Mustapha laughed with an abandon bestowed by the whiskey and said, “Escape is always partly caused by failure, but believe me, science has robbed art of everything. In science you find the rapture of poetry, the ecstasy of religion, and the aspirations of philosophy. All that is left to art is amusement. One day it will be no more than a bridal ornament worn during the honeymoon.”

“This marvelous indictment springs from a revenge against art rather than a love of science.”

“Read the astronomy, physics, or other science texts, recall whatever plays and collections of poetry you wish, and note the sense of shame which overwhelms you.”

“Similar to my feelings when I think of legal cases and the law.”

“It’s only the feeling of the artist out of step with time.”

Omar yawned, then said, “Damn it, I smell something serious in the air, and I have the horrible feeling that a building is going to be demolished.”

Mustapha filled a new glass and said, “We won’t let the building be demolished.”

Omar leaned toward him and asked, “What do you think is wrong with me?”

“Exhaustion, monotony, and time.”

“Will diet and sports be enough?”

“More than enough, rest assured.”

THREE

From now on you’re the doctor and you’re free. Freedom of action is a type of creativity, even while you’re struggling against the appetites. If we say that man was not created to gorge himself with food, then with the liberation of the stomach the spirit is free to soar. Thus the clouds grow limpid and the August storms thunder. But how oppressive are the crowds, the humidity, and the smell of sweat. The exercise exhausted you and your feet ached as though you were learning how to walk for the first time. Eyes stared as the giant slowed his steps and, overcome by fatigue, sat down on the nearest bench on the Corniche. After a quarter of a century’s blindness, you looked at people again. Thus had the shore witnessed the birth of Adam and Eve, but no one knows who will emerge from paradise. As a tall, thin youth, the son of a petty employee, he’d walked the length and breadth of Cairo without complaint, and generations of his ancestors had bruised their feet struggling with the land and had collapsed in the end from fatigue. Soon the past will emerge from prison, and existence will become more of a torment.

“Othman, why are you looking at me like that?”

“Don’t you want to play ball?”

“I don’t like sports.”

“Nothing except poetry?”

Where can one escape your piercing glance? What’s the use of arguing with you? You know that poetry is my life and that the coupling of two lines begets a melody which makes the wings of heaven dance.

“Isn’t that so, Mustapha?”

The balding adolescent stated, “Existence itself is nothing but a composition of art.”