“I am indebted to Amm Ahmad Burgal for a joy that is almost more than a man can bear.”

“Don’t exaggerate.”

“Halima, who can be happier than a man whose heart has not beaten in vain?” Her radiant smile was like a flower in full bloom.

Where does she hide this sweetness now?

Ah, if only it were possible to go back in time as it is to go back in space. Somewhere in my primeval being is a soft spot that makes me want to cry over these ruins. Somewhere a Karam who no longer exists is weeping over the Halima of the past.

The woman has returned. She comes in and sits down without even a nod at me. I ignore her completely, and she doesn’t speak, but her eyes look serenè. What has she found out? She’s no doubt withholding good news from me, the sow: if it were bad news she’d have poured it over my head the minute she came in. Has Abbas returned? I refuse to ask. Several minutes pass before she says, “We’re invited to see the play!” She hands me a printed notice.

My eyes come to rest on the name of the author: Abbas Younis. I’m carried away with pride. “Shall we go?”

“What a question!”

“We may get a shock when we see ourselves.”

“What matters is that we see Abbas’s play,” she says. “My heart tells me that the playwright is bound to appear.”

“Who knows?”

“My heart knows.”

We do our best to look presentable: I wear a suit that isn’t too bad, and Halima has rented a tailleur from Umm Hany. At the theater they receive us graciously.

“But I don’t see the playwright,” Halima says.

“He didn’t come,” says Sirhan al-Hilaly, “but I’ve told you enough.” So she’s met him and managed to get considerable news from him.

Since we’re early, we go to see Amm Ahmad Burgal, who gives us each—on the house—a sandwich and a cup of tea. “It’s like old times,” he remarks, but we neither smile nor comment. At curtain time we take our seats in the front row. The theater is packed.

“It’s a success,” observes Halima.

“You can’t judge until a week’s gone by.” Despite the ironic detachment I feel—how can I take a play seriously when life itself does not mean anything to me?—my nerves are on edge.