She punches the dough, kneads it, dips her whole hands in it, presses it between her fingers, watches it emerge between her phalanges, like a repressed desire resurfacing. Noon Barbari. Bread of the Barbarians? No. He is no Barbarian, and his country is that of the refined, of the elegant, of the poets, of the erudite. Except all they did was tell her about religion, hijab position and sleeve length.…