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I can picture myself as a small child wearing a nightshirt that comes down to my heels I am weeping desperately, sitting on a doorstep that leads into a sun-drenched courtyard with an open gate and an empty square beyond, a hot, sad, noonday square with dogs sleeping on their stomachs and men stretched out in the shade of their vegetable stalls The air is rife with the stench of rotten produce, and large purple flies are buzzing loudly in my vicinity, lighting on my hands to sip the tears that have fallen there, then circling frenetically in the dense, scorching light of the courtyard I stand and urinate in the dust I watch the earth avidly drink up the liquid It leaves a dark spot, like the shadow of a non-existent object I wipe my face with the nightshirt and lick the tears from the corner of my lips, savouring their salty flavour I resume my seat on the threshold, feeling very unhappy: I have been spanked   My father had just given me a few slaps on my bare backside in my room I don’t quite know why I am thinking it through I was lying in bed next to a girl my own age We were supposed to be taking a nap while our parents were out walking I didn’t hear them come in and don’t know what I was doing to the girl under the quilt All I know is that when my father suddenly tore off the quilt the girl was beginning to acquiesce My father turned red, lost his temper, and spanked me End of story   So I sat on the doorstep in the sun and had a good cry and now I am drawing circles and lines in the dust I have moved over to the shade and am sitting cross-legged on a rock I feel better A girl has come for water in the courtyard She is cranking the rusty pump wheel I listen to the old iron grating away and watch the water gush into her bucket like the magnificent tail of a