When I saw her coffin being hauled through the entrance of the apartment building, a terrifying sensation of emptiness slammed the pit of my stomach and spread until I felt my whole self turning to nothing. Then came an attack of weeping, catching me unawares. It was only my sobs that disturbed the other mourners. Even Abbas was dry-eyed.

I left in Sirhan al-Hilaly’s car. “When I heard you crying,” he said, “when I saw what you looked like, I almost burst out laughing, God help me.”

“It surprised me, too.”

I can’t remember ever having seen you cry before.”

I smiled. “Every racehorse has a tumble.”

Death brings back memories of love and defeat.

—

The news arrives at the artists’ coffeehouse where I always stop before leaving for the theater, and I rush to Sirhan al-Hilaly’s room to ask if it’s true.

“Yes,” he says guardedly. “Abbas was staying in a pension in Helwan. He hadn’t been seen for a long time. A suicide note was found in his room.”

“Has his body been found?”

“No, they haven’t found any trace of him.”

“Did he give any reason for committing suicide?”

“No.”

“Do you really believe he’s killed himself?”

“Why should he have gone into hiding at exactly the time when success invites him to display himself along with his work?” There is a depressing silence. Then I hear him ask, “Why would he commit suicide?”

“For the same reason the hero of the play does.”

“You’re determined to accuse him.”

“I challenge you to find any other reason.”

Among artists and theater people the news spreads like wildfire. The usual measures, in such circumstances, are taken, but the search for Abbas uncovers nothing, at which I feel a deep sense of relief.

The success of this play, I say to myself, will be limitless.

*1 A quarter in the northwest section of the old Fatimid quarter of Cairo.

*2 Prayer leader in Muslim prayers.

*3 Refers to October 1973.

*4 A feddan is roughly equivalent to an acre.

KARAM YOUNIS

Autumn, “harbinger of winter cold.” How will we be able to stand it? A lifetime peddling peanuts, melon seeds, and popcorn. And of this woman I’ve been sentenced to, like another imprisonment. In this country nearly everyone deserves to be locked up. Why single us out for jail? A law not founded on respect for its own workings is insane.

What are all these young boys going to do? What will happen to them? Wait till you see these old houses blown sky-high! A history reduced to rubble is pretty sad.

The woman never stops dreaming.

But what’s this? Who is this? Some ghost from the past? “Bring me a poisoned dagger.” What is it you want, you plague, you swamp of insects?