Doria, our star, smiles and says, “Now I know why the author didn’t come to the reading.”

“Author?” I venture, convinced that somehow the world has come to an end. “He’s nothing but a criminal. We ought to hand him over to the public prosecutor.”

“Watch yourself, Tariq!” al-Hilaly barks at me. “Put everything out of your mind except the fact that you’re an actor.” I start to object, but he cuts me off irritably—“Not a word!”—and turns back to Salim, who murmurs, “It’s an alarming play.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’m wondering what kind of impact it’ll have on the public.”

“I have approved it and I feel confident.”

“But the shock is almost too much.”

Ismail, the male star of the troupe, mutters, “My role is disgusting.”

“No one is crueler than an idealist,” says al-Hilaly. “Who’s responsible for all the carnage in this world? Idealist. Your role is tragic in the highest dimension.”

“The murder of the baby,” Salim al-Agrudy interjects. “It will destroy any sympathy the audience might have had for him.”

“Let’s not bother with details now. The baby can be left out. Not only has Abbas Younis persuaded me at last to accept a play of his, but I also have a feeling that it will be one of the biggest hits in the history of our theater.”

Fuad Shalaby, the critic, says, “I share your opinion,” and adds, “But we must cut out the baby.”

“This is no play!” I exclaim. “It’s a confession. It’s the truth. We ourselves are actually the characters in it.”

“So what?” al-Hilaly retorts, dismissing my objection. “Do you suppose that escaped me? I recognized you, of course, just as I recognized myself. But how is the audience going to know anything?”

“One way or another, the news will leak out.”

“Let it! The one who’ll suffer most is the author. For us, it can only mean success. Isn’t that right, Fuad?”

“I’m sure that’s true.”

“It must be presented,” al-Hilaly says, smiling for the first time, “with the utmost subtlety and propriety.”

“Of course. That goes without saying.”

“The public,” Salim al-Agrudy mutters. “How will it go down with them?”

“That’s my responsibility,” replies al-Hilaly.

“Fine. We’ll begin at once.”

The meeting is over, but I stay behind to be alone with al-Hilaly. On the strength of the fact that we’re old friends and comrades as well as former neighbors, I take the liberty of urging him to put the matter before the public prosecutor.

“Here’s an opportunity for you,” he says, ignoring my agitation, “to portray on the stage what you have actually experienced in real life.”

“Abbas Younis is a criminal, not an author!”

“And it’s an opportunity that could make you an important actor. You’ve played supporting roles for so long.”