Like the coming of night, a vague change crept over them. Their silence wasn’t the same silence, their talk wasn’t the same, Father wasn’t the same, nor was Mother. Our household had not been by any means without its minor differences or petty bickerings, but in general our life together had flowed along quite congenially. What, then, was the dark mystery that had slipped in between them? Her radiance had vanished; and he, who had always been an extrovert, laughing boisterously, making fun of everything and treating everyone amiably, had now become withdrawn. My mother’s attachment to me—though still full of the same old tenderness—was tinged with a kind of grief which she could not succeed in hiding, while Father neglected me completely. An anxious dread of something unpleasant and unknown penetrated my soul.

At teatime one day, before they left, I heard Tariq advising them “not to give in to the devil.”

“There is no devil except you,” Mother answered bitterly.

“I’m not an adolescent,” protested Father.

In deference to my presence, I surmised, Mother said nothing more. After they left the house I was struck with a sense of sadness and loss.

It was painfully clear that something had happened. I asked Mother about it, but she evaded the question, pretending nothing was wrong. When she and Father were alone in the hall I would hear them arguing fiercely. I would cower behind the open door listening.

“There’s still a chance to be cured.”

“Keep out of my private affairs!”

“But what you’re doing reflects on us. Don’t you realize that?”

“I hate being preached at.”

“Opium killed my aunt’s husband.”

“Which proves that it has its uses.”

“Your whole personality has changed. You’re unbearable!”

I was seized by fear. I knew what opium was. I had learned about it watching a play, The Victims, from which the scenes depicting those doomed addicts had haunted me. Was Father to become one of them? Was my beloved father headed for ruin?

Before Father and Tariq returned I found myself alone with Mother. I gazed at her sadly.

“What’s the matter, Abbas?”

“I know all about it.” My voice was trembling. “It’s something dangerous. I haven’t forgotten The Victims.”

“How did you learn about it? No, son. It’s not quite as you imagine.”

Father arrived at this point, upset, revealing that he had heard me. “Mind your own business, boy!” he yelled.

“I’m afraid for you,” I said.

He shouted, in a voice more terrifying than I’d ever heard before, “Shut up, or I’ll bash your head in!”