The seconds stretched on. There were three men arranged in a semicircle on the floor around a tall brass shisha, the hose caught mid-pass. Each of them was firmly planted on his own threadbare cushion. I knew them well.
Youssef was the first to break the peace. He pushed himself to his feet with vigor and almost knocked the apparatus to the floor in his haste. His skinny arms enfolded me and his smoke-soured breath washed over me. It tasted like home. “Ramy, you beautiful bastard. Ramy, Ramy, Ramy!”
The other two men stood up. Omar, brawny as an ox, lifted me bodily off my feet. Ismail contented himself with a solid handshake. He had grown a thick bristly beard in my absence. It stretched up to his cheekbones and his eyes looked sunken in contrast.
Youssef fetched him a pillow and tossed it by his own. “Sit, sit. We have much to discuss, Ibn Battuta.”
Omar interrupted him.
“First things first,” the bear said. “We cannot talk unless you are where we are.”
The phrase engendered confused grunts all around until Omar held up the shisha hose with a wry smile. I accepted it gratefully, a newborn babe at the teat.
The hash was heady and tasted like handfuls of dry earth. My head spun and I coughed for a long time. Youssef and Omar laughed, clutching their sides.
“Four years have made you as weak as a cat, my friend.”