Hanash gripped Arafa’s hand in farewell; his brother was in the deepest part of the pit. Arafa stretched out on his face and began to crawl through the passage, fragrant with the smell of earth, and kept crawling until his head emerged from the ground in the garden of the mansion. His nose was greeted by a wondrous fragrance like the essence of all the essences of rose, jasmine and henna, mingled with the dew of dawn; the fragrance intoxicated him despite his overwhelming sensation of fear. Here he was, smelling the garden for which Adham had died pining. All he could see of it was sheer darkness under the wakeful stars. It lay in dreadful silence, except for the intermittent whisper of the leaves in the breeze. Finding the ground fresh and damp, he reminded himself to remove his sandals when he stole into the house, so as to leave no mark upon the floor. Where did the gatekeeper, the gardener and all the rest of the servants sleep? He crept on all fours, being very careful not to make any sound that might reach the building whose bulk and outline seemed mountainous in the shadows. Making his way toward the house, he felt an alarm he had never known in his life, though he was used to going out in darkness, and spending the night in the desert and in ruins. He continued to crawl along the wall until his hand touched the first step that led up to the terrace, if the poets could be believed. This was where Gabalawi had pushed Idris out, and expelled him. That was Idris’ fate, his punishment for defying his father’s orders. What would Gabalawi do to someone who stormed his house to steal the secret of his power? But, slow; no one could possibly expect that a thief could gain entry to the house that had been secure and impregnable throughout time. He crawled around the parapet, then started to mount the steps on his hands and knees, up to the level of the terrace. He took off his sandals and clamped them under his arm, then crawled to the side door that the poets said led to the sleeping chamber. Suddenly he heard a cough—a cough from the garden. He remained below the door, but looked into the garden, where he saw a figure coming toward the terrace. He held his breath, under the impression that the beating of his heart could be heard reverberating. The figure came closer, and began to climb the steps; perhaps it was Gabalawi himself. Perhaps he would catch Arafa committing his crime, just as he had done with Adham long ago, and at almost the same time of day. The figure reached the level of the terrace just a couple of arm lengths from where he hid, but went to the other side of the terrace and lay on something that looked like a bed. His tension eased, leaving in its place a feeling of powerlessness. Perhaps the figure was only a servant who had answered the call of nature and then gone back to sleep; now his snores could be heard. Arafa regained something of his daring, and raised his hand to feel for the doorknob. He found it and turned it gently, then pushed the door tentatively, and it opened wide enough for him to creep through; then he reclosed it behind him. He found himself in pitch-blackness, so he kept one arm out in front of him to feel for the first steps, which he mounted as lightly as the wind. He came out into a long hall, lit by a lamp set in the opening of a wall, which curved inward to the right, and to the left it ran the length of the house. In the center was the closed door to the sleeping chamber. This turn was where Umaima had stood, and Adham had proceeded from where he stood; and here he was, going for the same thing. His chest constricted with growing terror, and he called on his will and daring. It would be ridiculous to turn back. A servant might appear at any moment, and he might be awakened from his madness by a hand seizing him by the shoulder. He must hurry. He proceeded on tiptoe toward the door and twisted the gleaming knob; it turned with his hand. He pushed the door and it opened slowly. He slipped in, closing it behind him. He rested his back against the door in the dark, through which he could see nothing, breathing warily, as if conserving his breath, and trying vainly to see. After a moment he smelled the sweet aroma of incense, which for no reason filled his heart with unease and strange sorrow. He no longer doubted that he was in Gabalawi’s sleeping chamber. When would he grow accustomed to the darkness? How could he collect his scattered nerves? Who had stood, long ago, where he was standing now? Why did he feel that he was going to collapse completely unless he recovered all of his strength, resolution and daring? Every movement that was not precisely and carefully made threatened him with death. He recalled the clouds, how they moved along in their course that randomly drew them into strange shapes: a mountain as easily as a tomb. He touched the wall with his fingertips and used it as a guide, moving parallel with it, bent over, until a chair bumped against his shoulder. A sudden movement in the far corner of the room froze his blood; he stayed behind the chair, watching the door through which he had entered. He heard light footfalls, and the rustle of clothing. He expected light to shine into the shadows; to see Gabalawi standing before him. He would fall beseechingly at his feet, and tell him, “I am your grandson. I have no father, and no bad intentions. Do whatever you want with me.” Despite the dark, he saw a figure moving toward the door, and saw the door open slowly, and the light of the outer hall filtering in behind it. The figure went out, leaving the door ajar, and turned to the right. He saw from the light of the outside lamp