“You must convince her that she’s mistaken.”

She said, playing with the bracelet of her gold watch, “But you treat her differently now. You told her very harshly you’d do as you pleased.”

“She told you that, too?”

“I’m the only one she can complain to.”

Depressed, he muttered, “It was just anger, as you know.”

“Anyway, she’s willing to help you as much as she can.”

“There’s nothing she can do.”

She hesitated a moment, then said, “Mightn’t she think…”

“Isn’t it better for us to go over your latest poems?”

“There’s nothing new.”

“But your lover still inspires you.”

“Maybe she thinks…well, you know.”

“She even lets you in on her ridiculous fears.”

“It makes me very sad.”

Lighting a cigarette, he said, “Ridiculous illusions.”

She said anxiously, “I’ll believe you. You’ve always been a model of truth. Are they merely illusions?”

You’re backed into a corner. “Your mother has upset you too much.”

“Say that they’re just illusions.”

He glanced at her reproachfully, but she avoided his eyes. Looking at the Nile, she asked, “There’s no other woman?”

“A woman!” the shrill little voice returned.

This time he pulled her onto his lap as though seeking her protection and started roughhousing with her, the only way to deal with the little imp. But Buthayna continued her worrying. “I want an answer, Papa.”

“What do you think of your father?”

“I believe you, so speak. Please, for my sake, speak.”

In bitter despair, he said, “There’s nothing.”

Her face brightened while his heart sank. Her eyes shone with victorious relief but the world scowled. Autumn was in the air, a tinge of yellow had spread over the treetops, and flocks of white clouds were reflected in the gray water. The emptiness was filled with silent tunes, sad and delicate, and weary questions with hard answers. His lie expanded until it threatened him with annihilation.

In the depths of despair, he went to visit Mustapha at his office. After a futile discussion, Mustapha concluded, “I’ve gone along with you and helped, hoping that you’d realize the futility of this venture, but you’re drowned.”

He sighed. “You don’t realize I’m living the art I always longed to create.”

Mustapha finished the page he was writing, then sent it down to the press. “I’ve often thought the crisis you’re suffering resulted from suppressed art.”

He rejected the idea with a shake of his head, then said, “No, it’s not art, but it may be what we turn to art in search of.”

Mustapha paused a minute, then said, “If we were scientists, spending twenty years of our lives searching for an equation, perhaps we’d be invulnerable to despair.”

Shaking his head sorrowfully, he said, “My misfortune may be that I’m searching for an equation without scientific qualifications.”