"Her hopes are pinned on the new generation!"
Khalid looked at Ragab. "It appears that the generation of the forties is no longer good for anything but love," he said.
"That is, if it is actually any good at love!"
"The new generation is better than us," said Ahmad.
"Is there no hope for our changing, then?" asked Mustafa.
"We usually change only in plays and films," said Khalid. "And that is our weakness."
"And the strength of the satires which show us our true selves!" said Ali.
"Why don't you ever admit to that in your articles?"
"Because I am a hypocrite," said Ali, "and I was referring anyway to foreign comedies. As for the homegrown versions, they usually end in a sudden character change on the part of the lead in a facile, preachy manner. That's why the third act is usually the weakest in the play; it is usually written for the censors."
Khalid turned to Samara. "If you were thinking of writing a play about people like us, then I would advise you as a fellow writer to choose the comic form. I mean farce or absurdism--they're the same thing."
"That is certainly worth considering," said Samara, continuing to ignore Ragab's gaze.
"Avoid the committed type of hero who does not smile, or speak, except of the higher ideal, who exhorts people to do this or that, who loves sincerely, and sacrifices himself, and pronounces slogans, and finally kills the audience off because he is so insufferable!"
"I will take your advice," Samara said. "I will write instead about those others who kill off the audience because they are so charming!"
"But these also have their artistic problems," Khalid continued. "They live without any beliefs at all, wasting their time in futile pursuits in order to forget that they will soon turn into ashes and bones and nitrogen and water; and at the same time they are worn down by a daily life that forces upon them a certain kind of desperate and--to them--meaningless seriousness. Don't forget, either, that the insane everywhere around us threaten destruction at any moment. People like this do not act, they do not develop; so how can you hope to succeed in constructing a play around them?"
"That's the question!"
"And then there is another problem, which is that any one of them is no different from any other--except in outer appearance. That is, any one of them is not a personality, but is made up from disintegrating elements, like a crumbling building. We can distinguish between one house and another, but how can we tell the difference between two piles of stones, wood, glass, concrete, mortar, dust, paint? They are like modern painting, one canvas just like the next. So how can you justify having several characters on the stage?"
"You are practically telling me to give up writing!"
"Not at all--but I am pointing out that like attracts like. Just as the righteous stick together and the evil find each other, so is the drama of the absurd for the absurdists. Brother Ali here will never take you to task for the lack of plot or character or dialogue. No one will embarrass you with questions about the meaning of this or that. Since there is no foundation to build on, your detractors cannot shake you. Indeed, you will find people who will praise your work, who will say--and rightly--that you have expressed, through a chaotic play, a world whose identity is chaos . . ."
"But we do not live in a world whose identity is chaos!"
Khalid sighed. "And that is the difference between you and me. You can go back to the loving looks of brother Ragab now."
Nothing here turns with certainty, sure of its goal; nothing save the pipe. Before long, lethargy will descend from its enchanted abode among the stars and tongues will be stilled. The new passion will likely bear fruit before the night is out in the form of a kiss beneath the guava tree. And before that, the earth has turned for millions and millions of years to result in this night party on the surface of the Nile. The moon disappeared from view, but he could see the gecko above the balcony door. It ran, and then stopped, and then ran again. It seemed as if it was looking for something. "Why is there movement?" he asked.
They turned to him, expecting some surprise.
"What movement, master of ceremonies?" asked Mustafa.
And he murmured, continuing with his work: "Any movement at all."
14
As it was an official holiday, Anis spent the day on the balcony and in the sitting room, withdrawn into a state of complete harmony. Just before sunset Amm Abduh came to prepare for the evening. He bid Anis a happy festival day for the third or fourth time, thinking that it was the first time he had greeted him. Anis asked him what he knew about the festival. Amm Abduh replied that it was on this day that the Prophet left the unbelievers--curses upon them--for a new place.
"This room will shortly be filled with unbelievers!" said Anis.
The old man laughed, unable to credit such a thing.
"You are escaping into your faith," Anis continued wickedly.
