Tahiya and I had left the old house in the gravel market and were on our way to the theater, braving together the cold blast brought by the evening darkness, she with her black coat tightly wrapped around her voluptuous curves, I with the thought that her body was made for bed, not the theater, and that we were both in the wrong profession.

“I caught the boy during tea break sneaking hungry looks at you,” I said.

“Abbas? He’s only a kid.”

“He’s going to make an expert pimp someday.”

“He has nice manners. And he’s not to blame for what goes on in his house.”

“He’s Karam and Halima’s son. And in these times what can you expect?”

I realize now that I hadn’t understood at all what was going on in her mind.

“I never pictured you as the grieving lover,” Sirhan al-Hilaly said with a chuckle.

“Did you ever imagine that one day we’d cross the Canal and win?”

“She’s as poor as you are.”

“Tell her—please…”

“You imbecile! She’d already decided to leave the stage. What’s turned the trick is the fascination of marriage.”

“Go to the devil! I’m almost out of my mind.”

“You’re angry, that’s all.”

“Believe me.”

“The clever operator can’t take a defeat!”

“It’s not like that.”

“That’s all it is. Go back to Umm Hany right away, because you’re not going to find anyone else to support you.”

I hesitated before answering, “Sometimes I almost believe there is a God.”

Sirhan guffawed. “Tariq son of Ramadan, even madness has its limits!”

Afrah al-Qubbah proves to be a real hit, with success confirmed night after night. Sirhan al-Hilaly has at last found the play that will enrich his theater, and the daily wage he agrees to pay me revives both body and soul.

Fuad Shalaby asks me, “Are you pleased with what I wrote about you?”

I press his hand gratefully. “After more than a quarter of a century I finally have my picture in your magazine.”

“You’ll never look back from now on. But did you know that Abbas has come out of hiding?”

“Really?”

“He paid a call on al-Hilaly yesterday at home. Do you know why?”

“Why?”

“He demanded a share of the profits.”

I laugh so loudly that Amm Ahmad Burgal, behind the bar, almost jumps out of his skin. “Halima’s son! What did al-Hilaly say to that?”

“He gave him a hundred pounds.”

“Hell! He doesn’t deserve it!”

“Abbas has no job and he’s working on a new play.”

“Bloodsucker! He’ll never write anything new that’s worthwhile.”

“The future’s in God’s hands, not yours.”

“Where was he hiding?”

“He didn’t tell anyone.”

“Fuad, my friend, aren’t you convinced he’s guilty?”

“Why would he kill Tahiya?”

“Because she confessed her infidelity.”

He shrugs his shoulders and says nothing.

—