“I’m looking for Sayed Sayed el-Reheimy, the man in this photograph, taken thirty years ago.”

“He might be anywhere. In any case, I’m not an authority on missing persons,” said the doctor in a tone that indicated the end of the interview.

He walked into the first bar he found and ordered a brandy. He had to start all over again. The telephone directory was nothing more than a cruel mockery. The optimism that had swept over him when he saw Khalil’s wife was now fading fast. He remembered his fruitless search in Alexandria, the registry offices, the local sheikhs. But here in Cairo he knew no one. Perhaps it was best to place an advertisement in the paper. He looked at the old barman and asked, “Do you know a Sayed Sayed el-Reheimy?”

“Yes, he is a doctor in a building not far from here.”

“No. Not that one. He is an important person. A man of considerable means.”

The barman, a foreigner, repeated the name a couple of times, and then said, “I don’t recall any of my customers with such a name.”

“Have you ever tried looking for someone without knowing where to start?”

“A lost son since the war?”

Saber shook his head.

“But the war is long over. And everyone’s fate is now known.”

“Rather lost, than dead.” Saber asked the barman about the Sphinx, a newspaper, and was told that it was in Tahrir Square.

The paper was located in a large white building. A fountain gurgled in the quadrangle. It reminded him of a villa belonging to a rich Greek in Alexandria, one of his mother’s friends. He walked through the main door and was surprised by a woman beckoning to him. But he soon realized that she was calling a messenger boy who was standing behind him. The boy gave her a parcel and went through another door, leaving him standing in front of her. Slim and elegant. A dark face and deep blue eyes that attracted him. She radiated warmth and confidence. He greeted her and asked for the advertising department. She answered in a pleasant, warm voice, “Come with me, I’m going there myself.”

He followed her with mixed feelings of admiration, desire, and respect. They entered the advertising office and she pointed to a man sitting at one of the desks. A plaque bore his name, Ihsan el-Tantawi.

“I’m looking for a Sayed el-Reheimy.”

“The cardiologist?”

He shook his head, expecting him to recite a long list of persons bearing that name. But he didn’t.

“I don’t know anyone except Reheimy the cardiologist, but don’t you know anything about him? What he does, or where he lives?”

“Not at all. Only that he is a man of means. But I found only the doctor in the telephone directory.”