However, he felt in the depths of his heart a pain of similar dimensions to the sum he had magnanimously declined to take. But that was not the only frustration he suffered in frequenting the Director’s house. For he had dreamed of coming upon a “suitable” bride there, and who could know? He also dreamed that his services might intercede for him with Hamza al-Suwayfi and enable him to overlook the humbleness of his birth and admit him into a new class that would help him make progress. But the dream did not come true and on his visits the only people he met were males. Sa‘fan Basyuni would not have cared about his birth: the origins of the two of them were much the same. But what benefit could he expect from marrying his daughter? Nothing but children and cares and poverty. Not even love. For he only loved Sayyida and his heart had been dead since he abandoned her. But those who aspired to glory on the path to God did not concern themselves with happiness.

Days went by as they always would: the scorching days of summer, the dreamy days of autumn, the cruel days of winter, and the scented days of spring. And he himself would always maintain his patient determination and his soaring ambition, along with the bitterness in his heart and the grinding of his desires.

FOURTEEN

Omm Husni came to see him as was her wont. She presented him with a jar of pickled lemons and sat down on the settee eyeing him carefully and making him curious. She slapped her knee suddenly and said, “By the holy Husayn, your loneliness makes me sad…”

He smiled impassively.

“Are you not aware you’re growing old?” she said.

“Of course I am, Omm Husni.”

“And that nothing is more treacherous than the passing years?”

“You’re right.”

“Where are your children to keep you company?”

“In the realm of the unknown.” He kept quiet for a short while, then said, laughing, “The matchmaker’s instinct is stirring in you, Omm Husni…”

She laughed and said, “Listen, I’ve got something special…”

In spite of his restraint, the conversation with its engaging air of mystery attracted him.

“You’ve always got something special.”

“A pretty, middle-aged widow,” she said hopefully. “A sensible woman. The daughter of the late sheikh of the quarter.”

“Eh?”

“She’s got one daughter. Fourteen years old.”

“They’re two women then, not one…”

“The girl will live with her uncle. You can be assured of that.”

“Great!”

“She is a house owner.”

“Really?”

“In Birjwan. It’s got a garden with a mulberry tree.” She stared at him with her poor eyes to assess the impression her words made. She imagined he was pleased and added, “You’ll see her for yourself.”