———

Miss Zahra entered, and I surprised her by being ready—completely ready, no less. I had arranged the papers, pencils, and other things on my table, made my bed so neat and flat that it showed no wrinkle or flaw, and put away my clothes and various other things inside the wardrobe. I had cleared the place of any chaos that might annoy a visitor or catch someone’s eye. Then I had combed my hair and sat down on the chair, which I had placed with its back to the table, facing the door. I was wearing the same suit with the jacket that resisted being buttoned at the belly on some other occasion. Given the recent events, I was expecting Miss Zahra to come, and I wanted to make it an official visit, to force the conversation to take an official tone. I looked at the clock. Exactly 10:25 p.m. I felt a burning desire to know the fate of Daoud and what had become of him after his interrogation, now that the police cars had left the hotel and carried him off into the nearby streets.

After greeting me, Miss Zahra looked slowly around the room. I received her with a smile, though I did not get up. She approached apprehensively, inquiring how I was and whether I had eaten any dinner. I wasn’t hungry, I assured her. Then I asked her what she was doing so late at night. She apologized for the inconvenience and the late hour. She was about to go but stopped short when she noticed I was wearing a suit.

“Mr. N, shall I help you change into your pajamas?”

She asked the question with the excessive courtesy typical for someone at the end of an exhausting day, when the blue circles ring their eyes, their energy droops, and their voice can scarcely be heard. Mr. N shook his head no, adding that he was wearing the suit especially for her, and that he had been waiting for her. Miss Zahra cocked her head, surprised and confused by his words. The left side of her upper lip began twitching.

(Ah! Here I am reverting to the third-person pronoun. What makes it so hard to write “I”? Just one letter, and I would become the center around which things are divided up and arranged. My brother, Sa’id, has his “I,” which surprised me for so long. An enormous, gigantic, terrifying “I” that showed up and overshadowed everything around him. His “I” flies on awful wings of colorful feathers that blind your sight. Resounding, rumbling, chaotic. But as soon as the wind blows, they scatter. Thurayya’s “I” was solid, firm, heavy, severe. There was no ambiguity about it. Hard as ice. No, even harder! Thurayya drained my body of all its “I.” She pressed it down and squeezed until she turned it into nothing.)