Laziness in the Fertile Valley (13 page)

“A bookseller!” said Abou Zeid. “I’m too old, my boy. I don’t think the work would suit me.”

“But it’s wonderful work,” said Serag. “You’ll be the first bookseller in the quarter. Do you realize what an honor that is?”

“Ah! You think so?”

Abou Zeid was a little overwhelmed by this proposition; it was far beyond his poor hopes. He had never been so ambitious. All he wanted was to escape his odious mother-in-law’s sarcasms. The crabbed woman continued to torment him about his miserable trade. What would she say when she saw him installed as a bookseller? The question worried him considerably.

“You’re sure it’s suitable work?”

“Certainly,” replied Serag. “What makes you ask?”

“I don’t know, my boy! What are these books about?”

“They’re school books. Very serious books. You don’t suppose, Abou Zeid, my father, that I’d sell you obscene books?”

“That’s not what I meant. Excuse me, my boy.”

He became silent and again seemed to be reflecting. Serag stood waiting the result of these laborious efforts, their true motive hidden from him. He didn’t understand the merchant’s reticence and began to feel tired. Suddenly, he saw Mimi appear in the sunlight, his hair disordered, looking as though he hadn’t slept all night. Serag smiled at him, but Mimi bowed distantly and walked on, his hands in his pockets. Strange, his dog wasn’t with him. Serag wondered why Mimi had greeted him so coldly, and what had happened to his dog, Semsen. Then he forgot the young man, and gave all his attention to Abou Zeid, whose inner debate seemed to be coming to an end.

At that moment, a young girl with long braids and mascara on her eyelashes stopped in front of the shop. Abou Zeid asked her hostilely:

“What do you want, girl!”

“It’s for Om Ehsane.”

“What does she want?”

“Two cents’ worth of chickpeas,” said the child. “She’ll pay you tomorrow.”

“Help yourself, girl! And leave me in peace!”

The little girl took the peas, then went off, swinging her thin hips. A few yards away she turned and smiled at Serag.

“What a business!” sighed Abou Zeid.

“Well, have you decided?” asked Serag.

“All right,” said Abou Zeid. “How much do you want for the books?”

“Give me what you like,” said Serag.

Abou Zeid thrust his hand under his robe, and drew out his dirty purse. He began counting the money. Serag already felt dizzy from his adventure.

XVI

It was almost noon when the child turned off the street into the alley. In the first house on his left he saw, bent over the window sill, a servant dusting a rug and he asked her the way. The servant pointed to the spot he was looking for and the child thanked her, then ran leaping on. It was at least the tenth person he had asked for Serag’s address.

When he arrived in front of the young man’s house, the child began to call, peering through the gate.

“Serag!”

No one answered him. Then, he stepped hack, made a little horn with his hands cupped around his mouth and again called with all his might.

After a moment, Serag opened the window of the dining room and looked into the alley. Suddenly he recognized little Antar, the child he had met two months ago in the fields, hunting birds with a slingshot. He was dressed for summer, that is, he was naked or almost naked. A sort of loincloth made of some filthy stuff covered his sex. His shaven head was now decorated with short thick hair. He hadn’t changed much; only the look in his wild eyes testified to a deeper suffering.

“Wait a minute,” Serag called, “I’m coming.”

He left the house quickly and found the child, who was already amusing himself by throwing rocks in the windows of the neighboring houses.

“Stop that! You’ll hurt someone!”

“Oh! I was only having some fun,” the child said.

Serag put his arm around the boy’s shoulders, and they started walking along the side of the road. The sun shot down its implacable rays everywhere; a torrid heat hung over all the countryside and over the length of the dusty roads. Serag and the child took refuge in the shade of a tree.

“I’m glad to see you again,” said Serag. “How are you?”

“Bad,” answered the child.

“You don’t hunt birds anymore?”

“No. I sold my slingshot.”

“Then what do you do now?”

“I’m unemployed,” the child said.

He blew his nose and wiped it with his fingers, then turned his head away and was silent.

