She no longer tells the black prayer beads in time with her man’s breathing.

She leaves.

She doesn’t return until the call to midday prayer-and not to take out the little carpet, unfurl it, lay it on the ground, and say her prayers. Just to put new eye-drops into the man’s eyes. One, two. One, two. And then leave again.

After the call to prayer, the mullah’s hoarse voice beseeches God to lend his protection to the area’s faithful on this, a Wednesday: “… because, as our Prophet says, it’s a day of misfortune during which the Pharaoh and his people were drowned, and the peoples of the Prophet Salih-the Ad and the Thamoud-were destroyed…” He stops and immediately starts again in a fearful voice. “Dear Faithful, as I have always told you, Wednesday is a day on which, according to our Prophet, the most noble, it is right neither to practice bloodletting, nor to give, nor to receive. However, one of the hadith, quoted by Ibn Younes, says that this practice is permitted during jihad. Today, your brother, our great Commander, is furnishing you with weapons that you may defend your honor, your blood, and your tribe!”

In the street, men are shouting themselves hoarse: “Allah O Akbar!” Running: “Allah O Akbar!” Their voices fading as they near the mosque: “Allah O…”

A few ants prowl around the corpse of the fly on the kilim. Then grab hold of it and carry it off.

The woman arrives to gaze anxiously at the man. Perhaps she is afraid that the call to arms will have put him back on his feet.

She stays near the door. Her fingers stroke her lips and then, nervously, stray between her teeth, as if to extract words that don’t dare express themselves. She leaves the room. She can be heard making something for lunch, talking and playing with the children.