"But Samara, unfortunately, does not partake," said Ragab.
"Why does she keep on coming, then!" Sana replied scornfully.
Ra'uf whispered a few words in her ear that were unintelligible to anyone else; she only giggled. Then Amm Abduh came in to change the water in the pipe, and when he had gone, Sana said to Ra'uf: "Can you believe that all that great hulk is one man?" And she laughed again, but this time alone. There followed a tense silence that lasted a quarter of an hour. Finally Ra'uf prevailed upon her to leave with him. Taking her by the arm, he stood up. "My apologies," he said. "We must go — we have an urgent appointment. I am very happy to have met you all…"
Ragab accompanied them to the door, and then returned to his seat. They remained gloomy in spite of the water pipe passing from hand to hand. Ragab smiled at Samara to humor her, but she only said, indicating the pipe and alluding to Sana's scornful remark, "Whatever I say, no one believes me."
"It doesn't disgrace you totally to have people say that," said Layla.
"Except when those people are my enemies."
"You have no enemies," said Ragab simply, "except the fossilized remnants of the bourgeoisie."
But she began to talk about the rumors that were spreading among her journalist colleagues, and she mentioned also her former flat in al-Manyal, where her late homecomings had set the neighbors to gossiping. "And when my mother said: "Her job keeps her out late," they said: "Well, what keeps her at her job!"
"But you are living on Kasr el-Aini Street now," said Ragab.
Mustafa tried to arouse Anis; a repeat of yesterday's outburst might disperse the gloom. But Anis did not come out of his own world. He was thinking of the empty cycles that hemmed him in every day; the rising and the setting of sun and moon, going out to and returning from the Ministry, friends gathering and parting, wakefulness and sleep. Those cycles that reminded him of the end and made something into nothing. Fathers and grandfathers had turned in these revolutions, and the earth waited calmly for their hopes and pleasures to fertilize its soil. What does it matter, that passions are consumed by fire, turned to clouds of smoke tainted with the musk of a forbidden and obscure magic…
As for Layla, she tormented herself with a fruitless love, soaring out into the void like a spaceship out of orbit. The god of sex stretches out his leg until his white shoe comes to rest against the brazier, and he stares at this delightful and irksome girl, his gaze smoldering in his compelling black eyes. There was much said on the subject of Sana and her fiancé, but Ragab did not share in it. When the friends noticed his total absorption in Samara, Rashid said: "How fortunate we are, to witness in our age the story of a grand passion."
"Oh, let's call it by its real name," said Khalid.
"Don't spoil the dream for us!" pleaded Ahmad.
"What is new about it," said Layla, "is that one of the parties is a serious person."
"What could be the role of a serious woman in love whose lover is futile?" wondered Khalid.
"Cathartic," Ragab replied. "To purify him of his futility."
"And if his futility were his unchanging essence?"
"Love must be victorious in the end!" said Ragab, and Samara laughed at them all.
Khalid spoke. "I would be interested to see a serious girl in love. A minister tripping up is so much funnier than an acrobat."
"There is no difference between a serious and a frivolous woman when it comes to love," said Ali. "Seriousness is simply a practical concern with public matters in the same way as private ones."
Khalid winked in the direction of Samara. "In which of the two regards," he inquired, "do you think she is concerned now?" At which everybody laughed, and then he continued: "Do you think there is any hope of her becoming interested in general concerns?"
"Her hopes are pinned on the new generation!"
Khalid looked at Ragab. "It appears that the generation of the forties is no longer good for anything but love," he said.
"That is, if it is actually any good at love!"
"The new generation is better than us," said Ahmad.
"Is there no hope for our changing, then?" asked Mustafa.
"We usually change only in plays and films," said Khalid. "And that is our weakness."
"And the strength of the satires which show us our true selves!" said Ali.
"Why don't you ever admit to that in your articles?"
"Because I am a hypocrite," said Ali, "and I was referring anyway to foreign comedies. As for the homegrown versions, they usually end in a sudden character change on the part of the lead in a facile, preachy manner. That's why the third act is usually the weakest in the play; it is usually written for the censors."
Khalid turned to Samara. "If you were thinking of writing a play about people like us, then I would advise you as a fellow writer to choose the comic form. I mean farce or absurdism — they're the same thing."
"That is certainly worth considering," said Samara, continuing to ignore Ragab's gaze.
"Avoid the committed type of hero who does not smile, or speak, except of the higher ideal, who exhorts people to do this or that, who loves sincerely, and sacrifices himself, and pronounces slogans, and finally kills the audience off because he is so insufferable!"
"I will take your advice," Samara said. "I will write instead about those others who kill off the audience because they are so charming!"
"But these also have their artistic problems," Khalid continued. "They live without any beliefs at all, wasting their time in futile pursuits in order to forget that they will soon turn into ashes and bones and nitrogen and water; and at the same time they are worn down by a daily life that forces upon them a certain kind of desperate and — to them — meaningless seriousness. Don't forget, either, that the insane everywhere around us threaten destruction at any moment. People like this do not act, they do not develop; so how can you hope to succeed in constructing a play around them?"
"That's the question!"
"And then there is another problem, which is that any one of them is no different from any other — except in outer appearance. That is, any one of them is not a personality, but is made up from disintegrating elements, like a crumbling building. We can distinguish between one house and another, but how can we tell the difference between two piles of stones, wood, glass, concrete, mortar, dust, paint? They are like modern painting, one canvas just like the next. So how can you justify having several characters on the stage?"
"You are practically telling me to give up writing!"
"Not at all — but I am pointing out that like attracts like. Just as the righteous stick together and the evil find each other, so is the drama of the absurd for the absurdists. Brother Ali here will never take you to task for the lack of plot or character or dialogue. No one will embarrass you with questions about the meaning of this or that. Since there is no foundation to build on, your detractors cannot shake you. Indeed, you will find people who will praise your work, who will say — and rightly — that you have expressed, through a chaotic play, a world whose identity is chaos…"
"But we do not live in a world whose identity is chaos!"
Khalid sighed. "And that is the difference between you and me. You can go back to the loving looks of brother Ragab now."
Nothing here turns with certainty, sure of its goal; nothing save the pipe. Before long, lethargy will descend from its enchanted abode among the stars and tongues will be stilled. The new passion will likely bear fruit before the night is out in the form of a kiss beneath the guava tree. And before that, the earth has turned for millions and millions of years to result in this night party on the surface of the Nile. The moon disappeared from view, but he could see the gecko above the balcony door. It ran, and then stopped, and then ran again. It seemed as if it was looking for something. "Why is there movement?" he asked.