TRIPOLI
I reached that end of the divide,
where the valley bows to the
towering hills. There was nothing
really left - the table had been
overturned and the sky was less
than nil, for this is where the
world diminished : Purple haze,
or purple rain, I could never
tell the difference. Libya to
Lebanon, they each laid claim
to the quite-same name.
-
Whatever divides at a point like
this stays divided for ever. I
ordered a tar-black coffee in
some freeman's sad cafe. He
was wearing his long robe, as he
brought my tray. Calling me a
Kafir, I didn't yet understand.
He bowed and walked off.
-
Later I learned of my error, from
the Paris guy at another table. He
had not said Kafir, rather just
Taqiyah - no insult at all. He
was requesting that I, perhaps,
should wear a hat.
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