“No,” he said. “The only thing I am afraid of is moutha.” “The snake’s mouth?” “No,” he said, “moutha. I maybe saying it wrong, but moutha. Moutha.” I was on the verge of faking it when he pulled out an electronic dictionary and typed in the word he was looking for, ga, which translates, strangely enough, to “moth.” “You’re afraid of moths?” He nodded yes and winced a little. “But nobody’s afraid of moths.” “I am,” he whispered, and he looked behind us, as if afraid that one might be listening.
