Hasan was still hanging on to his old dream, Isa thought, of marrying him off to his sister. Then Isa’s friends, Samir Abd al-Baqi, Ibrahim Khairat, and Abbas Sadiq, arrived with various former senators and representatives. Countless groups of people came to offer their condolences to Hasan, and the tent was crowded with them all, even though it was huge. There was an anxious moment when Ali Sulaiman got out of his car. Hasan welcomed him, and Isa saw no way out of greeting him too. They shook hands with each other and Isa accepted his condolences, but neither of them looked at the other once. The traditional stages in the ceremony followed, one after the other. Isa lost his composure only at the burial itself, when his eyes filled with tears in spite of the effort he made to control his emotions. He had supervised the entire proceedings himself. Unable to resist the eternal temptation, he looked at the grave pit for a long time. He wanted to be left alone to say some important things to her. He suddenly remembered the last time he had said goodbye to her in the old house. She had kissed him on the forehead. “Do whatever you want,” she had said. “May the good Lord protect you wherever you are. I’ll hold back my tears so that you can leave in peace!”

He could hardly remember the expression on her face because he had not been looking at her closely; but her hands had felt cold, lean, and trembling.

When the recitation started, he moved to one side, and more than once exchanged glances with his friends. He asked himself why they looked sadder than they needed to be. This, then, is the ultimate destination for everyone, he thought with a comforting enthusiasm and a certain amount of malice, for poor people and tyrants alike; yes, and tyrants too!