Humam followed old Karim down the path that led under the bower of jasmine toward the terrace. The night was a new thing here in the garden: sweet and pleasant, with the fragrance of flowers and herbs, whose delight filled the depths of his heart. The boy was overcome with a feeling of bliss and grandeur and a yearning love for this place; he knew that these were the most exalted moments of his life. His eyes picked up lights behind some of the windows’ half-blinds, and a powerful light from the door of the reception hall that threw a geometrical shape on the garden below. His heart pounded as he imagined life in the drawing rooms behind these windows—what it must be like, and who lived it—and pounded even harder when a strange truth occurred to him: that he was one of the family of this mansion, a product of this life, and now was meeting it face to face, as he stood barefoot in his simple blue galabiya and faded skullcap. They went up the steps and turned right at the terrace level toward a small door, which opened onto a stairway, and ascended in a silence like that of the tomb, until they came to a long gallery lit by a lamp suspended from the ornamented ceiling. They went to the great closed door in the middle of the gallery. “In some spot like this,” thought Humam, deeply touched, “perhaps in this very spot at the top of the stairs, my mother kept a lookout twenty years ago. What a depressing thought!” Old Karim rapped at the great door to request entry for Humam, pushed him along and stepped aside, motioning him to enter. The boy entered slowly, gracefully, and a little fearfully. He did not hear the door close behind him, and had only a strange feeling at the light that flickered in the ceiling and the corners. All his attention was drawn to the central spot where the man sat cross-legged on a cushioned seat. He had never seen his grandfather before, but had no doubt of the identity of the seated figure before him: who could this imposing being be if not his grandfather, of whom he had heard such marvels? He approached him, transfixed by the large-eyed gaze which overpowered the whole contents of his memory, yet filled his heart with safety and peace. He bowed so low that his forehead nearly touched the edge of the cushion, and extended his hand; the other gave his, which Humam kissed reverentially, then spoke with unexpected courage.
“Good evening, Grandfather.”
He was taken aback by the strong voice that replied—in which the music of mercy could be heard. “You are welcome, my son. Sit down.”
The boy went to a chair to the right of the cushioned seat and perched on the edge.
“Make yourself comfortable,” said Gabalawi.
Humam shifted back into the chair, his heart overflowing with happiness; his lips moved in whispered thanks, then silence fell. He studied the designs in the carpet beneath his feet, feeling the impact of the gaze trained on him, just as we feel the sun upon us without looking at it. His attention was suddenly drawn to the little room located to his right; he looked at its door with a twinge of fright and melancholy.
“What do you know about that door?” the man asked.
His limbs trembled and he marveled at how the man saw everything. “I know that all our troubles came out of it,” he said humbly.
“What did you think of your grandfather when you heard the story?”
Humam opened his mouth to answer, but Gabalawi spoke first. “Tell the truth.”
Humam was so affected by his tone of voice that he did speak frankly. “My father’s conduct seemed to me a terrible mistake, and it seemed to me that the punishment was extremely harsh.”
Gabalawi smiled. “That is approximately what you think. I abominate lying and deception, and that is why I evict from my house anyone who shames himself.”
Humam’s eyes filled with tears.
“You seemed to me a good boy. That is why I sent for you.”
“Thank you, sir,” said Humam in a voice wet with tears.
“I have decided to give you a chance no one from outside here has ever had: to live in this house, to marry into it and to begin a new life in it.”
Humam’s heart beat in a rapture of joy as he awaited new words to complete this marvelous melody, as a music lover listens for song after an overture, but the man’s silence was unbroken. He hesitated, then spoke. “Thank you for your kindness.”
“You deserve it.”
The boy’s gaze alternated between his grandfather and the carpet before he asked anxiously, “My family?”
“I have clearly told you what I want,” Gabalawi reproached him.
“They deserve your forgiveness and your affection,” Humam pleaded.
Gabalawi’s question was distinctly cool: “Did you not hear what I said?”
“Of course, but these are my mother and father and brothers and sisters, and my father is a man—”
“Did you not hear what I said?”
The voice was annoyed. Silence fell. To indicate that the conversation was at an end, the man said, “Go tell them goodbye, then come back here.”
Humam rose, kissed his grandfather’s hand and left. He found old Karim waiting for him; the man got up and followed the boy in silence. When they reached the terrace, Humam saw a girl standing in the light at the beginning of the garden; she hurried away and vanished, though not before he noticed her profile, neck and slim figure. His grandfather’s voice echoed in his ears: “To live in this house, to marry into it.” To marry a girl like this one; to live the life my father knew. How had this gamble ruined him? How, and with what heart, had he borne a life spent pushing a handcart? This fortunate chance is like a dream, my father’s dream for the past twenty years. But I have a terrible headache.