“How is it that I don’t see the playwright?” I say.

“He hasn’t come, but I’ve told you enough about it.”

My first hopes are shattered; and the internal radiance I’d been building up all day through a sense of renewed youth is extinguished. We go to see Amm Ahmad, who gives us tea and a sandwich as he always did. “It’s like the old days,” he remarks, laughing.

—

What are you talking about, Amm Ahmad? I wish it had never been. Even the one comforting result of it is absent. This place sets my nerves on edge and intensifies my sadness. At the proper time, though, we enter the theater and I am suddenly delighted to find it packed. “It’s a success!”

I don’t listen to his replies. The curtain is being raised on the old house. Events unfold one after another, and my agonies come to life before my eyes; now nothing is left of them except the memory of heaving sighs. Once more I find myself in hell. I condemn myself more than I ever have before. That’s when I should have left him, I say to myself, that’s when I should have refused. I am no longer the victim I thought I was.

But what is all this new damnation, this flood of crimes that nobody was aware of, this strange way I am being portrayed. Is it what he really thinks of me? What is this, son? You misunderstand your mother more than your father does and are even more unjust. Did I object to your marrying Tahiya out of jealousy and selfishness? What jealousy, what selfishness! No, no. This is hell itself. You almost make your father my victim. He was never the victim of anything except his mother. Do you see me as a prostitute, a madam? Do you think I’m the pimp who drove your wife to the tourist, greedy for his money? Is this a fantasy or is it hell? You are killing me, Abbas. You have made me the villain of your play. And the people are clapping—they’re clapping!

The life has been knocked out of me. We’re invited to the party in the cafeteria. “Shall we join them or leave?” the man asks. Feeling that he is trying to provoke and ridicule me, I challenge back: “Why shouldn’t we join the party?”

But in spirit I cannot. I’m in a burning stupor; my head resounds with brawling voices as strange faces undulate before my eyes, shouting and laughing for no apparent reason. My head is going to burst. The end of the world is approaching. Let the day of judgment come. I’ll never obtain a fair judgment except before God. You murdered and betrayed and committed suicide! When will I see you? Will I ever see you again?