“By the goodness of God!” cried my aunt. Although she loved me, she’d be glad to be rid of me. As for me, I wanted to escape from that overcrowded house; and since Sirhan al-Hilaly was so rotten, there was no hope for me in that direction.

—

Life was unbearable, and hunger was knocking at the door.

“I’ve found the way to shut you up,” he said, eyeing me disdainfully.

“Have you finally been cured of that hell of a drug?”

“Al-Hilaly has agreed to hold their soirees in our old house!” I didn’t grasp his meaning, so he added, “We’ll prepare a room for them to play cards in, and then we’ll be on easy street.”

“A gambling den?” I said, dismayed.

“You always describe things in the worst way. What would it be except a gathering of friends?” I protested, but he interrupted: “Don’t you want a good life?”

“Yes, and a clean one, too!”

“If it’s good, it will be clean. The only unclean thing is hypocrisy.”

“And there’s Abbas to think about,” I murmured uneasily.

“I own this house, not Abbas. Your son is crazy. But surely you care whether he has enough to eat and clothes to wear!” he shouted.

—

The sun is hidden so often this autumn that I am grounded in melancholy. This narrow street sees at least one funeral going to Sidi al-Sharany every day. Whenever the man is not occupied with customers he starts talking to himself. I daydream of the things Abbas will do for me, but he has nothing to dream about.

—

Why don’t we keep track of the happy moments, so that afterward we will believe them? Is he the same man? Was he really sincere? Is he the one who said, “I am indebted to Amm Ahmad Burgal for a joy that is almost more than a man can bear?”

I moved my head coquettishly. “Don’t exaggerate!”

“Halima, who can be happier than a man whose heart has not beaten in vain?” He said it in a tone of voice that has vanished forever. Although I didn’t love him, I loved his words, and their fervor warmed me.

—

On the appointed day waves of joy and fear roll over me. I go to the Indian bath, Umm Hany supplies me with a dress, a coat, and a pair of shoes, and I return from the hairdresser with a glorious halo, newly created from hair that had been neglected for a long time. The man looks at me disdainfully. “So you still have that weakness for playing the whore. Why don’t you exploit it—in these illustriously dissolute days?”

I am determined at any cost not to ruffle the serenity of the evening. We go to the theater, where we are received with the respect we deserve. Sirhan al-Hilaly fixes me with an admiring stare.