With a heavy heart, I return to the prison cell and sit down. I’ll tell him about meeting Fuad Shalaby and nothing more. I won’t offer him any relief. He doesn’t love Abbas. He pretends to be quite disinterested in what I found out. If he only suffered as I do. The snacks we sell help other people while away the time, but our only distraction is exchanging abuses.

—

My letdown had continued step by step. A new vice was threatening the foundations of our home.

“Opium is a terrible thing. It will destroy you.”

“I’m grateful for it, at any rate.”

“You’re running away from reality. And you’re doing it faster and faster.”

“Again, I say thanks to it.”

“I’m doing my utmost. And there’s Abbas to think about, your beloved son.” He takes another sip of black tea. “My salary by itself isn’t enough to keep the house going.”

“You have the rent from Ramadan’s room.”

“And even that’s not enough. Life is so expensive.”

I understand you now. And I’m afraid of you. You aren’t what I thought you were at the outset of our life together. You’ve lost everything, even the potency you used to boast about. We’ve moved into separate rooms. Between us there’s neither love nor desire! You’re the only thing left, Abbas. Pay no heed to what your father says. Don’t believe him. He’s sick. It’s a good thing you’re alone most of the time. God be with you—He is our sufficiency. Be an angel. Let your friends, your books, and the theater be your teachers. Be my son and the son of other good people. You’re the only light in this old house steeped in darkness. Be unique in every way.

—

He steals a furtive glance at me now and again, hoping I might divulge what I know. Never. I’ll challenge him to hate me more.

“Winter’s coming. How can we stay in this open shop?” he says.

“When Abbas succeeds, our luck will change,” I answer confidently.

“When Abbas succeeds!” he retorts, bitterness in every syllable.

“I’ll go live with him,” I say defiantly, “and he won’t begrudge you an overcoat or a woolen cloak!”

—

The red cafeteria was always the same; it laughed at the shifts and changes in its patronage, hearing most of what was said, but believing no one. “Here’s your sandwich. I’ll get your tea ready,” Amm Ahmad Burgal said.

A young man came and sat on the stool next to me. He ordered beans and a sandwich. He was one of the theater people, it appeared, but he wasn’t one of the actors. A young man, attractive except for his large head and nose. Amm Ahmad asked me, “Any news about a flat, Miss Halima?”