“It’s as cold as a cellar in here,” Sami said.

“Or a grave.” Omar Yussef caught Sami’s frown. “Don’t worry. I may not be certain that this truly is a day of pleasures, as you put it, but by the time of your wedding, I’ll be cheeriness personified.”

Sami walked down the aisle toward the blue curtain. Between the Hebrew characters, the outline of two stone tablets had been stitched into the material. “Can you read this, Abu Ramiz?” Sami asked.

“No, but the tablets are a representation of the command-ments given to the Prophet Moussa, I think. The ones that contained the Jewish law.”

“The Samaritan law.”

A man of about seventy years approached from a stairwell at the back of the room. He was tall and slender, like an evening shadow. He wore a white ankle-length cotton robe, a long vest of coarse gray wool, unfastened at the front, and a fez wrapped with a red cloth so that it resembled a turban.

“The Jewish law is very similar to ours, gentlemen,” the old man said, “but their holy texts include seven thousand mistakes. The books of the Samaritans are without error.”

“Then you are without excuses for your mistakes.” Omar Yussef smiled. “That’s a terrible fate.”

“No one is ever short of justification for their sins in this part of the world.” The man’s mild eyes appeared unfocused and bemused, like cafe habitues Omar Yussef had met in Morocco who smoked too much kif. He shook hands with Omar Yussef. “I’m Jibril Ben-Tabia, a priest of the Samaritan people. Welcome to our synagogue.”