What cooperation? The poor boy doesn’t understand anything; he’s too naive to comprehend the secrets of the heart even when they’re displayed right under his nose. How can he understand what his father did when he’s never seen anything but the man’s melancholy exterior? My son can make sacrifices and be as generous as his devoted heart wants to, but doesn’t he realize that he’s shutting up two adversaries together in a single prison cell? From one prison to another, from loathing to sheer hatred. There’s no hope for me, son, unless you can succeed, unless you can rescue me.

I glance at him as he works, selling peanuts, melon seeds, popcorn, and chickpeas, throwing the piasters into a half-open drawer. He wallowed so long in a life of sin that he’s probably dreaming now about going back to the habit that prison cured him of. If it weren’t for Abbas, his stipulation that we divide the earnings between us, we’d have been ruined again by now. That permanent look of melancholy he has! Except when customers come in, the gloomy mask never falls from his face. He’s aged so much he looks older than he really is, and that means I’ve aged too. The years in prison. The night of the raid when detectives kept slapping my face…Ah, the bastards, not one of them came to see us! Al-Hilaly is as big a bastard as Tariq Ramadan. Detained at the police station just one night and then released. We bore the punishment alone. Our neighbors say the law is only hard on the poor, and they accuse us and gloat over our misfortune. They do business with us, though. My only hope is that you succeed, son.

Time passes. We have nothing to say to each other. The fire of hatred is stronger than the heat of an oven. When I clean this hateful old house, or when I cook, I feel so miserable. Why am I condemned to this wretched life? I used to be pretty, all piety and decorum. Fate. Fate. Who will explain the meaning of fate to me? But God is on the side of the patient, the long-suffering. My destiny is in your hands, Abbas. I’ll never forget your visit that night, on the feast of the birthday of Sidi al-Sharany,*1 and your words, which relieved my torment and opened up the gates of heaven: “My play has been accepted at last!”