He was as hard as granite. My aversion for him was as strong as my love had been. Abandoned, alone, in torment. Someday my aunt would guess the secret of my suffering. What could I expect from a world that knows no God?

—

Late in the afternoon I go to the actors’ coffeehouse, where I catch sight of Fuad Shalaby smoking a narghile and make a beeline for him. I may be the last person he’s expecting to see, but he stands to welcome me and pulls up a seat for me.

“I should have come to visit you. Damn all the work!”

I ignore his words. “Nobody’s visited us. Not that it makes any difference. I’m so upset over Abbas’s disappearance that I had to come.”

“There’s no need to get upset.” He smiles. “It’s quite obvious he left to get away from spongers. It’s a good thing he did. He’s probably working on his next play.”

“But he should have told me.”

“Try to overlook his negligence. Don’t worry. You’re still as pretty as ever, Halima. How is Karam?”

“He’s alive and active, pursuing his hobby of making mankind miserable.”

He laughs, in a way that gets on my nerves, so much so that I get up and leave the coffeehouse.

This time I have the courage and the determination to go to the theater. I ask to see the producer and enter the room, the selfsame room—same leather couch, same man.

No, he’s different: there’s nothing left of the old self but the depravity, which seems to have aged him more than prison has us. Which of us two is more to blame for my unhappiness? He rises to greet me. “Welcome, welcome! I’m delighted to see you looking so well,” he exclaims.

“Well?” I retort as I take a seat.

“As befits the mother of a successful playwright.”

“At the moment, he’s the cause of my suffering.”

“That’s suffering for no reason whatsoever. I have good news: He’s contacted me by phone.”

I interrupt, aflame with joy, “Where is he?”

“I don’t know. That’s his secret; let him keep it if he wants to. The important thing is that he’s busy on a new play.”

“Has he left his job?”

“Yes. It’s a risk—but he’s sure of himself, and I’m confident, too.”

“He didn’t bother to get in touch with me?”

“Well, he wants to avoid being interrogated about his play; that’s what I think.”

“Certain suspicions are being voiced, over and over. What do you think about it all?”

“A play is a work of art, and art is a fantasy, no matter how much it borrows from the truth.”

“But what about people’s assumptions?”

“The audience doesn’t see anything in it. To think otherwise is idiocy, and if it weren’t for Tariq’s stupidity…”