Laziness in the Fertile Valley (12 page)

Life was going to be pleasant, if he could only prevent his father’s marriage. This awful catastrophe still called for his constant watchfulness. True, there was the hernia; but the hernia wouldn’t stop Haga Zohra. She was even capable of transforming it into a thing of glory. Rafik knew he had to keep his eyes open; the least negligence on his part might ruin everything. He must keep Haga Zohra out of the house; if he had to, he could beat her, in spite of her great size.

He got off the sofa, walked around the table, and looked out the window. The sun was shining on the house across the way, on the perpetually closed shutters. Rafik thought of the women held prisoner by the vanity of their males and congratulated himself for being sheltered, protected from them by these walls. Because, without a doubt, they would have tried to seduce him with their idiot smiles and their honest whore’s tricks. He would not have been able to get away from the intrigue of these females who had no conception of a life without complication or scandal.

Again he heard whispers. And this time there was no doubt; he distinctly made out the noise of voices in old Hafez’s bedroom. He ran toward the hall, stopped at the bottom of the stairs, raised his head and listened. He was right to have been afraid; Haga Zohra was up there with his father. She had gotten in and gone up while he had been sleeping like an imbecile. He climbed the stairs slowly, taking care not to make any noise. He wanted to surprise Haga Zohra, to frighten her.

The door of the room was open, and the sight that met him left him dumfounded for a moment; he couldn’t believe his eyes. Haga Zohra was standing by the bed, leaning over his father, seeming to mould some invisible object between his father’s legs. The hernia! Rafik leaped to the middle of the room.

Old Hafez, without thinking to hide his nudity, cried out:

“It’s you, villain!”

“Yes, it’s me,” said Rafik. “And I’m going to kill this intriguer.”

Haga Zohra was holding her hands in the air, terrified and trembling. She wanted to speak, but her throat was tight with agony, and she could only utter feeble cries. Her enormous body wilted before this madman. Rafik went up to her, seized her arm, and pushed her toward the door. Then he gave her a great kick that sent her tottering down the staircase. She tumbled down the stairs, followed by Rafik, and fled like a hurricane through the sleeping house.

Then old Hafez began to cry in a strangled voice:

“Police! Call the police! Arrest the villain!”

XV

Uncle Mustapha was standing in the hall, nervously twisting his moustache; he was being put to a severe test. His brother, old Hafez, had imposed a delicate mission upon him, one very difficult to perform. The problem was to awaken Galal and persuade him to go up and see his father. Old Hafez wanted to talk to his eldest son about the latest events in the house. Uncle Mustapha had not been able to avoid this request, and now he was seized with misgivings. It was no small matter to awaken Galal, but to get him upstairs seemed pure folly.

However, after much hesitation, Uncle Mustapha decided to face the worst, and went into Galal’s room. As he expected, he found the young man sunk in a heavy sleep. His face emaciated and pale as that of a corpse, Galal was scarcely breathing, and he looked as though all life had long since left him. Uncle Mustapha paused for a moment, seized with horror at the sight of him. Then he put out his hand and touched his nephew’s shoulder. But the light touch had no effect. Uncle Mustapha braced himself again and shook Galal vigorously. At this the young man seemed to struggle in some dream, groaned, and finally opened his eyes. He looked as though he were coming out of the grave.

“Ah, what’s the matter with you?”

“It’s your father,” said Uncle Mustapha.

“My father? Is he dead?”

“God forbid! He only wants to talk to you.”

Galal turned resolutely to the wall to indicate that this was of no interest to him.

“Good heavens, he’s mad!”

“It’s very serious,” said Uncle Mustapha. “My dear boy, I beg you, get up.”

“Never,” said Galal. “Not if it was the end of the world. Tell him I haven’t time. Why does he have to see me?”

“I tell you he wants to talk to you.”

“Talk to me? What’s the idea? Why does he want to talk to me?”

“I don’t know, but I assure you it’s very important.”

“There’s nothing important enough to get me out of bed.”

It was a categoric refusal, but Uncle Mustapha was too used to these dark pronouncements, issues of sleep, to be taken aback. He didn’t despair of victory, but waited a moment, then said in a grave voice

“Your father will be very angry.”

“Let him be angry — all the better. Then he’ll leave me in peace.”

“Listen, Galal, my boy. It will only take a minute. I beg of you, do it for me.”

“You want me to kill myself for you! What is this? You come in here and wake me up at dawn so I’ll catch cold! You’re merciless!”

“It’s eleven o’clock,” said Uncle Mustapha. “You won’t catch cold. It’s a very nice day. Come along! Galal, it will only take you a few minutes. The change of air will give you a good appetite. Lunch is almost ready.”

“The stairs,” groaned Galal. “What about the stairs?”

“The stairs?”

“Yes, climbing up the stairs!”

“Well . . .”

“Do you think I’m a hod carrier? I’d never get up those stairs.”

