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“I pray for water . . .” the ancient man started to pray. Maral
dutifully peered into the water. The blanket smelled like an
old dog and she could hardly breathe under it. As moments
passed, the sounds in the room subsided one by one. First
the bird song ceased. Then the fruit vendors in the street.
Finally, the psychic’s melodious prayer. Maral was floating
in the room now. Light as a dove.
“Anything, child?” asked the ancient voice.
The face that slowly took shape inside the bowl belonged to
Uncle Mahmoud. Maral brought her head closer to be sure
because unlike the stern Uncle Mahmoud she knew, the
one in the bowl was smiling. He was in a
gazino
with live
music, uniformed waiters, and miniature plates of
meze
on
white tables. He had his arms around a young woman with
curled dark hair and red lipstick. Maral recognized the
pretty face floating in the bowl. It belonged to the psychic’s
daughter.