I wrote that during those enchanted weeks time expanded, curled back on itself, turned inside out like a magician's handerkerchief, and that Rolf Carle - his solemnity shattered to bits and his vanity somewhere in the clouds - was able to exorcise his nightmares and again sing the songs of his boyhood, and that I at last danced the belly dance I had learned in the kitchen of Riad Halabi, and amid laughter and sips of wine told many stories, including some with a happy ending.