Serag was saddened to see his young friend reduced to this painful extremity; he didn’t know how to show his sympathy. After a while, he asked:

“And your box, have you found your box?”

“No,” said the child. “I haven’t found it.”

“You haven’t seen the boy again who stole it from you?”

“He’s dead,” said the child a little bitterly.

“How do you know?”

“I just do! He’s dead I tell you.”

Pressed by the greatest need, young Antar had come to see Serag. His diverse pursuits in the field of vagabondage were no longer very brilliantly successful. His luck was giving out; he was reduced to idle begging. In his misfortune he had thought of Serag and told himself that perhaps he could visit the unfinished factory with him. He had no doubt he would collect a few milliemes for his trouble.

He attempted a disinterested air:

“You don’t want to go see the factory?”

“No,” said Serag. “I don’t think about the factory anymore. Besides, it’s always the same. No one dreams of finishing it. It’s a ruin.”

“Then you don’t want to work any longer?”

“Oh, yes!” said Serag. “Only I’ve decided to go look for work in the city. You did well to come today. I’ll need you.”

Serag had fixed his departure from the house for that evening, after dinner. He had in his pocket the ten piastres Abou Zeid had paid him for the books, and he had no doubt of the success of his escape. The appearance of the child was an unexpected stroke of luck; above all he must not lose him as before. In that unknown maelstrom of the great city, the child would be a much-needed guide. He possessed useful resources; he would help him in his search for work.

“You know the city well?” he asked.

“There’s nobody anywhere who knows the city as well as I do,” the child answered. “I know the smallest alleys and all their beggars.”

“That’s fine,” said Serag. “I’m sure you’ll be able to help me find some work.”

“What kind of work?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“I advise you not to look for it,” said the child.

“Why not?” asked Serag.

“Because you might find it.”

“Well?”

“Well, that would be terrible for you.”

“Not at all,” said Serag. “Listen. Right now I’ve got a little money. And I plan to leave tonight for the city. Do you think you can meet me there?”

“Where? It’s a big city you know!”

“Wherever you like. You choose the place.”

The child scratched his head and thought a minute.

“I’ll wait for you under the statue of the Renaissance,” he said. “Do you know where it is?”

“Yes,” Serag answered. “I remember. It’s near the railway station.”

“Right. I’ll wait for you there, tonight, around nine o’clock.”

“Agreed,” Serag said. “Goodbye!”

“Aren’t you going to give me anything for my trouble?” asked the child.

“Excuse me,” Serag said. “I forgot.”

“I’ll get things ready,” the child said. “If only I didn’t have any debts!”

Serag went back to the house, his heart filled with joy and pride. He was sure he represented a new kind of man — the man of the future — and he was already smiling at the thought of the victories he would score against the abject world of the idle.

That evening, during dinner, he could scarcely control his impatience. The meal dragged along with disheartening slowness. It seemed as though Hoda deliberately tried to postpone the moment of departure. She ate slowly, taking an infinite amount of time to gather the plates and remove the cloth. She moved about like an automaton, with an absent air, a frozen smile on her lips. However, she must leave with him. Serag had finally allowed himself to be convinced; Hoda was going to accompany him on his marvelous adventure. But she didn’t seem at all excited by the approach of the departure, which meant to Serag the beginning of a new life, full of unpredictable dangers. Her stupid indifference aggravated the young man’s nervousness; from time to time he gave her a furtive look, charged with pleas, to beg her to hurry. But Hoda did not appear to understand.

Only Rafik had noticed the anxiety of his young brother.

“What’s the matter with you?”

“Nothing,” Serag said.

“I hope that from now on you’re going to calm down and not upset yourself with these wretched scenes about escape and work. We can live happily now and sleep to the end of our days. At last we’re rid of that accursed marriage! And you owe it all to me.”

“To hell with the marriage,” said Serag.

“You thankless child! Look at him, Galal my brother! The ingratitude of this child wounds my heart. We ought to kill him! With such a spirit in the house we can never find tranquility.”

