“You’re angry, which is understandable. But whatever the problem is, it doesn’t affect you directly. Your alienation from me is unbearable. I’ve invited you to visit me repeatedly. Why have you never come?”

“I couldn’t.”

“Did anyone prevent you?”

“No, but I was so sad.”

“Was your sadness greater than our love?”

She said bitterly, “You never once came to see us.”

“That wasn’t possible. But you should have come when I repeated the invitation so often. Your refusal only made matters worse.”

She tried to steel herself against the tears that were threatening. “Grief prevented me.”

“That’s too bad. Passivity is a trait I don’t like, and I needed you after I’d left.” Then he smiled to ease the tension of the situation, and said, “Enough. There’s no time for reprimands now.” He patted her shoulder and asked, “How’s the poetry?”

She smiled freely for the first time.

He said enthusiastically, “You know we may be closer to each other today than we’ve ever been before.”

“What do you mean?”

“It seems we’re both drawn to the same source.”

She turned her green eyes to him, seeking clarification.

“I’ve been reading poetry again and have been trying my hand at it.”

“Really?”

“Abortive attempts.”

“Why is that?”

“I don’t know. Maybe the dust is too thick to be shaken off at once. Maybe the crisis resists poetry.”

“The crisis?”

“I mean my illness.”

She smiled, looking at the ground.

“Don’t you believe me?”

“I always believe you.”

Her words cut him, but he said, “You must believe me, in spite of that one lie. It was a necessary lie, but it will never be repeated. My illness is real.”

“You haven’t yet discovered what it is?”

He thought a moment, then said, “Suffering—the only cure is patience.”

She said compassionately, “Which you don’t find with us?”

He stated quietly, “I’m living alone.”

She looked at him with astonishment.

“Alone, believe me.”

“But…”

“Alone now.”

She responded with an urgency which gratified him. “Why haven’t you come back, Papa?”

He kissed her flushed cheek. “Maybe it’s best to remain this way.”

“No.” She held his hand and repeated, “No.”

Aliyyat returned to tell him he could see Zeinab. As he entered the room, he saw her lying in bed covered from the neck down with a white sheet. Her face was very pale, drained of vitality, and her eyes were half closed. He felt sympathy, respect, and a certain regret. Here she is, able to create, while all his efforts have failed. He murmured in embarrassment, “Thank God, it all went well.”

She smiled faintly.

“Congratulations. You’ve produced a crown prince.”