Leaning out of the window was my old classmate Hamdi, calling out my name.

I went over to him.

‘Where are you off to?’ he asked.

‘Nowhere. I’m just out for a stroll.’

‘Get in, then. Let’s go to my house!’

Without waiting for an answer, he ushered me into the seat next to him. Along the way he told me he was on his way home from a tour of a number of factories owned by the firm he now worked for: ‘I sent a telegram back to the house to let them know when to expect me. So they’ll have the place ready for me. Otherwise I’d never have dared to invite you over!’

I laughed.

Time was when Hamdi and I had seen a great deal of each other, but since losing my job I’d not seen him at all. I knew him to be making a good living as an assistant director of a firm that traded in machinery but also involved itself in forestry and timber. And that was precisely why I had not sought him out after losing my job: I feared that he might think I’d come asking for a loan, not a job.

‘Are you still at that bank?’ he asked.

‘No,’ I said, ‘I left.’

He looked surprised.

‘So where are you working now?’

Half-heartedly, I said, ‘I’m unemployed!’

He turned to look me over, taking note of the condition of my clothes, and then, as if to let me know he did not regret inviting me back to his house, he smiled and gave me a friendly pat on the back. ‘Don’t worry, we’ll talk it over tonight and figure something out!’

He seemed so confident, so pleased with himself. He could now, after all, enjoy the luxury of helping his friends. How I envied him!

His house was small but charming; his wife homely but amiable. Without embarrassment, they kissed each other. Then Hamdi left me to go and wash.

He had not introduced me formally to his wife, so I just stood there in the sitting room, uncertain what to do. Meanwhile, his wife lingered in the doorway, furtively watching me. She seemed to be considering something. Most probably, she was wondering if she should invite me to sit down. Changing her mind, she sidled away.

While I asked myself why it was that Hamdi had left me hanging like this, for I had always known him to be fastidious about such things – if anything, too fastidious – believing, as he did, that attentiveness was a necessary ingredient of success. It was, perhaps, a quirk accorded to those who had risen to positions of importance – to be deliberately inattentive in the presence of old (and less successful) friends. To take on a humble, fatherly tone with friends you have always addressed with some formality, to feel entitled to interrupt them mid-flow with some meaningless question, most often with a soft and compassionate smile … I’d had so much of this in recent days that it did not even occur to me to be angry with Hamdi. All I wanted was to put this irksome situation behind me. But at just this moment an old village woman padded in, wearing a headscarf, a white apron and much-darned black socks, and bearing coffee. So I sat down on one of the armchairs – midnight blue, embroidered in silver – and looked around. On the wall were photographs of relatives and film stars; on the bookshelf that clearly belonged to the wife, there sat a number of cheap novels and fashion magazines. Stacked beneath a side table were a few albums that looked to have been well leafed through by visitors. Not knowing what else to do, I picked up one of them, but before I could open it, Hamdi appeared at the door. He was combing his wet hair with one hand while buttoning up his shirt with the other.

‘So, now,’ he said. ‘Bring me up to date.’

‘There’s nothing to say, really, beyond what I’ve already told you.’

He seemed pleased to have run into me. Perhaps because it gave him a chance to show me how well he’d done, or because, when he looked at me, he was so glad he wasn’t like me. When misfortune visits those who once walked alongside us, we do tend to feel relief, almost as if we believe we have ourselves been spared, and as we come to convince ourselves that they are suffering in our stead, we feel for these wretched creatures. We feel merciful.