“Don’t worry,” said Uncle Mustapha. “I’ll help you. You won’t have to exert yourself at all.”

“I won’t go unless you carry me,” said Galal.

“I’ll do my best,” promised Uncle Mustapha.

Uncle Mustapha was pleased with his success; he hadn’t expected it to be so easy. He pulled his tarboosh firmly on to his head and got ready to help Galal out of bed. But the young man didn’t seem to want to move; a painful change was taking place in him. It took him a long time to give in to this waking state; each time he opened his eyes he shut them again. He couldn’t manage to keep them open. At last he grew tired and made no more efforts to open them; he clutched at his uncle like a blind man. Uncle Mustapha put his arm around his nephew’s waist and helped him into the hall.

Old Hafez was waiting for them, sitting up in his bed. He loomed in the room like a pregnant woman, his enormous hernia thrusting up the sheet. He had assumed a pompous air to receive his son, striving to appear dignified and imposing.

“Galal, my son, wake up. I must speak with you seriously.”

But Galal had scarcely entered the room and looked around, when he freed himself from Uncle Mustapha’s arms and let himself fall to the ground. He settled himself against the wall, dropped his head, and resumed his interrupted sleep, indifferent to his father’s words.

“What a boy!” said old Hafez with a sigh.

“I did everything I could,” said Uncle Mustapha. “Here he is. Talk to him if you can.”

Old Hafez, looking at the limp rag his son had become,
remained silent for a moment, thinking. He pondered how he could arouse this inert body that seemed to be under the influence of some drug. His decision to marry was stronger than ever. If only to prove his authority, he had resolved to finish what in the beginning, perhaps, was only the whim of a senile old man. Rafik’s inexcusable behavior had aggravated his desire for domination. He didn’t want to admit defeat to the audacity of that vicious and destructive boy. He had imagined he could persuade Galal to reason with Rafik. In reality old Hafez, afraid of Rafik’s outbursts, was repelled at the idea of finding himself in direct contact with him. The memory of last night’s scene still smarted too much for him to have forgotten it. His health had been weakened by the excitement, and as for his hernia, it had swollen again.

He looked at Galal in despair, heaved a sigh and said:

“Galal, my son, wake up. You are the eldest; I count on you to establish order in this house.”

Galal, contrary to all expectations, raised his head and seemed to wake up. He had just been bitten by a singularly active flea.

“What’s that? What did you say?”

“I said that you’re the eldest,” repeated old Hafez. “It’s your responsibility to reason with your brothers.”

“What have my brothers done?”

“By Allah! Don’t you know what went on yesterday?”

“No. How should I know?”

“Well, your brother Rafik acted like a gangster! He nearly killed Haga Zohra.”

“Good for him,” said Galal.

“What?” cried old Hafez. “You approve!”

“It’s a crime,” said Uncle Mustapha.

Uncle Mustapha was sitting in the rocking chair; he shook his head gravely to signify his distress and, from time to time, sighed with despair.

“It’s insane,” he said again.

Galal didn’t answer. He didn’t want to commit himself or begin any interminable discussions. He was already thinking of getting back to bed.

“Galal, my son,” old Hafez began, “I beg of you, wake up for a moment and listen to me.”

“Well,” said Galal. “What is it you want?”

“I want you to talk to your brother Rafik. Tell him for me that if he doesn’t stop his criminal behavior he’ll repent it. I’ll teach him who’s master here.”

Galal remained insensitive to these threatening words. His father’s noisy revival of a show of authority seemed perfectly absurd to him. However, he thought it wise to appear conciliatory. It seemed the best way to get this scene over with.

“All right, Father. Calm yourself. I’ll speak to him one of these days.”

“What do you mean — one of these days? I want you to talk to him today.”

“Really,” begged Galal. “Can’t you wail at least until tomorrow?”

Old Hafez sighed with exhaustion. He had begun to realize the futility of the conversation.

“All right,” he said. “You can speak to him tomorrow.”

Meanwhile, Serag was rummaging in the room off the terrace. He had thought a great deal in the last few days. His unsuccessful attempt to flee his father’s house had put him in an inferior position with his family. Even Uncle Mustapha spoke to him with a certain condescension, as though he were not quite well. He felt like a child who is not allowed out of the house. No one took his desire to work seriously. This attitude offended his rather juvenile nature and was a constant source of torture. He had resolved to show them he was capable of following his plans through, even if he had to suffer poverty and hunger to attain his independence.

Serag now understood that he couldn’t leave the house with any chance of success unless he provided himself with a little money. To get it, he had decided to sell some of his school books, and some of his brothers’ as well, to Abou Zeid, the peanut vendor. This would bring him a bit of cash. Certainly, he didn’t expect a great sum, but the little he would get would help him to live during the first days of his independence, until he could find some work. Abou Zeid, no doubt, would buy his books. In this way he could enlarge his miserable business and, at the same time, become a bookseller, an unknown thing in the quarter. Serag couldn’t get over his marvelous idea. Abou Zeid would be the first bookseller in the quarter. That would raise him in the esteem of honest people.

