the Windsor hotel, had known someone of some importance, who worked for the Prince and, who frequented the Windsor hotel with his mistress. For years, every time Mr. Salama saw this man, he would politely pester him about whether or not there was any opportunity of employment for Thalam, and would boast of the boy’s writing skills. Now that a letter-writing position was available, the important man remembered Mr. Salama, and in a rare and random act of kindness, had a letter sent offering the position, addressed to the residence of the doorman at the Windsor hotel.

Thalam, nonetheless, was elated with happiness and, after sharing this news with Ismail, made his way to Sultan’s new apartment, to tell his friends.

The door of the apartment was already unlocked, and before he entered, he could hear them laughing and talking loudly.

He opened the door and walked in.

“I have some great news! You won’t believe this, I’m going to be working at the Prince’s palace!” he said, unable to contain his excitement, and brandishing the letter that announced his employment.

As soon as he had walked in, and what he hadn’t yet noticed, was that they had all suddenly fallen ominously silent – like children do, when they’ve been caught doing something wrong. Sara looked at him with concern.

“I guess we’ll be seeing a lot more of each other then, old friend”, said Sultan.

The five of his friends were sitting on chairs, in the lavishly furnished living room of Sultan’s apartment, concentrated around a table, where there was a perfectly circular, small mirror placed in the center of it. On this mirror, could clearly be seen, the residue of a white, powdery substance.

“What is this, white…Flour?” he asked, naively.

“What white flower?” responded Sultan, sniffling, who had misunderstood him.

“Come”, said Sara.

When he opened his eyes, he found himself in a most peculiar, large, blue room. He stood up and, observing all that was around him, concluded that he was standing in the entrance to some kind of palace. The walls were a midnight blue, and hanging on them were portraits of very serious looking people, some with moustaches and others with beards, all looking slightly to one side. There were large, grand, white marble pillars, and the ceiling was painted a darker shade of blue, with stars depicted on it, painted in gold.

Then, at the far end of the room, two grand wooden doors burst open, and through them, first emerged a man who was clearly of more importance than the others that followed. He was short, and slender, and walked with a display of confidence and slight superiority. The others, who walked behind, had their eyes fixed on the more important man, and nearly stumbled over each other, racing to be closest to him, while he, remained totally unmindful of this following crowd.

The important man was now right in front of him.

“You there!” he exclaimed. “What is your name?” he asked, demandingly.

He pondered for a moment whether he should respond with the name he had possessed in his childhood, or with the name that now belonged to him. He decided that ‘Thalam’, suited the nomad’s falcon better, and that he preferred the name he had more recently acquired, and that Esma had given to him.

“Aln…” he began.

“Your last name!” the important man interrupted. “Only last names are important!” he exclaimed.

They stared blankly at one another, while the audience, who always stood slightly behind the important man, seemed confused and impatient at the lack of his response.

“I am the king of this Place. I have the most important last name of all, you see”, he said, and pointed to the portraits on the wall. “These people, also have important last names, and if you do too, then I shall have a portrait made of you, and I shall hang it up on this wall, with the rest of the important last names.”

“I’m afraid I do not”, he responded.

“Very well”, said the king. “You shall be one of my followers”

“Excellent idea your highness”, agreed all of the followers unanimously.

The followers always enthusiastically approved of the king’s ideas.

Before he could protest, the matter had already been settled, as far the king was concerned, who turned around, and began in the direction of the wooden doors. As if possessing his own gravity, wherever the king went, all of the followers always trailed closely behind. Not wanting to be left alone, Alnilam followed too.

Walking through the wooden doors, he found himself in an even larger room than the one before. This room was pink, curiously. Such are the choices, of the excessively wealthy and bored. There was a piano in the middle of the room, just in front of the entrance, and statues, paintings, and various other ornaments scattered, and cluttered in every direction, none of it seeming to match anything else.

The king moved into one of the rooms on the right, and they all followed closely behind. This was a room that was used for socializing, he learned. In reality, the entire palace was used for socializing, and nothing serious or important ever happened nor was ever discussed in the palace, but they liked to pretend otherwise, and so they would frequent this room whenever they felt the need to relax from an excess of relaxing. They referred to it, as the Red Room, owing to the fact that it was painted red, along with all of the furniture, with the exception of the curtains, which were a very dark green, and blocked out any sunlight that might enter, so you could never tell what time of the day it was.

The king took his place on the middle cushion, and the followers sat, immediately after, on the cushions around the king. There was still plenty of space available for Alnilam, but the king gestured towards one very specific cushion for him to sit on, on the left. Curious, he approached it, and sat, immediately rolling forwards. This cushion was attached to hidden wheels at the bottom of it, so that whoever sat on it, always lost balance and fell.

The king belched out in laughter, and the followers joined in. This was the king’s personal joke that he liked to play on newcomers. Sometimes, when he was especially bored, he would invite one of his followers to sit on the cushion, and everyone, including the victim follower, would pretend they didn’t already know the joke, and they would all laugh nonetheless.

