She stared at me with eyes that spoke loathing and contempt, then went to her room, with my loud, disdainful laugh following her all the way.

I look at her back over the mounds of peanuts, melon seeds, popcorn, and dried chickpeas heaped up in their bins along the counter. What kind of existence is this, so totally joyless, in this atmosphere laden with smoke and aversion? The boy’s return and his success should have been enough to give her new life.

For once, I was really feeling quite cheerful, while Halima was hiding her gloom.

Sirhan al-Hilaly had been asking, “Where are Tariq and Tahiya?”

“A severe shortage of players,” said Salim al-Agrudy.

I laughed. “Exciting news, Sirhan Bey: my crackpot son has married Tahiya.”

The whole table burst out laughing. “It appears,” said Ismail, “that your son is a real artist.”

“The kid,” exclaimed al-Hilaly.

“The marriage of the season!” added Shalaby.

“You’ll now find Tariq,” said Ismail, “wandering in the desert, like Magnun Layla.”*

The table burst out laughing again.

“But Halima isn’t joining in our happiness,” observed Sirhan.

“Halima is at a funeral,” she said, and went on mixing drinks.

“Who knows? Perhaps he’s found the happiness that evades the rest of us.”

“In spite of everything!” I laughed out loud.

“These days only mules are lucky enough to be happy,” Halima said bitterly.

“Will he go on trying to write plays?” said Sirhan.

“Of course,” Halima replied.

“Great. Tahiya will be able to supply him with lots of useful experience.”

After that I became absorbed in collecting the money. It was the first night I’d done business with no one to spy on me and I thoroughly enjoyed it.

—

The woman is out searching for her son. Alone in the shop, I wonder what kind of end he’s assigned her in the play. I forgot to ask about that. Has he lowered the curtain over the time we spent in prison? Over this shop? Customers come one after another. These people don’t realize how much I despise and detest them. Hypocrites! They carry on exactly the same way we did, then offer up prayers at the proper times. I’m better than they are. I’m liberated. I belong to the good old days, before religion and moral behavior became all the rage. I’m beseiged in this shop, though by an army of hypocrites, every man and woman. The state, too. That’s why it neglects the sewers, leaves us to line up in queues, and deluges us with bombast. And my son gives me a splitting headache with his silent reprimands, then commits betrayal and murder. If only I could get hold of a little opium. It would make everything bearable. Why were we so beguiled at the time of our engagement? Why did it whisper to us so insinuatingly of a sweetness that didn’t exist?