The drunk would not let go. “The question’s really important to me,” he said. “If it’s moving to destruction, then I’ll drink cognac. If there’s any hope, I’d prefer whiskey. And therefore if I find myself in both situations, I’ll destroy myself, because I’ll be struck by three momentous diseases at once—low blood pressure, cirrhosis, and hemorrhoids!”

Isa smiled in spite of himself. It was nice to be drunk, at any rate. The trials that have descended upon us are enough to break our hearts, he thought; enough to kill us. It’s as if all the debris from the collapsed old world were piling on top of your head. And the worst thing of all is the knowledge that, even though you loathe the new era, you still cannot reject it in your mind. Neither you nor your cache of umdas’ money!

“Destruction’s nothing new in the world. If it’s written on your forehead, then it’s better for it to be quick.”

“Why do you want it, provided it’s quick?” Isa asked the man almost without realizing it.

“As the proverb goes,” the man replied with a boisterous laugh, “the best charity comes quickest!”

Isa pitied the victims of history with a sigh in his heart, drained his glass, and left. He walked along Saad Zaghlul Street, his favorite street in Alexandria, particularly after the revolution; his own private street, in a way, and he liked walking along it, if only once a day in each direction, so that he could be alone with his flooding memories.

It was getting close to midnight and the air had become refreshingly cool. The whole area looked deserted. He glanced at the back of the statue gazing out to sea and tossed his head back like the pasha whom he had loved to imitate in times past.