“El Shamashirgi is a friend of al-Hilaly Bey. Your father never worked for him, but he’s the biggest man in the district and he’s been our benefactor. If you mention his name when you have your interview, I’ll take care of the rest.”

And thus I was poised, the first time I set foot in the theater, to enter a different world. It was a marvelous place. It even had a special smell. Amm Ahmad shrank in stature: his work there was not very important. Summoned to meet the producer, I entered his magnificent inner sanctum in my old shoes and my simple white dress, and walked timidly, step by step, toward him. His tall frame, piercing eyes, and masterful expression made him almost awe-inspiring; and he scrutinized me at such length that I thought I’d nearly die. Finally, he gave me a sheet of paper to see how fast I could write the numbers.

“You’ll need some practice before you can take over the job,” he said in his domineering voice. “What’s your name?”

“Halima al-Kabsh,”*2 I said shyly.

“Al-Kabsh!” The name made him smile. “What of it? You’re a good deal more attractive than the actresses in our company. I’ll want to examine you after you finish your training.”

So I set to work in a burst of enthusiasm, inspired not by concern for my future, but by the wish to please that wonderful enchanter. I described him to my mother, and she said that was what the upper classes were like. If I could only win his approval, I thought, what a lucky break it would be for me.

When I stood before him, I was panting. “You’re the jewel of the company, Halima. God is beautiful and He loves beauty.” At what point did he begin to fondle me? Sunlight piercing the window shone full in my face; out in the street someone was playing a dance on a rustic flute. Gasping, I shoved his huge hand away, and said, “No, sir. I’m a respectable girl.” His laugh made my ears ring.

In the silence that ensued in that vast locked room, my protests expired. A rush of hot breath, a cunning approach, and all my determined resolutions were confounded. It was a nightmare of the kind that draws tears but wins no sympathy. In the world outside that room other people came and went. My mother died before she found out.

In the afternoon he gets a move on at last. My taut nerves relax a little. I’m clutching at a straw, but what can I expect? I’ve got to get the dress ready, just so I can do something. My son will tell his secrets to me, but not to that despicable man. What have I got left now except Abbas?