I wish I could have read his mind, too. His language was no less strange than mathematical equations and we reasonable men are lost between the two. We who live in the corporeal, mundane realm know neither the pleasure of madness nor the marvels of equations. With all that, I remain the father of a happy family. Witness us as I confide in Buthayna while Jamila attacks us with sand. Our house in Glim is very comfortable. My craving for whiskey is increasing noticeably. Yesterday while we were in the beach cabin, we overheard our neighbor say that the apartment buildings would be nationalized. Zeinab blanched and looked at me, appealing for help, so I said, “We have a lot of money.” She asked, “Can the money be rescued?” “We’ve taken out various insurance policies against fate.” She began questioning me anxiously, “How do we know that…?” But I interrupted her. “Then for God’s sake how did you get so fat?” She exclaimed, “In your youth you were just like them. You talked about nothing but socialism, and it is still in your blood.” Then she asked me again to remind you about the medicine. Mustapha, I don’t care about anything. Nothing concerns me, honestly. I don’t know what has happened to me. All that matters is that we resume our chats, our grand, meaningless chats. By chance I overheard a conversation between two lovers in the dark.

The man said, “Dear, it’s becoming very dangerous.” The woman replied, “This means you don’t love me.” “But you know very well that I love you.” “You’re speaking reasonably, which means that you no longer love me.” “Can’t you see I’m a grown man with responsibilities?” “Just say you don’t love me anymore.” “We’ll destroy ourselves and our homes.” “Will you stop preaching?” “You have your husband and daughter; I have my wife and children.” “Didn’t I say you don’t love me anymore?” she said. “But I do love you.” “Then don’t remind me of anything but love.”