The Lost Sheep
Salem took off his fez, and a smile of contentment painted itself on his face. Past one o’clock in the morning, the European neighbourhood was calm, and, in this section of the neighbourhood where the post office was located, the square was clear of pedestrians, the lamppost lights were dreamy, and a cool breeze teased the leaves on the trees. The evening at Ahmed Safwat’s house had been superb. More than superb. The hash had been soft and obedient to the fingers, so supple it wouldn’t crumble if stretched over the palm, but almost oozed with oil. And when it grazed the flames, its pungent aroma diffused throughout the room. The most genial group of people had been there, and the singing had been wonderful, with Saleh al-Meqaty excelling as he performed some songs by Sheikh
