Still sleeping, she rolled over on her face. Her nightgown slid up, exposing the naked lower half of her body. He slipped from the bed and went out to the balcony, shutting the door behind him. Enveloped by the murky air, he watched the waves racing madly toward the shore and the spray flying against the cabanas. Flocks of clouds had spread across the pale dome of the sky, fogging up the early-morning weather. No feet yet walked the ground. Your spirit was unreceptive and the air did not refresh you. How long will you wait for deliverance? If only he could ask Mustapha about the meaning of the contradictions. He’s a great resource of ideas, even if he only sells popcorn and pumpkin seeds now. Does Zeinab have a role only after work? One of the waves rose to an extraordinary height, shattered in tons of foam, then spread out defeated, giving up the ghost.

Dear God, Zeinab and work are the same. This malady which turns me from work is what turns me from Zeinab, for she is the hidden force, she is its symbol. She is wealth, success, and finally illness. And because I’m sick of these things, I’m disgusted with myself, or rather because I’m disgusted with myself, all else sickens me. But who does Zeinab have apart from me? Last night was a bitter experience. Love shrank and withered, and all that remained was a quickening of the pulse, a rise in blood pressure, and stomach contractions chasing each other in a horrible loneliness; the loneliness of the wave absorbed by the sand, which never returns to the sea. She sings songs of love, while I’m mute; she’s the pursuer while I’m the fugitive; she loves while I hate; she’s pregnant while I’m sterile; she’s sensitive, perspicacious while I’m stupid. She said you’re unusually quiet. I said it’s simply that my voice is unheard. I said, “Suppose you win the property settlement today and tomorrow the government confiscates the land?” to which he replied, “Don’t we live our lives knowing that our fate rests with God?” Even in alienation, the wave rises insanely, shatters in foam, then gives up the ghost. The grave of sleep swallows you, but still you don’t rest, your brain still chases phantoms. You even consider seeing the doctor again, admitting that you’ve changed unaccountably. What do I want, what am I after? Knowledge has no importance, neither have the legal affairs of my clients, the addition of a few hundred pounds to my account, the blessings of a happy home, and the reading of the daily headlines. So why not take a trip in space? Ride the light waves, for their speed is fixed, the only fixed thing in the constantly changing, insanely reeling universe.

The first spacemen have arrived, selling microbes, selling lies.