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“I only have one thing against her. She’s simply too ugly.”

“What do I care about her ugliness? Her beauty wouldn’t matter to me either. You forget, my son, that I am blind.”

This reminder of the obvious plunged Ossama into a bitter reverie. He did have moments of forgetfulness about his father’s infirmity, but to have imagined that Moaz could care whether his maid’s features were charming or repulsive was cause for alarm. He sought to make up for his blunder by getting to the point of his visit without further delay.

“Forgive me, Father, for not having come sooner. I was swamped with work. Even today I had to talk for hours with a real estate developer, a man of national importance and a very tough negotiator, regarding a large cement order. I managed to close the deal, and so I brought you a little money.”

Ossama pulled out the crocodile-skin wallet he had stolen from the developer and removed a few ten-pound notes that he placed on his father’s lap with some embarrassment, as if his father could divine their origin. Sometimes Ossama had the feeling that the blind man was not fooled by his social success and for a few seconds he scrutinized his father’s face, believing he might glimpse a smile of complicity on it. But the austere face, ennobled by hardship, revealed no sign of connivance. Reassured, and having carried out his filial duty, all that remained for him to do was to convince the old man to leave this house of certain death before it was too late. This subject of conversation, which he took up again each time he visited, at least had — at the prospect of an impending move — the advantage of alleviating his fears. It was becoming more and more agonizing for him to venture into this trap with its rotted framework and crumbling stones ready to swallow him up at the slightest tremor.

“I need to speak with you, Father.”

“I’m listening, my son. Do you have problems?”

“Yes, big problems. I’m worried about your safety. You must leave this place immediately. It could collapse at any moment merely from an overladen cart passing by or a hag nagging her offspring in a loud voice. I beg you to trust me.”

Old Moaz raised his hand as if to hold up the building and prevent imminent catastrophe.

“We are in the hands of Allah, my son. We can do nothing against his will. If this house must collapse one day, it will do so solely as he decides. As for me, I’ve told you, I don’t want to leave this neighborhood. I will live here until the end. I don’t want to die in foreign lands.”

“Who’s talking about foreign lands? I’m merely offering to move you to a building liable to resist collapse for a few more years. There are still a few, even in this neighborhood. I’ll take care of the whole move. That way I won’t have to worry about you while I’m dealing with important national affairs. Do you want to harm the country with your stubbornness?”

“If I am harming the country, may the country forgive me. But do not trouble yourself with me. I am at the end of my life and I don’t care how I die. In fact, I have a favor to ask you. I’d like you to buy me a few chairs, maybe a dozen. Be kind enough to remember. There is no hurry, but it’s better to take care of it ahead of time. I’m counting on you; you are a good son.”

Ossama remained stunned for a few moments, wondering if his father were simply rambling, or if he were planning on giving a party to celebrate the anniversary of the revolution. He didn’t dare to ask, for fear of hearing him confess to a project of this kind. The building would definitely not last long if it were assailed by a swarm of guests. But what guests? His father was only in contact with Zakiya. Could it be that she had achieved her aim — that the old man was thinking of acquiring lavish furnishings for his wedding?

The idea so alarmed Ossama that he cried out as if in a nightmare:

“Chairs! What do you need a dozen chairs for?”

“I’m thinking of the people who will come to my funeral. They should not have to stand. That would not be proper.”

“What people, Father! Do you know many people?”

“There would be my old friends from the factory. I’m sure they have not forgotten that I received the blow that blinded me when we fought together. And perhaps the revolutionary government will send one of its ministers. He can use this armchair that you gave me; it will be free when I die. He will be able to sit in it without feeling out of place. You see, I’ve thought of everything — my funeral will take place with decency and dignity.”

Ossama almost burst out laughing as he imagined a member of the government sitting in this red velvet gilded armchair as if he were in his office. At the same time, he was filled with compassion for the blind man’s ignorance and he repressed his gaiety. So, after all these years, old Moaz still believed his former factory friends remembered his bravery during the riot and that the government considered him a martyr of the royalist repression. Such belief in man’s good nature deserved the deference due to a creature that had gone insane.

“Of course. The government certainly owes you at least a medal for your outstanding attitude under the monarchy. I will speak to one of my high-ranking friends in the administration. A medal costs them nothing and will finally wash away their shame at having ignored you for so long.”

Ossama resolved to buy his father a medal himself, but the blind man shook his head and his usually calm face became tense as if he found such honors exceedingly abhorrent.

“I don’t want a medal. I thank Allah for having given me a son like you. If I am respected in the neighborhood, it’s because of your success. And if the government were to give a medal to someone, it would be to you, my son. I will die happy knowing that the revolutionary government sets great store by your talents.”

A medal from the government in recognition of Ossama’s talents was a sublime idea — the height of mockery. Granted, all the governments in the world were generous when it came to distributing honorary distinctions to worthy people who supported their power, but it was highly unlikely that they’d ever think of offering one of these trinkets to a modest thief on the fringes of society. In any event, the fact that he was excluded from governmental favors did not prevent Ossama from congratulating himself each time he reduced the ill-gotten gains of one of those vultures, decorated or not, by means of his skill as a pickpocket. He remained quiet for a moment, gloating on the inside, still under the influence of this comical and enjoyable conversation with his father. Moaz attributed Ossama’s silence to the pain his son was feeling because of his refusal to move from a building that unquestionably showed the marks of time (but that was certain to endure thanks to the faith of its inhabitants). Like a wise man trusting in providence, he said:

“This house, my son, was built more than a hundred years ago. Why would it collapse now? Most of the buildings in the neighborhood are even older. And then, there are other tenants who have nowhere else to take shelter. Shall I be the only one to flee the disaster? If the heavens so ordain, I will share the fate of my neighbors.”

Ossama knew his father was merciful toward his fellow man, but his intention of sacrificing himself with the rest of the tenants went beyond simple pity; it was evidence of a mysterious arrogance, a final provocation in the face of injustice. The young man was as unnerved by this as he would have been by the

appearance of a precious, naked woman in a desert. So old Moaz had not lost everything! In his perpetual night, he was holding fast to the sole luxury the poor possess — that same dignity that had led him to fight against oppression. Unfortunately, this pride, buried like a treasure beneath the good-natured features of an old man at the end of his life, would no longer serve any purpose other than to brave a natural disaster inscribed since the dawn of time on the walls of a dilapidated building. All of this was quite touching, but Ossama found nothing appealing in this kind of collective, democratic suicide. Having stayed the time required by decency, he was getting ready to leave when suddenly there were frighteningly loud knocks at the door. They echoed in Ossama’s ears like portentous creakings, a prelude to the place’s collapse. He jumped from his chair in a fright, wanting to dash down into the street with his father, when Zakiya’s entrance stopped him in his tracks. Zakiya, who had not been afraid of demolishing the door to announce her arrival, was in her forties and enormous; her distressing ugliness brought to mind the faces of the damned being consumed by hellfire. The crudeness of her manners and her mania for manhandling objects that had the impudence to get in her way made her the ideal accomplice to the danger hanging over the building. With a single, too-violent gesture she could take down a fort. Needless to say, her presence in the room did not bode well for Ossama’s safety and it reinforced his desire to get out as fast as possible of a place that had suddenly become catastrophic.