He frowned and asked, “Didn’t you tell her how I ended up?”

“But it’s lovely for a girl her age to write poetry.”

“It is.”

“You must read her poetry and give her some advice.”

“If my advice had any value it would have benefited me!”

“You’re pleased with the news?”

“Very much so.”

FOUR

His sudden happiness gave way to an agitation, alarming in its intensity, a feeling he had not known for the last twenty years. Buthayna, wearing a printed blouse and brown tapered pants, came at his beckoning to the balcony overlooking the sea.

“I wanted to invite you to watch the sunset with me,” he said as she sat down in front of him.

She seemed on the verge of excusing herself, for, as he knew, this was the time she went out with her mother and sister for a late-afternoon stroll on the Corniche, so he said, “You’ll join them soon. Poets should enjoy the sunset.”

He noticed her cheeks redden, and smiled.

“But…but I’m not a poet!”

“But you write poetry.”

“How do I know it’s poetry?”

“I’ll judge after looking at it.”

“No,” she said, timid and apprehensive.

“There’s no secret between us. I’m proud of you.”

“It’s just silly scribblings.”

“I’ll love even your silly scribblings.”

She lowered her eyes submissively, her long curving eyelashes nearly brushing her cheeks.

“Buthayna,” he said with sudden concern, “tell me why you turned to poetry.”

“I don’t know.”

“You do so well in science. What prompted you to turn to poetry?”

Frowning, she made an effort to remember. “The school readings. I enjoyed them very much, Papa.”

“So do many people.”

“I was more strongly affected, I think.”

“Have you read any other poetry?”

“I’ve read some collections.”

“Collections?”

She laughed. “I borrowed them from your library.”

“Really?”

“And I know that you’re a poet, too.”

The remark pained him but he dissimulated gaiety. “No, no, I’m not a poet. It was a childhood pastime.”

“You certainly were a poet. Anyway, I was strongly tempted by poetry.”

You suggest the theater, my friend, but I’m a poet. I find myself caught in a whirlpool from which there’s no escape except through poetry, for poetry is the very aim of my existence. Without it, what would we do with the love which surrounds us like air, the secret feelings which burn us like fire, the universe which oppresses us without mercy? Don’t be supercilious about poetry, my friend.

“Tell me more.”

She continued, regaining her usual courage. “It’s as though I’m searching for tunes in the air.”

“A nice sentiment, Buthayna, and poetry is fine as long as it doesn’t spoil life….”

“What do you mean, Papa?”

“I mean your studies and your future. But it is time to look at your poems.”