that it was an old black woman with an unforgettably long, thin face. Was she a servant? Was it possible that this room was in the servants’ wing? He looked over from the chair to the rest of the room, to see it in the dim light coming in through the door, and made out the shapes of chairs and sofas. It showed him, in the center of the room, the outline of a huge bed with high bedposts and mosquito netting. At the foot of this bed was another, small one; perhaps this was the one the servant had been leaving. This magnificent bed could only be Gabalawi’s. He was sleeping there now, unaware of this crime. How he wanted to see him, even from a distance; if only it were not for the partly open door that warned of the woman’s return. He looked to his left and saw the door of the little chamber, locked to contain its terrible secret. This was how Adham, may he rest in peace, had seen it long ago. He crawled behind the chairs, forgetting Gabalawi himself, until he had reached the spot in front of the small door. He could not fight the temptation, and raised his hand until his finger entered the keyhole. He pushed down to open the mechanism and pull it toward him, and it yielded. He quickly pushed it back, his heart trembling with fear and a feeling of victory. The dim light disappeared, and once again the room was sunk in darkness. Again he heard the light footsteps and the squeak of the bed as she lay down on it; then there was silence. He waited patiently for the old woman to fall asleep, straining his eyes to study the big bed, but he could see nothing. He was persuaded that it would be insanity to try to communicate with his ancestor, since before that could happen the old woman would awaken and fill the air with her shrieks, and that would be that. He would be content with the perilous book, with its terms of the estate and magic spells his ancestor had used to control the vast void, and the people, in the earliest times. No one before Arafa had ever imagined the book was a book of magic, because no one before him had ever practiced magic. He put his hand up again and stuck his finger in, then pulled the door open and crawled in. He closed it behind him and stood up warily, breathing deeply to relieve his exhausted nerves. Why had Gabalawi begrudged his children the secret of his book? Even the most loved of them all, Adham! There was a secret, no doubt about that, and it would be discovered within seconds, as soon as he lit a candle. Long ago Adham had lit a candle, and here he was, fatherless, lighting one again in the same spot. The poets would sing about this forever. He lit the candle, and saw two eyes looking at him. Despite his confusion, he saw that the eyes were those of an old black man who was lying on a bed facing the inside of the room. And despite his confusion and his terror, he saw that the old man was struggling out of the dreamland between sleep and consciousness; perhaps the sound made by striking the match had stirred him. Involuntarily, unfeelingly, he pounced at him and seized his neck in his right hand, squeezing with all his might. The old man made a violent movement, grabbed his hand and kicked him in the stomach, but Arafa only redoubled the pressure on his neck. The candle fell from his left hand and went out; the room was in darkness. The old man made a final desperate motion in the dark, then was still, though Arafa’s frenzied hand did not let up until his fingers felt weak. He then retreated, panting, until his back met the door. The seconds passed. He was in a hell of torment and silence, feeling his strength leave him, feeling that time was heavier than sin. He would fall on the floor or on the corpse of his victim if he did not pull himself together. Escape called him, a power that he could not fight, but how could he step over the body to get the ancient book, the ill-omened book? He did not have the courage to light another match; blindness was preferable. His forearms ached, possibly from the marks of the old man’s fingernails, in his futile struggle. His body trembled at the thought. Adham’s crime was disobedience; his was murder. He had murdered a man he did not know, and there was no known reason for him to have done it. He had come in search of a power with which to combat the criminals, and, unknowingly, became a criminal. He turned his head in the darkness to face the corner where he thought the book was hung. He pushed the door and slipped in, closing it behind him, and crawled along the wall to the door. He hesitated behind the last chair. All he saw in this house were servants. Where was its master? This crime would stand between the two of them forever. He felt disappointment and failure down to the very depths of his soul. He opened the door gently; the light hurt his eyes, and he imagined that it was attacking him in a furious clamor and boisterous sparkling. He closed the door gently and went away on tiptoe, going down the stairs in pitch-blackness. He crossed the terrace to the garden, his alertness dulled by exhaustion and dispiritedness. The man asleep on the terrace now woke up and asked, “Who’s that?” Arafa clung to the wall underneath the terrace, feeling that his terror made him stronger. The voice called out once more, and a cat meowed in reply. He stayed in his hiding place, afraid of moving on to another crime. When all was silent again, he crawled along the earth of the back garden to the wall, and felt around for the opening until he found it, then crawled in, just as he had come. When he reached the end, or almost, he collided with a foot. Then, before he could take in what was happening, the foot kicked him in the head.