Onsiyya Ramadan came to submit her monthly report on the incoming mail. It was the morning of an autumn day and the cool weather breathed into the recesses of the spirit a feeling of sweet wistfulness. His eyes turned now to the paper he was examining, now to her fingers spread out on the edge of the desk. He thought he saw something move in one of her hands. Something which moved and came nearer, delicately inching its way as if bearing a secret message. It was a small package, which she neatly slipped under the blotter after making sure he had seen it.

“What’s this?” he asked in a low voice which instinctively responded to the air of caution evident in her gesture from the start. He lifted the blotter a little to reveal a silver-colored case half the size of an open palm.

“What’s this?” he asked again.

“A small present,” she whispered, blushing.

“A present?” he asked, though he did remember.

“It’s your birthday!”

A surge of ecstatic joy overwhelmed him. Today was indeed his birthday or, to be precise, coincided with the date of his birth. But it was just another day. He might remember it a few days before it came or a few days after it had passed or even on the actual day, but this never made any difference except perhaps in that it served to intensify his apprehension of the future. He never celebrated the occasion. That tradition was unknown to him and to the alley he had been brought up in. But here was Onsiyya announcing new traditions. New too was her innocent maneuver to show affection and her marvelous power of opening up the gates of mercy.

“As a matter of fact, I never bother to remember it.”

“That’s strange!”

“But you shouldn’t have taken the trouble!”

“It’s only a very simple thing.”

“I really don’t know how to thank you.”

“There’s nothing to thank me for.”

“What a lovely person you are! But how did you know the date of my birth?” he asked, then laughed and went on: “Ah! I forgot that…You’ve dug out my service file and now you know my age!”

“It’s the age of reason and maturity.”