Laziness in the Fertile Valley (11 page)

“Forgive you!” said Imtissal. “Then you think I’ve suffered for two years only for you to come and tell me stories? How am I supposed to believe that you’re sorry?”

“But I’m not sorry,” said Rafik. “What I thought for two years I’m more convinced of now than ever. All I want is to know that you understand that my father had nothing to do with my decision, and that my sleep is what I wanted to save by abandoning you.”

“I don’t understand anything,” said Imtissal. “You’re an idler — that I knew. You don’t have to explain that to me. But I hoped that through love for me you’d do anything to shake off your laziness. You could have worked and earned a living without help from your father. We could have been so happy with each other!”

“Work!” cried Rafik. “Earn a living! That’s all you think of. And you pretend you loved me. What would you have done to me if you hadn’t loved me! You can kill a man with ideas like that. No, Imtissal, I’m not made for work.”

“What are you made for then?”

“I’m made to sleep and to live in a corner, away from men. Listen, Imtissal, I’m afraid of men. They’re all criminals — like you — always wanting to make others work.”

“You’re a fool. Besides, all your family are corrupters. Damn the day I knew you and loved you!”

She was still sitting on the bed, and stared at him in silence and antagonism. This man she had loved had revealed himself to her like the malingering touch of a contagious disease. Never had she expected this exhibition of indolence which bordered on madness. She remained voiceless, subdued by fear, wondering how she could get rid of him.

Rafik suddenly felt overwhelmed by a great torpor. He began to be aware of a profound listlessness, and a great need for sleep tortured him. What had he come looking for at this woman’s house? An explanation? He should have guessed she would understand nothing. She was like the others, tainted by her mean existence, indoctrinated with righteousness, and ready to overturn the world for a love story. She couldn’t remain at rest; she must be on the move all the time, and make others move. He looked at her fixedly, astonished that this woman, almost naked and whom he had loved, was so close to him, yet gave him no desire to caress her. Even the simple thought of caressing her terrified him like the threat of some laborious business. He glanced away, opened his mouth to yawn, but stopped, disturbed by the sight of the cradle.

A strange emotion mastered him. He paused for a long moment, then rose, approached the cradle unsteadily, and stared at the sleeping infant: Imtissal watched him, her face hard and anguished.

“He’s sleeping,” he said.

“Yes,” said Imtissal. “He’s as lazy as you are. But he isn’t your son.”

“I know. No matter, I love this child. He sleeps so well. Above all he doesn’t talk of work.”

He returned and looked at Imtissal, his eyes half-closed, as though lost in an exquisite dream.

“Let me sleep on your bed for a moment,” he asked in a supplicating tone. “I promise — only for a moment. Then I’ll leave at once.”

Imtissal remained stifled, without strength. She knew she was defeated by this immense inertia which nothing could rouse. She shook with sobs and began to tear her hair, screaming curses. But Rafik went over to her slowly, unmoved by her cries. Suddenly he sank down on the bed, and was carried away by the heavy waves of sleep.

XIV

Old Hafez was sitting in his bed contemplating his hernia with wonder and dismay. Each time he awoke, the sight of his impotence filled him with despair. He put a trembling hand on the horrible swelling that never stopped growing — defying him. It was really amazing how it increased every day, as though it took pleasure in torturing him, in becoming more and more outrageous. Old Hafez couldn’t even believe it anymore; it had passed the bounds of the possible and even of the detestable. There was no doubt that some evil being had cast a spell over this growth, trying to destroy him. Wasn’t it one of the children’s tricks to ruin his marriage? They were capable of the worst villainy, those children. But, even so, old Hafez couldn’t imagine what devilish and intricate mechanism they could have used to produce this result. His mind became confused in the maze of this terrible conspiracy. The absurdity of such suspicions, that came from pure indulgence, didn’t bother him at all; he stubbornly held to the contrary, not wanting to founder in hopelessness and accept defeat. He was even suddenly tempted to go downstairs, to tell his children that he had discovered their plot and to teach them some respect. Only the vanity such a move would imply stopped him.

