Shortly before the onset of autumn, my parents were released from jail. A sense of duty, which in my mind always overrides sentiment, led me to welcome them with sympathetic charity, but to see them so broken deepened my depression. I proposed to Sirhan al-Hilaly that they return to their former jobs in the theater; I would make work available for them, freeing myself from the job so as to spend all my time on my art. He agreed, but they absolutely refused, making it clear that they wanted to have nothing more to do with either the theater or its people, none of whom, with the exception of Amm Ahmad Burgal and Umm Hany, had even taken the trouble to visit them.

I was glad. Father now conformed to the picture I had drawn of him in the play. He was still strange, despite his forced withdrawal from opium; we had nothing in common, and I didn’t understand him. But then I don’t lay claim ever to have understood him with any certainty. It was the play that had willed me to present him as the victim of poverty and drugs. I wonder what he’ll say about his role. Will I be able to face him after its performance?

As for Mother, she was still attached to me and still wanted to live with me, but I wanted to be unencumbered, to discover some new place to live on my own, even if it was only one room. If I didn’t feel any love toward her, neither did I harbor any feelings of hate. And she will be dismayed when she sees herself portrayed on the stage and realizes that I was aware of everything she had tried to hide from me. After that, would I be able to look her in the eye? Never!

I would leave them to themselves, but in some security. The idea of the shop—Amm Ahmad Burgal had suggested it—was a good one. I hoped they would make a living, and sincerely repent.

I was face to face with Tariq Ramadan. We’d always exchanged the usual greetings in passing. This time, however, with typical insolence, he actually intruded into my solitude. Tariq is one of those few who have no notion at all of what it is to feel awkward or embarrassed over doing anything at other people’s expense; I’d scolded Umm Hany several times for living with him.

“I came to congratulate you,” he said, “on the play.”

I didn’t believe him. You came, rather, to conduct a cruel inquiry. I tried to be courteous, however, and thanked him.