“It’s not as though we were two adolescents,” he answered politely, but persisting in his cruelty. “Let’s talk like adults and look for happiness with sincerity and courage.”

“I don’t see what you mean.”

“Well, I admire you, but I am a bachelor forever.”

“Why do you tell me that?”

“I thought you might have a solution for my incurable case.”

“You insult me inhumanly,” she said with great indignation.

“Forgive me! I speak out of a deep sense of agony.”

She frowned and kept quiet.

“A little courage could give us considerable happiness.”

“How do you mean?”

“Isn’t my meaning clear enough?”

“I don’t think I understand you.”

“We need a safe place to meet at,” he said, with a presumption he never thought he could muster.

“Mr. Bayyumi!” she shouted.

“It’ll be a real consolation for two people in need of love and intimacy,” he went on heedlessly.

She stood up in a fury, saying, “Either you go or I go.”

“I’m going, but think about it calmly and objectively. And don’t forget I’m a poor man!”

TWENTY-FIVE

It was no longer a question of a single silver hair difficult to spot. Every now and again a new one would peep out with a chilling white look which threatened a change in the rhythm of life. And what was life? A passing game that a man played with reluctance until he found himself face to face with his ultimate fate. Then he would survey his life in its entirety, weigh his deeds and assess their fruits, suffer however resentfully the breath of the unknown, brace himself for further struggle, and then accept defeat. But at least let that defeat be hallowed in the event. There was no promotion to look forward to in the near future. His savings increased, his nervous tension grew more acute, his efforts redoubled. His relationship with Onsiyya was growing more and more intimate, slowly but surely. As for Qadriyya, she truly deserved to be described as a lifetime companion. At the end of his prayers he would say to God, “What’s life, O God, without You?”

But apparently others did not have his staying power. For his telephone rang one day and the caller was none other than Asila Hijazi, the headmistress.

“I wanted to thank you for your successful mediation.”

“Don’t mention it, madame.”

“And how are you?”

“I’m fine, thank you.”

“I’m glad to hear it.”

“Thank you.”

“I’m really grateful for your help.”

“You’re very kind.”

A few seconds of silence and then: “But I have a bone to pick with you.”

“God forbid!”

“Last time when I left you I was angry, don’t you remember?”

“I’m sorry, but there was nothing to make you angry.”

“You think so?”

“Yes.”

“But you didn’t try to get in touch with me.”

“I’m sorry, but I don’t know your phone number.”