The Beggar, the Thief and the Dogs, Autumn Quail by Naguib Mahfouz

have you never come?”
    “I couldn’t.”
    “Did anyone prevent you?”
    “No, but I was so sad.”
    “Was your sadness greater than our love?”
    She said bitterly, “You never once came to see us.”
    “That wasn’t possible. But you should have come when I repeated the invitation so often. Your refusal only made matters worse.”
    She tried to steel herself against the tears that were threatening. “Grief prevented me.”
    “That’s too bad. Passivity is a trait I don’t like, and I needed you after I’d left.” Then he smiled to ease the tension of the situation, and said, “Enough. There’s no time for reprimands now.” He patted her shoulder and asked, “How’s the poetry?”
    She smiled freely for the first time.
    He said enthusiastically, “You know we may be closer to each other today than we’ve ever been before.”
    “What do you mean?”
    “It seems we’re both drawn to the same source.”
    She turned her green eyes to him, seeking clarification.
    “I’ve been reading poetry again and have been trying my hand at it.”
    “Really?”
    “Abortive attempts.”
    “Why is that?”
    “I don’t know. Maybe the dust is too thick to be shaken off at once. Maybe the crisis resists poetry.”
    “The crisis?”
    “I mean my illness.”
    She smiled, looking at the ground.
    “Don’t you believe me?”
    “I always believe you.”
    Her words cut him, but he said, “You must believe me, in spite of that one lie. It was a necessary lie, but it will never be repeated. My illness is real.”
    “You haven’t yet discovered what it is?”
    He thought a moment, then said, “Suffering—the only cure is patience.”
    She said compassionately, “Which you don’t find with us?”
    He stated quietly, “I’m living alone.”
    She looked at him with astonishment.
    “Alone, believe me.”
    “But…”
    “Alone now.”
    She responded with an urgency which gratified him. “Why haven’t you come back, Papa?”
    He kissed her flushed cheek. “Maybe it’s best to remain this way.”
    “No.” She held his hand and repeated, “No.”
    Aliyyat returned to tell him he could see Zeinab. As he entered the room, he saw her lying in bed covered from the neck down with a white sheet. Her face was very pale, drained of vitality, and her eyes were half closed. He felt sympathy, respect, and a certain regret. Here she is, able to create, while all his efforts have failed. He murmured in embarrassment, “Thank God, it all went well.”
    She smiled faintly.
    “Congratulations. You’ve produced a crown prince.”
    He sat there, feeling awkward, until rescued by the arrival of Aliyyat and Buthayna. Aliyyat helped relieve the tension with her jokes and anecdotes, and after a while the baby was wheeled in on his cot. They uncovered his face, a red ball of flesh with rubbery features. It was hard to believe it would ever fall into shape, let alone an acceptable one. But he was reassured by his previous experiences of fatherhood—indeed, the subject of one of them was leaning over the cot right now, her green eyes peering at the baby with amazement and tenderness. He felt nothing in particular toward the baby but knew that he would grow to love him as he should. The child’s neutral, rather startled look was enough for the moment. If you’d been able to express yourself, I would have asked you about your feelings, and your memories of the world from which you’ve just come.
    “Have you chosen a name for him?” asked Aliyyat.
    “Samir,” Buthayna answered.
    Samir, the companion and entertainer. May his name protect him from grief.
    Aliyyat said pointedly, “Let’s hope his upbringing will be in the hands of both parents.”
    He’d glided along the brink of creation, yet there was no intimation of change. He felt as alienated as ever. The newborn child had not bridged the gap between Zeinab and himself. He began wondering how long he’d have to sit there, the object of their glances and curiosity.
    As