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

Passing illusion that she was, the heartthrob was real.”
    They sat under a trellis roofing. In the dim light, the people sitting at the other tables appeared to be phantoms.
    Mustapha remarked, “The manager of this club is a friend of yours,” and indicated a man standing at the far end of the stage. He was a short barrel of a man, with a fleshy white face and heavy jowls puffed up like a water-skin. His heavy-lidded eyes peered drowsily yet they had acertain mischievous tilt. When he saw Mustapha he moved toward them with surprising speed for one so heavy. Omar recognized him as a former client for whom he’d won two cases. The man shook their hands warmly, then sat down, saying, “Omar Bey, this is a pleasant surprise.” He ordered whiskey and went on. “I never dreamed you’d stop by here, but after all, those who work hard deserve to play.”
    Mustapha interrupted with a decisive voice. “Let’s dispense with the formalities, Mr. Yazbeck.” As the manager looked at them warily, Mustapha laughed. “It’s as you suspected. The time has come to return the good services of your lawyer.”
    “Omar Bey?”
    “I thought of asking you to recommend a suitable girl for him.”
    The man smiled broadly and said, “A refined and beautiful girl…of good family.”
    “I’m speaking about love, not marriage!”
    “It’s up to him, sir.”
    “Do you have any such cultivated lovelies?”
    He waved his small, soft hand in deprecation and said proudly, “Capri’s main attraction.”
    He went on to elaborate, still glancing at Omar a bit skeptically. “She was a student at the Drama Institute, but wasn’t a success at acting. She loves to dance, though, and has created a sensation at the Capri.”
    “Warda!”
    “None other.”
    Mustapha said apologetically, “I didn’t think of her because of her height, which would naturally discourage me.”
    Yazbeck gestured grandiosely toward the stage, where the musicians had started playing an Oriental dance. A storm of applause greeted the dancer, a magnificent statuesque woman with wide-set languid eyes and a high forehead which gave her face a certain aristocratic distinction.
    Mustapha murmured, “Marvelous.”
    Yazbeck said jestingly, “You’re immune to such delightful temptations…”
    “I’m self-sufficient. It’s a pastime enjoyed by the best of husbands.”
    Omar smiled, remembering how Mustapha once said that he couldn’t betray his wife since he wasn’t able to make love with anyone else. Then he drifted away from the voices around him as he followed the movements of the lovely body, lithe in spite of her height. He loved her smile as he loved the cypress tree. Yazbeck’s outstretched hand, bidding them goodbye, drew him back to awareness. After the man had gone, Mustapha looked at him seriously and cautioned, “The raptures of love are seldom found in nightclubs.”
    Omar muttered sarcastically, “He who strives will be rewarded.”
    “You know whenever I see Zeinab now my conscience bothers me.”
    He said scornfully, “These pains are more severe than the luxury of conscience.”
    Mustapha pointed out the problems involved in such affairs, but Omar interjected, “In the feminine sex, I seem to see life on two feet.”
    Warda walked directly toward them, without pretense of delay, her wide, gray eyes glancing steadily at Omar.The scent of the jasmine flowers she wore in her bracelet diffused in the air. Shaking his hand, she exclaimed happily, “At last I’ve found a man I don’t have to look at from above!”
    She sat down between the two men and flicked her hand so that the jasmine spilled onto the red tablecloth. The champagne came and bubbled forth. Warda seemed composed, but there was a look in her gray eyes that cautioned against haste. She exchanged a smile of familiarity with Mustapha and listened to the accustomed praise of her dancing and beauty. Throughout, she continued looking at Omar with respect, while he searched her gray