She’s the same age as I am, damnit, and doesn’t have the sense to feel grateful. She watched Tahiya die, and couldn’t see that she’d been murdered, leaving me to play the role of the forsaken lover night after night, to cry again and again—in front of her coffin, because she died without remorse, without even thinking about me, without knowing herself that she’d been murdered, killed by that idealist who commits suicide in the play, and should be hanged in real life.

This crime is creating an author and an actor in one stroke.

“Isn’t Tahiya coming?”

“No.”

“I didn’t see her at the theater.”

“She’s not going to the theater.”

“What do you mean, Abbas?”

“Mr. Tariq—excuse me—Tahiya isn’t coming here and she’s not going to the theater.”

“How do you know all this?”

“Pardon me, but we’re going to be married.”

“What?!”

“We’ve decided to get married.”

“You son of a bitch. Are you crazy? What are you saying?”

“Be reasonable. We wanted to be nice to you, to treat you with respect. Allow me….”

I slapped his face and all of a sudden he became a tiger, snarling with hatred. He punched me—a powerful young man despite his clouded left eye—and my head swam.

Karam Younis and Halima came up yelling, “What happened?”

“It’s ludicrous!” I shouted. “A joke! Mama’s boy is going to marry Tahiya!”

“Is that so?” said Karam in the dim voice of an addict still on a high, remote and uninvolved.

“Tahiya!” Halima exploded at her son. “What kind of lunacy is this? She’s ten years older than you?”

Abbas said nothing.

“Kids’ games!” I shouted. “I’ll find a way to stop this!”

“Don’t make matters worse!” Halima screamed.

“I’ll bring destruction on this house and everyone in it!” I shouted.

“Take your clothes,” she told me coolly, “and get out.”

“You can stay here and rot!” I shouted, storming out of the house.

—