“Tell me, Muslim uncle, can a man make himself vanish with poetry”
“What do you mean – like vanish through black magic?” He looked at me. “Yes, that can be done. There are books for that. You want to buy one?”
“No, not vanish like that. I mean can he… can he…”
The bookseller had narrowed his eyes. The sweat beads had grown larger on his huge black forehead.
I smiled at him. “Forget I asked that. Muslim uncle.”
And then I warned myself never to talk to this old man again. He knew too much already.