I do not know exactly when that cunning idea flashed into Shaarawi’s mind, but it most likely occurred when he noticed my lustful gaze fixed upon the curves and contours of Rehab’s body as she danced with unbridled enthusiasm at her sister Samia’s wedding. I was not the only one captivated by Rehab; she viewed the wedding as an opportunity to showcase the talents that would brilliantly allow her to outshine her sister. Yet, this display was not aimed at the entire wedding party—a small gathering in any case—but rather at three of the groom’s relatives. They had likely attended to assist him should any complications arise on the wedding night. However, Rehab failed to capture their attention. This was not merely because they were unhappy with the marriage—adhering to the popular advertising slogan of the day: "Why pay more when you can pay less?"—but because they sensed that fixing their eyes on the bride’s sister, however volcanic her allure, would anger or embarrass the groom. In the end, their patience paid off; "Abu Samia" had decided to treat his son-in-law’s guests to a special "act"—the sort I had occasionally read about in accounts of debauchery and wild nights where the wealthy squander thousands of pounds and dollars. I never imagined I would witness such a spectacle firsthand without spending a single penny. The apartment was too small to accommodate a live band; it barely held the twenty or thirty chairs occupied by the carefully selected guests. Yet, the cassette player, from which the most dance-inducing songs blared... He had been making a lively fuss, doing his duty and then some, only to be suddenly silenced. Then Abu Samiya—along with two men who were either relatives or associates, I couldn't tell which—placed a medium-sized wooden table next to the small *kousha* (wedding dais) where the newlyweds were seated. Meanwhile, Umm Samiya and Rehab circulated among us with large platters laden with choice pieces of *kofta* and kebab, portions of *macarona béchamel*, and rolls of stuffed cabbage and vine leaves. Once most of us had finished devouring that delicious home-cooked meal, Abu Samiya turned off the living room lights—though the space remained somewhat illuminated by the glow from the rest of the apartment. As soon as he switched on the cassette player, blasting the opening bars of the song "Habibi Ya Eini," a woman in a loose black *abaya* rushed in from somewhere; Abu Samiya helped her climb onto the table, which was too high for her to mount on her own.