I hadn’t been so happy since he was a young boy. Even his father’s face shone with joy. What have you got to do with it? I don’t understand. You hate him just as you hate me. All right, he has grown up to be a dramatist, contrary to what you predicted. To you his idealism was stupidity, but good will always out. His strength and energy will sweep away the dross of riffraff like you.

I don’t like autumn, except that it brings us closer to opening nights. Where do they come from, these clouds that blot out the light? Isn’t it enough that the clouds cover my heart? I hear the man speaking to me:

“Look.”

I see Tariq Ramadan coming toward the shop, looking as if he were someone bringing news of an accident in the street. Has he come to congratulate us or to gloat over us?

He stands there in front of us, his greeting lost in the empty air.

“Our loyal friend, paying us a visit for the very first time,” I say.

I pay no attention to his excuses until I hear him intone, “I have bad news.”

“Bad news doesn’t mean a thing to us.”

“Even if it’s about Mr. Abbas Younis?”

My blood turns cold, but I remain as calm as I can. “His play’s been accepted,” I say proudly.

“It’s nothing but a deplorable joke. What do you know about the play!” He goes on to summarize it, citing the most important episodes, and ends by saying, “That’s it—everything!”

Hiding my anxiety and with my head spinning, I reply, “What do you mean? You hate Abbas!”

“Go see the play for yourselves!”

“You’ve been blinded by hate.”

“By the crime, you mean.”

“The only criminal is you.”

“Tahiya’s murderer must be brought to justice!”

“You’re a low-down crook yourself. Why don’t you just get lost!”

“How can they say that prison teaches people manners?” he says, laughing sarcastically.

I grab a handful of chickpeas and throw them at him. He draws back jeering, then leaves.

What has Abbas written? What has he done? My son would never kill anyone or be disloyal; at least he wouldn’t betray his mother. He’s an angel.

The man and I look at each other. I must haul myself out of this unending loneliness. “Tariq is lying,” I say.

“Why should he lie?”

“He still hates my son.”

“But there’s the play, too.”

“Go and see Abbas!”

“I’ll see him, sooner or later.”

“But you aren’t making any move.”

“There’s no great rush.”

He exasperates me; like Tariq, he has no love for Abbas.

“He has to know what’s going on behind his back!” I yell.

“And if he confesses?”

“You’ll get an explanation for everything.”

“I wonder!”

“A real murderer doesn’t expose himself.”

“I don’t know.”