Ah, the curtain is rising—to reveal our house. Our house, no other. Was it al-Agrudy or Abbas who wanted it this way? The father, the mother, and the son. A brothel and a gambling den, that’s what it is. There’s more than crime and betrayal there. The stage mother is an uncontrollable whore, her relations with the director, the producer, the critic, and Tariq Ramadan follow one after another: and I look swiftly at Halima, whose breath is coming in rough gasps. It’s sheer hell. Now you can wallow in your son’s opinion of you. What he thinks of his father and mother is painfully clear. Who would have imagined that his serene head could hold all this devastation? I’m glad he sees his mother this way, glad he’s come out with what he really thinks of her. This piece of drama is his way of wreaking vengeance on me, punishing me for what I am.

But in this moment of scandal I experience a sense of triumph over both the mother and the son, over my two mortal enemies. He doesn’t understand me. He presents me as someone fallen, a man who has resorted to corruption in reaction to the challenge of reality. I’m not like that, you fool. I never had any stature to lose. I grew up untamed and free, watching the hypocrites, learning from them. That’s what you cannot understand. What’s the secret of your success? You flatter them, you pander to their sense of superiority. I spit on you and your evasions!

Thunder of wild applause.

We’re invited—as is customary—to the party in the cafeteria, in celebration of a successful play. “Shall we join them or leave?” I whisper.

“Why shouldn’t we join the party?” It’s no use pretending to be above it all, Halima. You don’t have the same wings I have. “He didn’t need to commit suicide,” she murmurs.

“What kind of an end did you expect for a murderer?” I ask, hoping to nettle her.

“He got a lot of sympathy.”

Sirhan al-Hilaly declares loudly, “My intuition says that it won’t be a flop,” and they begin drinking toasts.

“It’s brutal, of course,” says Salim al-Agrudy, “but it’s impressive.”

“It reminds the audience of their everyday hardships,” says Fuad Shalaby. “But it’s terribly pessimistic.”

“Pessimistic?” scoffs al-Hilaly.

“He needn’t have committed suicide. The audience’s hopes and aspirations were all pinned on him.”

“Don’t look at it as a suicide,” answers al-Hilaly.

“It’s just a way out for the new generation.”

“God protect all bastards!” roars al-Hilaly. And turning to Tariq Ramadan, he raises his glass and says, “To the revelation of a great actor, discovered in his fifties!”

“A discovery more significant,” Fuad Shalaby exclaims, “than finding an oil well!”