Read The Beggar, the Thief and the Dogs, Autumn Quail for Free Online

God?’ I had to admit the validity of his argument, but my head began to spin and everything seemed to disappear.”
    She glanced at him with surprise, and said, “That was the reason?”
    “No, I don’t know an exact reason, but I was undergoing a subtle, persistent change; thus I was agitated unreasonably by the man’s words, words repeated by millions of others every day without any effect.”
    “Of course you can only think about death as men of wisdom do.”
    “I wonder how wise men regard death.”
    “Well, fortunately, that’s known.” She looked at him inquiringly. “And after that you hated work.”
    “No…no, I can’t say that. It may have been earlier, or later.”
    “I’m so depressed that I can hardly discuss it with you.”
    “Are you so concerned about the work?”
    “I care only about you.”
    A case is postponed, another, then a third. You spend the day glued to your chair, legs stretched under the desk, chain smoking and staring vacantly at the ceiling.
    “I’m tired of walking,” she said.
    “But generally you walk twice this distance.”
    She lowered her eyes. “It’s my turn to confess. I may be pregnant.”
    His stomach sank and he yearned more sharply for the magic key of escape. “But,” he murmured.
    She said calmly, “Dear, God’s will is stronger than any of our designs.” Then she added, pressing his arm, “And you’ve not been blessed with your crown prince!”
    As they walked back home, a coquettish smile played inher eyes. He said to himself that a bit of liquor would dissipate the languor so he could feign the role of lover, as he feigned marriage and health.
    He woke up early, after a few hours of sleep, to the thudding of the waves in the dark, silent morning. Zeinab was sound asleep, satiated, her lips parted in a soft, steady snore and her hair disheveled. And you despair. It’s as though you were doomed to thwart yourself. I don’t love her anymore. After long years of love, shared life, and loyal memories, not a grain of love remains. Pray that it’s just a symptom of the disease which will disappear with recovery, but now I don’t love her. This is the most bitter disillusionment. You hear her snoring and feel no sympathy or tenderness. You look at her and only wonder what brought you together, who imposed this damned parody.
    “Mustapha, there’s the girl.”
    “The one leaving the church?”
    “That’s the one. She’s wearing black in mourning for her uncle. How pretty she is.”
    “But her religion.”
    “I no longer care about those obstacles.”
    I told her how pleased I was that she’d condescended to meet me. In the public garden, Omar al-Hamzawi, the lawyer, had introduced himself, while she responded with a barely audible murmur, “Kamelia Fouad.” Dearest, our love is stronger than all else. Nothing can stand in our way. She answered with a sigh, “I don’t know.”
    Mustapha laughed at all the commotion, saying, “I’ve known you forever, and you’ve always sought trouble. A tempest at your house, a more violent one at hers. I’m spinning between the two.”
    Then what a marvelous attitude he’d had later when,raising his glass of whiskey, he’d said, “Congratulations to both of you. The past is buried, but she’s sacrificed much more than you. Beliefs are apt to tyrannize even those who’ve deserted them. To your health, Zeinab. To yours, Omar.” *
    He took you aside and, completely drunk, began to expostulate. “Don’t forget the bad times ahead, but never forget love. Remember that she has no other family in the world now. She’s been cut from the tree, and has no one but you.”
    I married a woman of great vitality and charm, a model student of the nuns, refined to the letter. She seemed to be a born businesswoman, with an unflagging zeal for work and a shrewd eye for investment. In her era, you rose from nothing to great eminence and wealth, and in the warmth of her love, you found consolation for wasted effort,