Magreb, dusk, call to prayer and the shouts of Pakistani children in the back of the building where I live, in the rubble they are playing cricket. The Pakistani laundry man I don't know his name, but I tried the only Urdu I know, "Tee-kay" and he said, "mafee maloom Urdu" as if he didn't believe me he was so happy. His warm palm, dry and cracked, and his direct gaze and his faint smile with greetings in Arabic, his eyes in a half wink. He is in his laundry shop, just a small room facing the street with another one next door and barbershops, tailor shops, small groceries, a pet shop, and a bakery that sells large, round flat bread (nan) for 75 fils, all up an down the street, behind which are dwellings and then behind them the Mutaredh Oasis. Only one dirham for each article of clothing and a little more for a sheet. We wash them in our washing machine and he irons them with a flat iron made of iron without the plastic carapace of the latest models.