I know they think I’ve gone crazy.

I know what they’re saying.

They’re saying Khalil Ayyoub lost it after Yunes died. But no! Well, yes, they may be right. I’ve lost it; yes, definitely, lost it all.

I spent three days searching, I didn’t sleep for an instant. I was like someone who’s lost his mind. How could she have disappeared? Where had she gone? What was her name? I don’t even know her name. I asked her — yes, I did ask. But I don’t remember what she said. Did she answer? I don’t know.

Maybe she didn’t answer. Maybe she smiled, and I nodded my head as though I understood.

For three days I forgot that you were my father and my son. I forgot your death and your life and ran after the ghost of a woman whose name I don’t know.

Now I’ve come back to you.

Forgive me. Pardon me.

I know you’ll understand my situation and will accept my apology. After all, you too, spent fifty years running after the ghost of a woman.

Do you know how I returned to my senses?

What saved me was this terrible idea that it was her — yes, her — who had come to force me to spend the night away from you, to steal you from me.

When this terrible idea came to me, I relaxed a little and fell asleep. Then I got up. It was night, and the rain was drumming on my window, so I decided to come to your grave and tell you everything.

I decided it was time for me to weep, mourn, to be unconsolable.

I decided you were dead and that I’d go on with my life without you, without the hospital and without our stories, of which we’ve only told fractions.

You remember.

When I left you it was seven in the evening, the last of the shadows were disappearing from the horizon. I went to your house for the photos. On my way, I stopped in front of a shop and bought a bag of bread and a little halva thinking I’d have the halva for dinner with a glass of tea.

I took the bag and continued on my way, and there, about fifty meters from your house, I saw her. She was wearing a long black dress, her head was covered with a black scarf, and she had a suitcase in her hand as if she were traveling.

She stood, suitcase in hand, and didn’t turn around, as if she were a photograph. When I got close to her, she turned her head in my direction.

“Good evening,” she said.

“Good evening,” I answered.

“Do you know the house of Elias al-Roumi?”^*

“Elias who?”

“Elias al-Roumi,” she said.

“There’s no one named Elias in the camp,” I told her.

“Yes,” she said. “Elias al-Roumi.”

“So far as I know, there’s no one by that name.”

“Where are you from?” she asked me.

“From here, from the camp,” I said.

“From which village?”

“From al-Ghabsiyyeh,” I said.

“I could tell by your accent,” she said.

“But I don’t have a Ghabsiyyeh accent.”

“Yes, you do,” she said. “You do without knowing.”

“Maybe,” I said. “That must be my grandmother’s influence.”

“Tell me where his house is. I need to deliver a letter from his wife.”

I said I didn’t know. I told her that she might have mistaken the place; this was the Shatila camp.

“I know, I know,” she said. “I’ve come to Shatila from far away. His wife in Ain al-Zaitoun gave me a letter for him. I have to deliver it and go back because it’s already night and I’m a stranger here and know no one.”

“I’m afraid that I can’t help you, Madame.”

I continued on my way toward your house.

I heard her voice behind me, so I went back to her.

“What did you say?”

“Where are the people of the camp?” she said. “Can’t we ask one of them? Where’s the headman?”

I told her people didn’t leave their houses in the evening.

“Why?”

“Because they’re afraid.”

“Afraid?”

“Yes, afraid. Things aren’t too good, as you can see.”

“What am I supposed to do now?”

“I don’t know.”

“I have to deliver the letter and go back. If you could give it to him, I could leave it with you and go.”

“But I don’t know the man.”

“Ask about him.”

“I assure you, Madame, there’s no one by that name in the camp. The camp’s small, and I’m a doctor. I know everyone.”

“What’s your name, Sir?”

“Khalil. Dr. Khalil Ayyoub,” I said.

“Please, Doctor. Help me.”

“I’m at your service.”

“It seems I’m going to spend the night here. Take me to one of the hotels in the camp.”

“You’re looking for a hotel in a refugee camp! Impossible. You can go into town. Beirut’s full of hotels.”

“I don’t want to go into town,” she said. “I don’t have time. I want a hotel here.”

“I can assure you there aren’t any. I don’t know what to say.”

“Can’t I spend the night here?”

“Of course,” I said, “but where? You can sleep in my house, if you like.”

“You’re married?”

“No.”

“You live with your mother?”

“No.”

“Sleep in the house of a bachelor who lives alone? Impossible!”

“No, you’ve misunderstood me. I’ll take you to my house, and then I’ll go back to the hospital. I’m a doctor, as I told you. I’ll drop you off and go.”

“Agreed,” she said.

And she set off.

She walked ahead of me to the house. The truth is I didn’t want to take her to my house; yours was closer. I’d take her to your house, get the photos together, and go. She could sleep there.

She walked ahead of me as though she knew the way to my house, and when we arrived, she stopped in front of the door. I got out my keys, opened the door, and we went in. It was dark, and there was a smell of mold. I struck a match, because the camp’s electricity was cut off, and lit a paraffin lamp. Then I saw her. She was sitting on the sofa, her case beside her, her head in her hands, and the slope of her shoulders extended like a shadow that danced on the floor of the room.

“Please make yourself at home,” I said. “I’m going. Good night.”

“Where are you going?” she asked.

“To the hospital,” I said.

“But I’m hungry,” she said.

I put the bag I was carrying on the table and said, “Please help yourself.”

She opened the bag and saw the bread and halva.

“After all that distance, you’re going to feed me halva? No. I’ll make dinner. Where’s the kitchen?”

I picked up the paraffin lamp and led her to the kitchen.

“I hate the smell of paraffin,” she said. “Don’t you have any candles in the house?”

“Yes, yes.” I went to the bedroom to look for the pair of candles I’d hidden in a drawer in case the paraffin ran out. I lit the two candles, placing one in the kitchen and one in the living room.

She opened her case and pulled out a plastic bag.

“Wait,” she said.

I sat in the living room to wait for her, thinking the situation over. No, I had nothing in mind: The woman was wearing a long black dress that covered her from head to toe, and her face was half-hidden by her scarf. I can say that I didn’t see her. So how?

No, Abu Salem, I had nothing like that in mind.

Then I saw her with a dishcloth knotted around her waist. She started cleaning the house. I tried to help her, but she waved me off. In a matter of minutes — I swear it was minutes, not more — everything was sparkling clean. She was like a magician: She went around the house upending things and cleaning them, and the smell of perfumed soap emanated from every corner.

Then she said she’d make dinner.

“There’s nothing in the house. Do you want me to go out and buy things?”

“There’s no need,” she said. “I have everything.”

I was sitting in the living room waiting for the meal when she came out of the kitchen. “You go in and take a bath. I’ve cleaned everything up for you, but you’re not clean.”

I picked up the pot of hot water that she’d prepared for me in the kitchen and went into the bathroom. When I came out, she was waiting. Then she disappeared for a few minutes in the bathroom and came out again with her long hair hanging down loose over her shoulders. Black hair, brown skin, large green eyes, a small mouth, a long face, finely sculpted hands, and long, thin fingers.