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for failure, and for poetry.
    Still sleeping, she rolled over on her face. Her nightgown slid up, exposing the naked lower half of her body. He slipped from the bed and went out to the balcony, shutting the door behind him. Enveloped by the murky air, he watched the waves racing madly toward the shore and the spray flying against the cabanas. Flocks of clouds had spread across the pale dome of the sky, fogging up the early-morning weather. No feet yet walked the ground. Your spirit was unreceptive and the air did not refresh you. How long will you wait for deliverance? If only he could ask Mustapha about the meaning of the contradictions.He’s a great resource of ideas, even if he only sells popcorn and pumpkin seeds now. Does Zeinab have a role only after work? One of the waves rose to an extraordinary height, shattered in tons of foam, then spread out defeated, giving up the ghost.
    Dear God, Zeinab and work are the same. This malady which turns me from work is what turns me from Zeinab, for she is the hidden force, she is its symbol. She is wealth, success, and finally illness. And because I’m sick of these things, I’m disgusted with myself, or rather because I’m disgusted with myself, all else sickens me. But who does Zeinab have apart from me? Last night was a bitter experience. Love shrank and withered, and all that remained was a quickening of the pulse, a rise in blood pressure, and stomach contractions chasing each other in a horrible loneliness; the loneliness of the wave absorbed by the sand, which never returns to the sea. She sings songs of love, while I’m mute; she’s the pursuer while I’m the fugitive; she loves while I hate; she’s pregnant while I’m sterile; she’s sensitive, perspicacious while I’m stupid. She said you’re unusually quiet. I said it’s simply that my voice is unheard. I said, “Suppose you win the property settlement today and tomorrow the government confiscates the land?” to which he replied, “Don’t we live our lives knowing that our fate rests with God?” Even in alienation, the wave rises insanely, shatters in foam, then gives up the ghost. The grave of sleep swallows you, but still you don’t rest, your brain still chases phantoms. You even consider seeing the doctor again, admitting that you’ve changed unaccountably. What do I want, what am I after? Knowledge has no importance, neither have the legal affairs of my clients, the addition of a few hundred pounds to my account, the blessings of a happy home, and the reading ofthe daily headlines. So why not take a trip in space? Ride the light waves, for their speed is fixed, the only fixed thing in the constantly changing, insanely reeling universe.
    The first spacemen have arrived, selling microbes, selling lies.
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    * Kamelia converted to Islam and changed her name to that of the Prophet Mohammed’s daughter, Zeinab. By marrying Omar, she also cut herself off from her family.

           
SIX
    A t the end of August, the family returned to Cairo. The view of Al-Azhar Square on his way to work the first day was upsetting. It remained a depressing thoroughfare, unchanged since his departure. He was warmly welcomed at the office, especially by Mahmoud Fahmi, his assistant, and the files were soon brought out, the postponed cases and those under review. September had its sticky days, but a gentle breeze had arisen and the early mornings were shaded by the suggestions of white clouds. Mustapha embraced him at length. They stood face to face, Omar towering above his friend, whose bald head, tilted back, was spotlighted by the silver lamp.
    He said, sitting on the leather couch before the desk, “You’re as slender as a gazelle. Bravo.”
    He took out a cigarette from the box—a wooden box ornamented with mother-of-pearl which played a tune when opened—lit it, then continued. “I often thought of visiting you in Alexandria, but family obligations calledme to Ras el Bar. Apart from that, I was