In the fading glow of the sun, she looked sedate, even elegant. In spite of her extraordinary rotundity, the exasperating evidence of indulgence, she retained a winsome beauty. Her serious green eyes still had their charm, but they were now the eyes of a stranger. She was the wife of another man, the man of yesterday who hadn’t known listlessness or fatigue, who had forgotten himself. How was she related to this man, the invalid without an illness, who avoided starches and liquor and who scrutinized the humid air for warnings of undefined peril? The two sisters are ahead; Jamila walks along the stone wall of the Corniche while Buthayna, on the street below, leads her by the hand. They are on the road between Glim and Sidi Bishr, where the crowds are a bit thinner. Buthayna attracted many glances and many murmured comments. Although indistinguishable, their meaning was clear enough. Omar smiled to himself. In a few years you’ll be a grandfather, and life will go on, but where to? He watched the last of the sunset in the clear, pallid sky until only a sliver remained on the horizon.

He remarked, “The ancients used to ask where the sun disappeared to. We no longer question.”

Zeinab looked at the sun for a moment, then said, “How marvelous to have ended the question!”

Rational answers strangle you to provocation. Sensible behavior annoys you unreasonably. How grand it would be if the sea turned violent, drove away those who loitered on the shore, incited the pedestrians on the Corniche to commit unimaginable follies, sent the casino flying above the clouds, and shattered the familiar images forever. So the heart throbs in the brain and the reptiles dance with the birds.

The two girls stopped in front of the San Stefano cinema, then resumed walking. Suddenly Zeinab put her arm through his and whispered imploringly, “Omar, what’s wrong?”

He glanced with a smile at those around him. “So much flirtation!”

“That’s nothing new….What’s wrong?”

He said, intent on ignoring her question, “There’s a lot Buthayna doesn’t know. I was thinking of that when I—”

She interrupted him impatiently. “I know what I’m doing. She’s an unusually sensitive girl, but you’re escaping.”

Your soul longs for escape, the magic key at the bottom of a well.

“I’m escaping?”

“You know what I mean, so confess.”

“To which crime?”

“That you’re no longer yourself.”

How we need a violent storm to wash away this cloying humidity.

“Only in body are you among us. Sometimes I’m so sad I could die.”

“But as you can see, I’m following the regime rigorously.”

“I’m wondering what’s behind this change. Your behavior makes me question it again.”

“But we diagnosed the condition thoroughly.”

“Yes, but is there anything in particular which disturbs you?”

“Nothing.”

“I must believe you.”

“But apparently you don’t, completely.”