I read your weekly review of the arts. It was superb—both witty and provocative. You say you’re a mere vendor of melon seeds and popcorn, but your inherent discernment and your long experience as a serious critic are evident. Even in jest you write with style. Thanks for your letter inquiring about us, but it was distressingly brief. You probably consider letters secondary to your articles, but I’m in urgent need of a long talk. Zeinab is well. She sends you her regards and reminds you of the medicine she’d asked you to get from one of your colleagues traveling abroad. I think her intestinal problems are simple, but she’s fond of medicine, as you know. Buthayna is happy—how I wish I could read her mind—but the happiest of us all is certainly Jamila, who as yet understands nothing. You’d be amazed at the progress I’ve made—I’ve lost fifteen pounds, walked thousands of kilometers, sacrificed tons of meat, fish roe, butter, and eggs. Having stuffed myself to death for so long, I yearn for food. Since I find no one to talk to in your absence, I often talk to myself. Zeinab’s speech is too sober, though why sober speech should annoy me these days I don’t know. I met a madman on the road about a kilometer before the Glim beach. He assails those who pass by raising his hand in the manner of our leaders and delivering obscure speeches. He’s the only one whose conversation I’ve enjoyed. He accosted me, saying, “Didn’t I tell you?” I replied with concern, “Yes, indeed.” “But what’s the use? Tomorrow the city will be full of flounder and you won’t find space for one foot.” “The municipality should…” He interrupted me sharply. “The municipality won’t do anything. They’ll welcome it as an encouragement to tourism and it will increase to such fantastic proportions that the inhabitants will be forced to leave and the Agricultural Road will be packed with lines of emigrants and in spite of all this the price of fish will continue to rise….”