“He’s had a row with Umm Hany and has to leave her place. He’s wandering around with no place to go, and things get more expensive every day.”

“It won’t be very pleasant having a stranger in the house.”

“He needs us. And we need the money.”

“He’s no better than a tramp.”

“He’d hoped we’d be kindhearted, especially you. We’ve got enough empty rooms to house an army.”

Grudgingly I gave my consent. I had no use for him at all—a no-good actor living off the sweat of women. But I never imagined he’d do what he did to us.

Umm Hany pays us a surprise visit in the shop the day after I visited her. She evidently wants to apologize for the rude way her man had treated me. Like Tariq, she’s in her fifties, but she’s still buxom, not bad-looking, and has money.

“They’re all talking about the success of the play,” she remarks. “It’s the biggest hit the theater’s ever had.”

“But the playwright doesn’t want to show himself,” I say sadly.

“He’ll show up when he finishes his new play.” The woman is silent for a while, then says, “What’s being said is really absurd. But then Tariq is crazy!”

“Wouldn’t it have been better for him to kill his mother?” Karam says sarcastically.

I have always had a liking for Umm Hany, and the fact that she is related to my husband hasn’t lessened my affection for her.

The house in al-Tambakshiyya, crowded with people, smelling of rubber, as though it were a bus. My aunt cleared a corner to receive Amm Ahmad Burgal.

“Don’t forget the provisions, because next to God it’s them we depend on.”

“I came for something more important than that!” he said, more serious than usual.

“Open the bag, you snake charmer.”

“It’s about Halima.”

My aunt looked at him and then at me, while the blood mounted in my cheeks.

“What! A husband?”

“That just about sums it up.”

She looked at him inquiringly and he said, “Karam Younis.”

“And who’s Karam Younis?” asked my aunt.

“He’s the company prompter.”

“What does that mean?”

“He’s a respectable employee of the theater.”

“Do you think he’s suitable, Amm Ahmad?”

“Yes, I do. But the important thing is what the bride thinks.”

“The bride is a real beauty, as you know. But we are poor, Amm Ahmad.”

It was my turn to speak. I’d been absolutely shattered by the bloody secret I was harboring; I didn’t love the bridegroom, but I had no aversion toward him—a presentable young man. Perhaps he’d give me peace of mind, even happiness. Beleaguered by my aunt’s stare, I mumbled, “I don’t know anything about him worth mentioning.”

“He has a job, he owns a house, and has a good reputation.”