“I’m afraid something is the matter, sir,” he said.

“What is it, my son?”

“I’m awfully sorry, but I must speak up.”

“Well, I’m listening.”

He was quiet for a moment while he pulled himself together.

“It’s something to do with Miss Onsiyya Ramadan.”

Later on Othman told himself that he probably had not heard the name uttered or that he had heard it without comprehending what it meant.

“Huh?” he said, stupefied.

“Onsiyya Ramadan!”

“Your colleague? What about her?”

“The truth is,” came the almost inaudible answer, “I’m in love with her.”

Othman frowned and his heart missed a beat.

“And what has that to do with me?” he asked angrily.

“I wanted to propose to her.”

“Fine! But what have I got to do with it?”

The youth looked down and mumbled, “But Your Excellency…”

Othman’s limbs were trembling. The questioning stare he gave the young man was tantamount to surrender.

“Yes?”

“Your Excellency knows everything.”

“How do you mean, please?”

“The truth is, if it hadn’t been for you, I would have proposed to her.”

Othman was certain it was all up with him. Nothing was any longer of value. Not even life itself.

“If it hadn’t been for me?”

“I’ve seen everything…here and outside,” came the despondent reply.

With the strength of despair, Othman prepared to defend himself to the end. He was not so much sorry for his lost love as he was afraid for his official position.

“Young man, you have a nasty mind. What is it you’ve seen, you wretch? But of course, this is just what lovers do! I’ve always treated her as if she were my own daughter: a totally innocent relationship. I’m very much afraid you have damaged her good name without knowing what you were doing.”

“I know when and how to bury my sorrows and protect the reputation of someone I love.” There was a certain nobility in the young man’s innocent and grave rejoinder.

“Good…good…” sighed Othman. A wave of sorrow swept over him. “You’ve behaved like a man.” The force of the initial shock and the relief brought by his unexpected escape were so jarring that he felt sick. “A man like you deserves to be happy with the person he loves.”

His tormentor left him and he remained alone with his sorrow, a sorrow as solid and as gigantic as fate itself. It brought back to him old memories of long, sad nights. He thought to himself that if life was measured by its share of happiness, it was certain that his own had been a sheer waste. Why did the pursuit of glory demand such suffering?

TWENTY-EIGHT