He was on the verge of asking, “But what is happiness?” but the concern, so evident in Mustapha’s gray eyes, deterred him. Mustapha and the radio and the television rescued them from repetitious talk. And then there were his fantasies, “Oh God!” He saw himself as a magician, entertaining the people with his miraculous powers. He would cause the opera house to vanish in the blink of an eye, as the astonished crowds looked on, and then, to exclamations of wonder, suddenly restore it. Dear God, how much we need such potions of magic. As he gazed at her dreamily, she asked, “Why don’t you invite some friends over to pass the time?”

He said quietly, “I have no friends besides Mustapha.”

She seemed unconvinced, so he explained, “I don’t consider colleagues and acquaintances friends.”

So she arranged, on her own, for them to go out more often, to the theater and the cinema, even to the nightclubs.

“Isn’t this better,” she said, “than staying alone by ourselves at home?”

He nodded in agreement.

She reproached him. “This is the first time you’ve been unflattering!”

Too late, he tried to make amends. “I simply meant to compliment you for arranging these outings.”

“I’ll never tire of your company.”

“Nor I of yours, believe me.”

He was annoyed at his inattentiveness. Dear God, what’s happening? Mustapha, at any rate, was clearly impressed by his happiness, and remarked one day as they were sitting together in his office, “Tell me about love. In the end you may persuade me to adopt a new philosophy of life.”

Omar saw the glint of maliciousness in his eyes. Ignoring the question, he asked, “Have I become so unimportant to Buthayna?”

“You know she’s idealistic and proud, but in her heart she adores you.”

“Hasn’t she missed me, the traitor?”

“She’ll see you again one day, but for God’s sake tell me about this romance of yours.”

“As strong as ever!” he said defiantly.

“A political declaration?”

“You have no right to probe the secrets of the heart, you hypocrite!”

Mustapha laughed at length, and said, “Let me describe the situation as I see it. Those delightful conversations are dwindling, the games are losing their charm, inadvertently you drink more.”

“Drop dead.”

How awful. Warda was the perfect lover and beautiful as well. Dear God, how can ecstasy be aroused again and the dead poetry revived? How dark the late afternoon of winter.

They went one night to the New Paris and suddenly Margaret appeared on the stage. His heart raced, remembering the past, but with a great effort of will, he controlled his nerves.

She sang:

“I can’t help wanting you more every time we meet.

The flame leaps higher with each heartbeat.”

Warda whispered, “How true.”