Soon he was tired of looking at his infirmity. He lowered his nightgown, pulled up the covers and began to lament his fate. How, in this condition, could he hope for a marriage that would rejoice his declining years? Everyone was plotting against him, everyone had abandoned him. Even Haga Zohra had given no sign of life since her visit so long ago, when she had promised miracles. No doubt she had forgotten him. Thus there was nothing left him in his solitude but the dismal spectacle of his hernia. He was alone, faced with this agonizing hernia that he felt forever growing between his legs and filling the bed with its incongruous mass.

To escape his obsession, he took the paper off the night table and opened it. It was a very old paper, yellowed, the type blurred with time, giving its news a doubtful aspect that corresponded with his own views of the world. But he had scarcely read a line when he felt tired and started to fall asleep.

After a moment, he was awakened by someone pronouncing his name in a muffled, respectful voice.

“Hafez Bey!”

He quickly opened his eyes; it seemed to him that someone was calling him from a great distance, almost outside the house. He thought he was dreaming and wanted to go back to sleep, when he saw a black form standing in the doorway.

“Ah! It’s you. Come in. I’ve been wondering what had become of you, O woman!”

“I’ve been working for you,” said Haga Zohra.

She was out of breath, and her panting was like that of a steam engine. She immediately began to complain.

“What a curse those stairs are! I’m too old to go up such stairs. If it weren’t for you . . .”

She came into the room, enormous and flabby, her black melaya wrapped around her huge body. Each time she moved, her voluminous breasts stirred dangerously. The room seemed filled by her presence.

Old Hafez sat up to watch her better. The sudden appearance of Haga Zohra filled him with optimism. He already foresaw an end to his misery.

“Come, sit down,” he said. “Tell me your news.”

“Give me time to breathe,” said Haga Zohra.

She squatted on the ground, her melaya spread out, arranging her huge body with infinite precautions on the hard floor. Then she became motionless, resolute as fate. It was the torture of the damned for her to drag her flabby, swollen flesh around to these bourgeois houses, where her work as a go-between took her. Also, once she was settled somewhere, it was difficult for her to leave. She had stopped panting, but she said nothing. Her venal mind, greedy for money, knew the value of the silence that preceded revelations.

“How did you get up?” asked old Hafez. “Didn’t the children see you?”

“I didn’t meet anyone.”

“Good. They ought to be asleep, it’s time for siesta. Anyway, if they ever stop you from coming up, just shout and I’ll come down and take care of them.”

“Why should they keep me from coming up?” wailed Haga Zohra. “What have I done to them? By Allah, I’m just a poor woman!”

Haga Zohra was well aware of the difficulty old Hafez was having with his children since he had announced his marriage, but she preferred to be discreet and play the martyr. Her work demanded it.

“They know you’re arranging my marriage,” said old Hafez.

“So?” lamented Haga Zohra again. “They haven’t seen
anything yet, and they’re complaining already. I haven’t proposed a one-eyed, hunch backed girl that I know of. I’m bringing the most beautiful girl in the country. When they see her, they won’t believe their eyes.”

“That’s not it, O woman! The children don’t want me to marry. But don’t worry, I’ll be married in spite of them. They’ll see I’m the master.”

“By Allah, what’s come over the world? Why don’t they want you to marry?”

“I’ve no idea. They’re criminals, but I’ll teach them. And now, leave the children to the devil and tell me what you’ve done.”

Haga Zohra sighed and assumed a funereal air to show her sorrow at the tribulations of the world.

“It’s done,” she said. “But I won’t hide that I had a lot of
trouble.”

“I hope at least that she comes from a good family.”

“From a good family! What do you think, Hafez Bey? You know quite well I’m not going to propose an orphan! By God, she has a family. And what a family! I had to live with them for a week to persuade them to accept.”

Old Hafez wanted to expose this flagrant exaggeration, but he allowed it to pass, and said:

“But why? I hope you told them who I was.”

