Life returned to the corner in El Bodega, and the friends all met again. A faded smile, and a languid look which could not see into the future.

“There’s some hope that we’ll gain some weight,” said Ibrahim Khairat mockingly, “like people who are condemned to death!”

Abbas Sadiq brandished the stem of his nargila. “This is a chance,” he said, “which is a million times rarer than winning money at roulette.”

Even Samir Abd al-Baqi’s green eyes showed signs of disappointment deep down. Even more remarkable was the fact that Isa himself—even after he had felt the taste of victory—rapidly sank into a profound lethargy like a pile of ash. His thoughts turned in on themselves and were buried in darkness once more.

TWENTY-FIVE

Everyone has a job, but he had none. Every wife has children, but she had none. Every citizen in a country has his own abode, but he was an exile in his own homeland. After the usual escapist roles, what was left? In the mornings, he dawdled from one café to another; in the evenings, he would mull over his sorrows at El Bodega and make boring visits within the family circle. After the usual escapist roles, what was left? He went through terrible agonies, and felt lonely and bored. How much longer can this miserable existence last? he asked himself.

There he was sitting by the windowpane, sunning himself in the bitter cold, jobless and hopeless. Qadriyya was concentrating on some crocheting. She no longer dispelled his feeling of loneliness. With her disheveled hair and swollen features, she showed all the signs of an all too common neglect. She had become fatter and fleshier, and her face showed clearly that in its natural state it was a complete stranger to the comeliness of youth.

He looked at her sorrowfully, and then turned away to read the headlines in the papers; he no longer bothered to read the news. Then he gave up and started talking to himself; in recent years he had been doing a great deal of this. Qadriyya was not the wife he had been looking for, and he still felt bitterly sorry about Salwa, even though the love itself had died long since. If it had not been for the wine, he would not have been able to give himself up to Qadriyya’s arms. Nor would he have tolerated the hints about her wealth, which she kept using to hem him in, if it were not for the utter despair which he felt. It was pure agony for him every time he remembered that she was spending money on her home while he was not spending a penny of his pension, except, that is, on himself. Even his bank balance did him no good at all in his family life. So what was the point of all this sponging?