“You’re nothing but a criminal yourself. And it’s only a play.”

“It’s the truth.”

“You’re a spiteful lunatic! My son may be stupid, but he’s neither an informer nor a murderer.”

“He’s an informer and a murderer, and not at all stupid.”

“That’s what you want to believe.”

“Tahiya’s murderer must be brought to justice!”

“The same old spite. How did you treat Tahiya when she was with you? Did you treat her right?”

“I loved her, that’s enough.”

“Yes, the love of a layabout.”

“I’m a better man than your husband or your son!” I shout.

“Just what do you want?” Karam growls, his voice harsh with loathing.

“A piaster’s worth of melon seeds!”

“Go to hell!”

As I wade back through a swarm of children and women, my thoughts are fixed on the play. I am certain that Abbas has not revealed the plot of his play to his parents, which in itself is a proof of his guilt. But why should he divulge such a dark secret when nobody dreamt of suspecting it? Yearning for success at any price? Will he be rewarded with fame, I wonder, rather than the gallows? “Tariq! What can I say? It’s fate. And luck!” At the corner where the road meets Sharia al-Gaysh, I turn to the left in the direction of al-Ataba, walking toward the apartment building down a street that over the years has become shadowy, pockmarked, and constricted.

Tahiya, you got what was coming to you. If the man who killed you is the one you left me for, that’s justice. Soon it’ll be so crowded that people will start eating each other. If it weren’t for Umm Hany, I’d be a derelict. The height of your glory, Abbas, will be the hangman’s noose. And what about me? The only distinction I have is virility. My failure is otherwise indelible. Is there any meaning in the life of a third-rate actor?

—

Lust was my teacher in the good old days and it was lust that educated me in the sweet talk of a perfect man-about-town. Our affair was born backstage: I got Tahiya’s first kiss while the others were onstage plotting the death of Rasputin.

“Tahiya, you deserve to be a star, not a second-rate actor like me.”

“Do you really think so? You’re exaggerating, Mr. Tariq.”

“Not at all. It’s the voice of experience.”

“Or the eye of approval?”

“Even love doesn’t color my judgment.”

“Love!”

We’d been walking after midnight along Sharia Galal, oblivious to the biting cold, intoxicated by the warmth of our dreams. “Of course,” I answered. “Shall we take this taxi?”

“It’s time for me to go home.”

“Alone?”

“There’s no one else in my little flat.”

“Where do you live?”

“Sharia al Gaysh.”