Footsteps were heard outside, accompanied by the voice of a woman, who was muttering something.

The king’s wife stood in the doorway of the Red Room. Like Lyla, she was blonde and blue-eyed, but a fundamental element of livelihood had long since abandoned her eyes - a result of too much pretending. She seemed disoriented, perplexed, the anxiety clear in her voice.

“The flower”, she said. “I need the flower”.

“Ah, the flower”, said the king, who smiled to himself, and all of the followers did the same. Alnilam remembered his own time with the flower, and it was clear to him that the king, the king’s wife, and all of the followers, had known the flower too.

Another woman appeared in the doorway beside the king’s wife. “Food, your highness”, she announced.

The king stood up first, then the army of followers, and they all moved into a dining room that stood opposite to the Red Room, and was painted yellow.

There was more food available to serve than all of them could ever collectively consume. Whatever was left over, of which there was always plenty, the king donated to the poor, because this made him feel good about himself. This way, he felt, he had fulfilled his responsibility as a wealthy and important person to positively influence the world, and that no more needed to be done. Anything more, the king felt, would require more serious thought and effort on his part, and nothing of that sort ever took place in the king’s colourful palace.

The king had seven children in total, who didn’t always dine with him, and of which he saw very little, but he would summon them for random lunches or dinners, sporadically and without warning, as this also made him feel he had fulfilled his responsibility as a father, and that no further action was required on his part. It was always a lunch or a dinner, and never breakfast. The king’s children never got up early enough for breakfast, except for during the spontaneous episodes in their lives, spurred by a sudden and explosive motivation, when they pretended that they were being productive. These episodes generally consisted of some sort of painting course, or pretend schooling, and never lasted for more than two or three weeks. The motivation would always expire, just as spontaneously as it had begun. The fact that they never completed or produced anything was never of any consequence to them. The king’s children did, after all, have very important last names.

The meat that Alnilam ate was cooked perfectly, the vegetables were fresh, and the rice was plenty, and filling. It should have all been delicious. However, Alnilam felt, that since he had not expended any effort into acquiring this meal, it was somehow rendered tasteless. He had not stood underneath the hot, desert sun in front of the nomad’s house for an hour, preparing the meat, nor had he worked at all, or hunted, or provided any service in return. There is no satisfaction to be gained from unearned reward, he thought, and wondered whether the king and his followers knew this simple truth, too.

When he had finished eating, he found that, although there were a seemingly infinite number of washrooms available in the king’s palace, the followers were even greater in number, and had occupied them all. He found an empty washroom in the blue room that served as an entrance to the palace, and washed his hands there. Then, when he was finished, he took a moment to examine the portraits on the wall, with all of the important last names engraved on the silver plaques beneath them. There was an empty space where a portrait had existed at one point, but had since been removed. It was Lyla’s – he knew this, because, engraved beneath where it had stood, it read: Lady Grosvenor, Duchess of Westminster.

He remembered Esma.

He decided then, that he too, like Lyla, would leave behind the people with the important last names. This Place, was not his to call home.

He made his way to the door at the entrance, which was always open, forever inviting more followers, or new guests with important last names, and their respective followers, to join in the permanent festivities, and the eternal pretending, that took place at the king’s colourful palace.

As he made his way towards the exit, in the giant, never-ending blue hallway, he glanced one final time at the ceiling, and its golden, painted stars. This was the only gold in the king’s palace, and the only thing that Alnilam found to be beautiful.

The king often liked to pretend to himself that he was not wealthy. He liked to pretend too, that his blind followers were really his friends, and that he, his wife, and his children, together constituted a genuine, wholesome family.

Most of all, the king liked to pretend, that he was loved.

Alnilam stepped outside the entrance and felt the cool breeze of the desert night stroke the hairs of his skin. Like a dam had burst in his mind, he remembered all the details of his life.

“Alright, alright. I’m coming”

He sat upright in his bed, and saw that Mr. Salama, who was the doorman at the Windsor hotel, was already up, dressed, and polishing the only pair of black shoes that he owned, to the impeccable shine that they always had.

“Good, you’re up”, said Mr. Salama. “Take the cup of tea from your uncle, will you?”

He shared no blood relation with Ismail, the man who was standing at the door, carrying the tray with the small, glass cup of tea, but he considered him to be family nonetheless. Mr. Salama was the only relative he had – he was his real uncle, and had been taking care of him since he was two years old. Ismail was the elevator operator of the hotel, and he lived in the small room next to theirs. He always brought Mr. Salama a cup of tea in the morning, from the nearby coffee shop, before they went to work together.

“You can see your face in those shoes, Mr. Salama, I really don’t know why you spend so much time polishing them”, said Ismail.

“It’s important. You should do it too.”

Although his duties as the hotel doorman were rather limited – since, his was a simple job, he still took great pride in every responsibility that he had, and consequently, it was very important to him that his shoes were always in an immaculate condition.