The terrace room was a dusty little shed, lighted by a skylight, heaped pell-mell with all sorts of kitchen utensils, bits of furniture and discarded objects. Serag knew the books he wanted had been put away in a suitcase. He found it hidden in a corner under a pile of empty bottles and damaged water pipes. He managed to free it, cleared it of some of the dust that covered it, and opened it.

He was moved at this memory of his life as a student and the distant past of his school days. These books represented a magnificent period for him. Then the future had seemed smiling and full of hope. The house had not yet become what it now was: an inviolable retreat of sleep.

He picked up a book and began to leaf through it.

“What are you doing here?”

Serag dropped the book and turned around.

“It’s none of your business, girl!”

“I’ve been looking for you for half an hour,” said Hoda. “Lunch is ready.”

She came up to him slowly, happy to have found him. He recoiled; he feared this little girl more than anything in the world. Her fatal tenderness was an abyss for him, into which he fell each time with despair. This girl, with her obstinate love and her naïve perversity always weakened his instincts for revolt. It was as though with him she was transformed, leaving childhood, to become a wheedling and cynical woman.

“Why are you handling those books?” she asked. “What are you starting now? When are you going to be sensible?”

“Leave me alone. I’m old enough to do what I want.”

“You’re only a child.”

“Ah! I’ll show you if I’m a child,” said Serag. “You see these books? I’m going to sell them.”

“Sell them! What for?”

“To get some money, girl!”

“What are you going to do with the money?”

“With money I can get out of this house,” said Serag. “Now do you understand?”

“So that’s what it’s for,” she said. “Cursed boy! So you’re beginning this madness all over again.”

“I’ve decided to go away,” said Serag. “But this time I’m really serious. With the money from these books I’ll be able to get along until I find some work.”

“Then you’re really going.”

She had tears in her eyes. She had thought he had given up his childish ideas of adventure, and now, again, he was thinking of nothing but running away and roving around the country. She realized how much his obsession blinded him. But what could she do? The only chance of keeping him near her was to leave with him.

“Take me with you,” she said.

“I’ve already told you it’s impossible,” said Serag.

Hoda wiped her tears and became her most seductive; she smiled at the young man, offering him her lips. But Serag turned away. Then Hoda closed the suitcase, sat down on it, and caught Serag’s hand, drawing him to her.

“Come sit by me.”

Serag sank down beside her; he was already helpless, hypnotized. He was never able to resist the perverse attraction that came from her young body.

“You don’t want to take me then?”

“No,” said Serag. “What would I do with you?”

“I’d keep house for you.”

“I’d rather go alone. I don’t need a woman.”

“You’ll be afraid alone. I’ll take care of you.”

“Why should I be afraid? Work doesn’t frighten me.”

“How do you know? You’ve never worked yet. It’s hard to be alone. Don’t you believe that?”

“I don’t know,” said Serag. “Anyhow, anything is better than staying in this house.”

She leaned against him, putting her mouth close to his ear.

“Take me with you,” she pleaded. “Don’t leave me. I’ll kill myself.”

In reality, Serag was beginning to be aware of his fear of leaving for the city alone. The idea of taking Hoda with him no longer seemed so absurd. Actually, the young girl would be a useful companion, and her presence would make the hardships of his new life less painful to bear. Still, he hesitated.

She watched him pondering, her heart pounding. She stroked his cheek, then kissed his mouth.

“Take me.”

“I don’t know yet,” said Serag. “Perhaps I’ll leave with you. We’ll see. First I have to sell these books.”

“Oh, I love you,” said Hoda. “Kiss me quickly! My master is waiting for his lunch.”

In the afternoon, Serag took the books to Abou Zeid. The peanut vendor was squatting outside his shop in his usual position, warming himself in the sun; he was apparently applying himself to certain putrefaction. His gaunt and hairy face was stamped with an ageless torpor. The baskets standing near him were almost empty.

“Good day, Abou Zeid!”

“Good day, my young gentleman!” replied Abou Zeid. “What have you there?”

“Books,” said Serag. “I’ve come with a wonderful idea for your business.”

Abou Zeid looked benevolently at the young man, and at the same time, with real apprehension. Above all, he feared being upset, and the rude efforts that characterize certain occupations saddened his charitable soul. He asked timidly:

“What’s your plan, my boy? I hope it’s honorable.”

“It’s an inspiration,” said Serag. “First let me put my books down. I’ve carried them from the house.”

He put the books on the ground, stuck his hands in his pockets, looked at Abou Zeid and smiled. Abou Zeid gave the books a quick glance, but didn’t dare touch them. He didn’t yet suspect the role these books were to play in the project the young man wanted to submit to him.

“Explain,” he said. “I’m waiting for your good words.”

“Very well! Here it is. You’re going to buy these books and become a bookseller.”