At dawn, the father left his room and headed for the garden. Adham was watching at the end of the hall, and Umaima was behind him, her hand on his shoulder in the dark. They followed the heavy, even sound of his footfalls but could not make out their direction in the dark; it was Gabalawi’s habit to take a walk at this hour without a light or any company. When the footsteps died away, Adham turned to his wife.
“Maybe we should go back,” he whispered.
She pushed him and whispered back in his ear, “Look, you’re not doing anything wrong.”
He moved forward with cautious steps with excruciating ambivalence, one hand closed over the small candle in his pocket while he felt along the wall with the other, until he felt the doorjamb.
“I’ll stay here and keep a lookout. Go in, and be careful!”
She reached out and pushed the door open, then withdrew. Adham edged warily toward the room and caught the penetrating odor of musk. He closed the door behind him and stood staring into the darkness until he made out the row of windows looking out onto the wasteland and beginning to show the light of daybreak. Adham felt as though the crime—if it was a crime—had taken place with his entering the room, and that he must complete the deed. He moved along the left wall, occasionally bumping into chairs, and passed by the door of the little room, until he reached the end. He followed the middle wall, and almost immediately came upon the table. He pulled open the drawer and felt inside it until he found the box. He paused to compose himself. He then went back to the door, found the keyhole, slipped the key inside and turned it. The door opened, and now he was slinking into the little room no one except his father had ever entered before. He closed the door, took out his candle and lit it: he was in a square, high-ceilinged room with no opening but the door. A small carpet was laid on the floor, and against the right wall was an elegant table with the huge book on it, chained to the wall. Adham’s throat was dry and he swallowed painfully, as if his tonsils were inflamed. He grit his teeth as if to squeeze the fear out of his quaking limbs. With the candle in his hand, he approached the table and studied the volume’s cover, ornamented with gold-leafed script, then put his hand out and opened it. Only with difficulty could he control himself and concentrate his mind. He read, in slanted Persian-style script, the formula “In the name of God.”
He heard the door open suddenly. He jerked his head toward the sound involuntarily, almost as if the opening door had controlled his head. He saw Gabalawi in the light of the candle, his large body filling the doorframe, aiming a cold, harsh stare at him. Frozen into silence, Adham gazed into his father’s eyes. He could not speak, move or even think.
“Get out,” Gabalawi ordered him.
But Adham could not budge. He stood like a mere object, though no object can feel despair.
“Get out!” screeched Gabalawi.
His terror spurred him awake and he moved. Gabalawi moved out of the doorway, and Adham left the room, the candle still burning in his hand. He saw Umaima standing silently in the middle of the room, tears streaming from her eyes. His father motioned him to stand beside his wife, and he did; then he spoke sternly: “I want you to give me truthful answers.”
Adham’s features expressed his obedience wordlessly.
“Who told you about the book?” asked the man.
“Idris,” said Adham, like a broken vessel that instantly spills its contents.
“When?”
“Yesterday morning.”
“How did you meet?”
“He sneaked in with the new tenants and waited until he could be alone with me.”
“Why didn’t you kick him out?”
“It would have hurt me to, Father.”
“Don’t call me Father,” snapped Gabalawi.
“You are my father,” replied Adham, gathering all his courage, “in spite of your anger and my foolishness.”
“Did he tempt you to that deed?”
“Yes, sir,” answered Umaima, although the question had not been directed to her.
“Be quiet, vermin.” Gabalawi turned back to Adham. “Answer me!”
“He was desperate and depressed and remorseful, and was only concerned for the future of his children!”
“So you did this for him!”
“No—I told him I couldn’t.”
“What made you change your mind?”
Adham sighed despairingly. “Satan!” he muttered.
“Did you tell your wife what went on between you and him?” asked Gabalawi suggestively.
Now Umaima began sobbing. Gabalawi told her to be quiet, and directed Adham, with a movement of his finger, to answer.
“Yes.”
“What did she say to you?”
Adham was silent. He swallowed.
“Answer me, you scum!”
“I saw that she was eager to know what was in the will, and didn’t think that would hurt anybody.”
Gabalawi glared at him contemptuously. “So you admit betraying someone who favored you above others better than you.”
“I’m not trying to excuse what I did,” Adham virtually wailed, “but your forgiveness is greater than any sin or excuse.”
“You conspired against me with Idris after I kicked him out of here as a favor to you?”
“I have not conspired with Idris, I made a mistake, and my only hope is in your forgiveness.”
“Sir—” cried Umaima plaintively.
“Quiet, vermin,” Gabalawi interrupted. He frowned at each of them in turn, and spoke in a terrible voice: “Get out of this house.”
“Father!” begged Adham.
“Get out,” said the man harshly, “before you are thrown out.”