“Call it what you wish, but what is it, what do I want, what should I do?”

“You’re too sensible to be plagued by questions. Probe your hidden desires, look into your dreams. There are things you want to run away from, but where to?”

“That’s it. Where?”

“You must find the answer.”

“Tell me, what makes you stick to work and marriage?”

Because the question seemed somehow funny, he smiled, but the sober atmosphere quickly dispelled his gaiety. “My attachment to my wife is based on reality and on habit. My work is a means of livelihood. Besides, I’m happy with my audience, I’m happy with the hundreds of letters I get from them each week. Acceptance by the public is gratifying, even if it means selling popcorn and watermelon seeds.”

“I have neither public, nor reality, nor habit.”

Mustapha paused a while and then said, “In fact, you’ve been extraordinarily successful in your work and your wife worships you, so you’re left with nothing to fight for.”

Omar smiled sarcastically. “Should I pray God for failure and adultery?”

“If it would help you regain some interest in life!”

Each retreated into himself and the tense silence carried ominous forebodings.

Omar spoke. “It sometimes consoles me that I hate myself just as much.” He squashed his cigarette butt in the ashtray impatiently. “My work, Zeinab, and myself are really all one thing, and this is what I want to escape from.”

Mustapha looked at him quizzically. “An old dream is enticing you?”

He hesitated before confiding, “Buthayna wrote some poems.”

“Buthayna!”

“I read them, and while we were discussing them, I felt a strange yearning for the old books I’d deserted twenty years ago.”

“Ah, how often I’ve thought that would happen.”

“Hold on. Yes, a certain sensation crept into my sluggish brain and I began searching for lost tunes. I even asked myself whether it might be possible to start again. But it was just a fleeting sensation which soon disappeared.”

“You retreated quickly.”

“No. I went back to reading, and jotted down a few words, but it came to nothing. One evening when I was at the cinema, I saw a beautiful face and felt the same sensation.”

“Is sensation what you’re after?”

“Sensation or intoxication—the creature within me revived all at once and I believed it to be my aim, rather than work, family, or wealth. This strange, mysterious intoxication appeared as the sole victory among a series of defeats. It alone can vanquish doubt, apathy, and bitterness.”

Mustapha looked at him steadily, his chin resting on his hand, and asked, “You wish to bid love a final farewell?”