He took the cup from Ismail and handed it to Mr. Salama, who took a sip of the tea and then put it down, and began to tie his shoelaces.

“There’s a five piaster coin on the table. Buy some bread and cheese, have some of it for breakfast, and save the rest for dinner. Ismail and I will have our breakfast on the way to work today, and I’ll come back with lunch at noon, alright?”

He nodded to Mr. Salama, who picked up the cup of tea, and left with Ismail.

It was a bright, sunny day in Cairo, with a few clouds in the sky. Through the window, he felt the cool breeze that marked the arrival of the beginning weeks of winter. He was glad that Mr. Salama had to go to work today. It was Saturday, and he usually had this day off, but the doorman whose shift it was today, had called in sick, and because of this, Mr. Salama would not spend this Saturday morning making him read books, as he usually did. He hated Mr. Salama’s lessons. Why does he insist that I read so much? It’ll never be useful to me, he thought.

He took the coin from the table and went out onto the street. He did as he was instructed and bought the bread and cheese, came home and made himself breakfast, before going out again to find his friends.

They were playing football, as per usual, at their new favourite spot. They always used the slippers of whoever volunteered that day to be the goalie, to mark an imaginary goal post. The goalie, that day, was one of the two girls that belonged to their group of friends. There were five of them in total, six with him included.

They liked this particular spot to play football in, because there was a high wall there, which served perfectly as their makeshift goal post.

“Hey! What are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be at home reading?” shouted the girl who was the goalie of this game.

“The old man is working today!” he shouted back, the joy this statement brought him, clear in his voice.

“Great! Come, stay over here! You can be my defence, they’re playing terribly today.”

He ran over to her and took his position as a defender in the game.

The game was going well, and he was performing admirably, and enjoying himself. He saw the ball fly towards the goal, and he lunged his foot forwards to intercept it. He was successful, and the ball soared high in the air, and disappeared behind the high wall.

“The ball! We don’t have another one”, said Sultan, who was the boy whose attempt at scoring he had disrupted. “Go get it”, he added.

Sultan was two years older than the rest of them, and was sort of the self-proclaimed leader of their group.

The wall was too high for him to climb, so he followed it around the corner looking for an entrance. He hoped there would be a doorman working there, and that he would be kind, like Mr. Salama, and would not give him too much trouble about returning the ball to him.

He came to a large iron gate, which was open. Inside, he could see an ocean of apricot trees, which stretched farther than he could see. There was a small, shiny gold sign on the wall beside the gate. In bold, black letters, it read:

GROSVENOR HOUSE

He couldn’t see anyone around – there was no doorman. He entered the estate slowly, afraid that he might hear someone shouting at him at any moment, and he really didn’t want to get into any trouble. He snuck over to the side of the wall where he thought he might find the ball. The apricot trees were everywhere, and the orchard that housed them was too large for it to be possible for him to find the ball. Still, as a child does, he searched anyway, expecting that he would find it, and that he would emerge as the day’s hero to his friends.

He searched for about twenty minutes; his determination to find the ball was unshaken. As he brushed aside the leaves of one of the apricot trees, he heard a woman’s voice.

“Hi!” she said, cheerfully.

Behind the leaves of the apricot tree was standing a blonde, blue-eyed, young Englishwoman.

“I’m not here to cause any trouble, Miss, I swear! I’m just here for our ball! Sultan… he kicked it over the wall.”

“So why didn’t Sultan come to get the ball?” she asked, smiling.

“Because…well, he always bosses everyone around”

She placed a hand on her forehead to shade her eyes, squinted, and began to look around her. “It’s going to be rather difficult for you to find the ball with all the apricot trees around”

“Yes, I know, I’ve been looking…” he replied, lowering his eyes in disappointment.

“Well, I don’t have a ball to give you, but I do have lots of books! Would you like one?”

He remembered Mr. Salama’s lessons.

“No, that’s alright. My uncle, he always makes me read, history books and science books and encyclopaedias. Every Saturday.”

“Those are important. But what about storybooks?”

His eyes lit up.

“Storybooks?” he repeated.

“Yes, of course! Haven’t you read any? Well, this won’t do at all. Here, come with me.”

She took him by his hand and led him inside the house, to her father’s study.

“Which kinds of stories would you like?”

“Hmm…” he said, thinking about it. “Do you have any stories about the stars? I really love the stars.”

“The stars? No…I’m afraid not. How curiously lovely you are”, she said, and put her hand through his hair. “I do, however, have many, many, adventure stories about the Arabian Desert! I’m planning a trip there, you see. I’m going to be the first ever Englishwoman to have crossed the Empty Quarter”, she added, and handed him a great pile of storybooks.

“I’m Lyla, by the way. What’s your name?”

Lyla would one day tell the nomad all about the charming young boy she’d met in her apricot orchard in Cairo, and the nomad, enchanted by the story, would name his falcon after the boy.

“Thalam”, he said.