“Of course. But the girl is only sixteen. They thought they’d give her to a prince.”

“That’s insane!” exclaimed old Hafez.

“That’s what I made them see after a week,” replied Haga Zohra. “In the end they could hardly believe everything I told them about your fortune and your name. Finally, to convince them, I confided that you had diabetes.”

“What did they say?” asked old Hafez, without taking offence at this illness that had so generously been conferred upon him.

“First, their faces lit up, then they smiled and told me: ‘If what you say is true, he must be very well off.’ I replied: ‘Have you ever seen, O people, a beggar with diabetes? My word! What do you want!’ From then on they were for it.”

“Very good,” said old Hafez. “You’re a clever woman. I won’t forget to reward you.”

“I didn’t do it for rewards,” said Haga Zohra, a little insulted. “I like to give service. You know the esteem I have for your family. What wouldn’t I do for you? You’re the light of the quarter.”

Old Hafez liked her respect; such deference to his social position he had not received since he had broken all his ties with the world. Haga Zohra’s esteem, even though it was soiled by a desire for money, easily satisfied him in a way he had long since forgotten. He moved in his bed, wiped his hand across his face, then suddenly remembered an important detail.

“But Haga Zohra, what are you saying! I don’t have diabetes.”

Haga Zohra recoiled a little, and almost spilled her ponderous flesh over the floor of the room. She caught herself in time and said, breathing very hard:

“Now what? What difference does it make? It’s something that doesn’t show.”

“Even so,” said old Hafez, “it’s an illness.”

“It’s an illness of the rich. It can only make you more respected. Believe me, I know what I’m doing.”

Old Hafez reflected a few seconds; he was thinking about his hernia and telling himself that this new and spectacular malady would perhaps compensate to some extent for the repulsiveness of his infirmity.

“You’re sure of what you say, O woman?”

“Of course. I’ll cut off my arm if I’m lying.”

There was a silence. Old Hafez threw off his anxiety, stretched out in the bed, and drifted into senile reveries about his future marriage. The annoying afternoon light that flooded the room kept him from enjoying the agreeable visions that began to come to him. He closed his eyes and for a long time lay lost in happiness. But he was frightened by the silence around him; it seemed full of things that were after him, determined to destroy his newborn peace. He felt the sweat running down his limbs and was again overcome by doubts. He opened his eyes, heaved a majestic sigh, then turned toward Haga Zohra and fixed a cadaverous look upon her.

Haga Zohra had been meditating upon the different ways in which she might draw the best profit from the situation, when old Hafez’s sighs interrupted her culpable reflections. She thought she had been detected; her heavy flesh quivered, and she instinctively drew the folds of her melaya around her vast flanks. Then, her elbows propped on her knees, she leaned forward and asked hoarsely

“Why are you sighing? What are you complaining about?”

Old Hafez, with his frightened cadaver’s face, opened his mouth, and gave several plaintive moans in reply.

“What are you complaining about?” repeated Haga Zohra. “Here you are almost a married man. What is there to fuss about?”

Old Hafez made an effort and decided to speak.

“I have to tell you something.”

“I’m listening,” said Haga Zohra. “What is it?”

“You know about my hernia. Well, it gets bigger every day! It’s unbelievable.”

“What’s that? The last time you told me it had begun to go away. What’s happened to it?”

“By Allah, I don’t know,” admitted old Hafez.

“It isn’t possible,” said Haga Zohra.

“I suspect the children are playing a trick on me,” said old Hafez.

“The children! What about the children? I don’t understand.”

“It’s very simple. They’re influencing it. They want to keep me from marrying those devils.”

“But how could they do it?” asked Haga Zohra, alarmed to find herself so close to evil spirits.

“I don’t know yet. However, I have strong suspicions.”

Haga Zohra shook her head. The old man was obviously losing his mind. But it wasn’t her affair to correct him. After all, nothing was impossible. Those demons were capable of anything; making a hernia swell would be a marvelous joke for them.

