Hiroko shook her head reprovingly at the cracked skin of Sajjad’s heel, the dirt of the harbour that had lodged itself within each groove. ‘General manager of a soap factory!’ she scolded him, lifting his foot as he lay on the divan, and rubbing a wet cloth vigorously along the length of it before attending to the fissures at the heel. ‘And look at me, washing my husband’s feet. This is wrong, Sajjad Ali Ashraf. This is wrong.’ The last word was whispered, as though her voice itself had gone into retreat, unable to be present at this scene. She placed the foot gently down on the divan, which
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