At any rate, her interests compelled her to calm the old man’s fears.

“But Hafez Bey, the children couldn’t do such a thing. After all, you’re their father.”

“They’re criminals, believe me. But it’s not just that. I’m worried about something else as well. Tell me: haven’t you thought this would be a hindrance to my marriage?”

“Your marriage! What’s this idea? Since when has a hernia kept a man from marrying? Really, you hurt me, Hafez Bey!”

“Then you don’t think it’s anything to worry about?”

“A man like you,” said Haga Zohra, “strong and handsome as a lion, to worry about a silly little hernia!”

“Alas, it isn’t little!” said old Hafez. “It’s huge.” He hesitated a moment. “Don’t you want to see it?”

“I’d be glad to,” said Haga Zohra. “What wouldn’t I do for you?”

“Then get up and come look. I’d like to know your opinion.”

“I’ll tell you right now. By Allah, you’re worrying about
nothing.”

Haga Zohra pulled her melaya around her, breathing deeply to prepare herself for the effort she was about to make. Then with slow, measured movements, she managed to get up. When she was near the bed, old Hafez drew back the covers and exposed his lower abdomen. The hernia lay between his legs, surmounted by his stunted sex; it was like an inflated football. At this sight, despite her reputed courage as a hardy woman, Haga Zohra couldn’t repress a shudder.

“What do you think of it?” asked old Hafez.

“It’s nothing,” replied Haga Zohra. “I knew it before I looked, you’re frightened for nothing.”

“It’s huge isn’t it?”

“What are you saying? Why do you say it’s huge? My word, Hafez Bey, you’re dreaming.”

“Maybe. Actually, perhaps it is only a dream.”

“Don’t worry,” said Haga Zohra. “I’m going to massage it for you. You’ll see, it will go away in a few minutes. Just let me give you a treatment.”

She leaned over and expertly placed her fingers around the hernia. At first she trembled at the contact of this flesh, hard as a rock, but she quickly recovered herself. Very soon she forgot everything that had brought her to the house, her business as a go-between, the decaying old man moaning in his bed. Nothing existed for her but this strange thing her fingers were kneading delicately, that fascinated her with its horrible obscenity.

♦ ♦ ♦

Rafik woke up abruptly; he had been sleeping on the sofa in the dining room while he waited for Haga Zohra to come. He blinked his eyes, wondering how long he had been asleep, and cursed himself for having failed at his post. What if Haga Zohra had come while he slept? He thought he heard whispers upstairs. He listened, but heard nothing to confirm his apprehension. He stretched himself, making a painful grimace. He felt tired out; his limbs were heavy from his recent fatigue. He had just dreamed that he was a porter in a station, and that a thin, eccentric traveller, wearing a yellow tarboosh, had given him an old fashioned trunk to carry. It was an enormous trunk, and he had a horrible time lifting it on to his back. Then he had followed the traveller and they left the station. The man walked very fast, going down long streets, constantly changing sidewalks, not seeming to care where he was going. Sometimes he took perverse pleasure in walking down narrow alleys, where Rafik, with the enormous trunk on his back, only managed to pass by a miracle. This chase lasted an infinity; Rafik was out of breath from following the strange traveller. The weight of the trunk was crushing him, and each second he was ready to drop. Then, suddenly, the traveller halted, seemed to look for something around him, turned with a deliberate movement and burst out laughing in his face. Rafik, stunned, let go of the trunk, and it fell with a tremendous crash . . . and he woke up.

He still heard the traveller’s wicked laugh in his ear. It wasn’t the first time he’d heard it, it was the same laugh he had heard the night before at Imtissal’s. He remembered his visit to the prostitute, and felt happy to be free forever of that old, dangerous love. He was finished with her now. Her memory wouldn’t poison the sure joys of sleep any longer. He had no more to do; he had explained everything. But had she understood? No matter! He had definitely broken with the past. He would not be prey anymore to those regrets that had tortured him for two years.