But Galal seemed too cast down to answer. His head between his hands, he leaned on the table, staring at the plate of food before him with eyes scarcely opened. He didn’t even have enough energy to eat. Rafik was used to his eldest brother’s characteristic air of heavy discouragement, but his present attitude was somewhat alarming; it seemed to prophesy evil times.

“What’s the matter? Why don’t you eat? You seem more depressed than usual. Is that mouse keeping you awake again?”

“It isn’t the mouse,” said Galal, “It’s Father. My dear Rafik, I’ve just had a veritable catastrophe.”

“What did Father do to you?” Rafik asked.

“He kept me awake all day!” replied Galal. “My word, he’s a criminal!”

“When was this? Today?”

“I don’t know,” Galal said. “Maybe it was today; perhaps it was a few days ago. It doesn’t matter, I’m completely exhausted.”

“What did he want?” said Rafik. “He came down to your room to see you? I can hardly believe it.”

“No,” said Galal. “He didn’t come down to my room to see me. That would have been less terrible. But he sent me this man without a heart” — he nodded his head toward Uncle Mustapha — “who harassed me until I finally had to go upstairs with him. He had promised to carry me on his shoulders, but he scarcely helped me. It was a long torture.”

“What a story! But you haven’t told me yet what Father wanted.”

“I think it had something to do with a murder. He asked me to lecture you about it, and to tell you not to forget he is the master. It seems that you wanted to kill Haga Zohra?”

“Oh! Was that all!”

“I forgot to congratulate you,” said Galal.

“It isn’t worth the trouble,” said Rafik. “From now on that fat businesswoman won’t dare come up here. Let her arrange her marriages in hell!”

“We owe you eternal gratitude,” said Galal. “My dear Rafik, you’re a hero!”

“You’re nothing but an ill-mannered boy,” interrupted Uncle Mustapha, who, during this time, had been eating quietly, his face set and dignified. “You have done an enormous injustice to our reputation. Haga Zohra will go everywhere peddling what you’ve done. What will people say?”

“I piss on all the people,” said Rafik.

“What a scandal for our family!” said Uncle Mustapha.

Serag feared a long dispute, but Rafik let his uncle’s exclamation go unanswered; he only gave a mocking smile. No doubt his success in ridding them of the menace of old Hafez’s marriage had made him more indulgent. He seemed to have recovered his calm and was eating heartily. But after a moment he looked at his uncle, and couldn’t resist the desire to unleash one last pleasantry.

“Uncle Mustapha,” he said, “I allow you to give my father, the title of Bey. He deserves it. With a hernia like his, he could easily be a minister of state.”

“How dare you talk like that about your father!” said Uncle Mustapha. “What are you saying about a hernia. You have no shame!”

“Uncle Mustapha,” said Rafik, “you aren’t going to tell me that you pretend my father hasn’t a hernia?”

“On my honor, I didn’t know. Now you’ve begun making up ugly stories about your father!”

“But it was he who told me,” said Galal.

“I didn’t say anything to you,” said Uncle Mustapha indignantly. “You’re all spoiled. Your father is tired of your disobedience. He has informed me he plans to leave you alone here and retire to his estate.”

“Heaven he praised!” said Rafik. “Is he really going to do it?”

“At last we can sleep.” said Galal.

Uncle Mustapha had purposely lied in order to give an impression of intimacy with old Hafez. He hadn’t realized that such news would please his nephews, and that it would even arouse their enthusiasm. But it was too late to retract. He tried to save the situation by taking refuge in an enigmatic silence.

“Come,” said Rafik. “Tell us the truth, Uncle Mustapha.”

“There’s nothing else to say,” said Uncle Mustapha. “I’ve told you all I know. You can believe me if you want to.”

“How can we not believe you?’ said Rafik. “Uncle Mustapha, you’re the genius of this house.”

“I forgive you for what you did to me the other day,” said
Galal. “Only, don’t begin again.”

Now Hoda was clearing the table; they were all getting up to go back to their respective beds. Serag waited and watched them leave, then he also got up and shut himself in his room.

An hour later, he slipped furtively out of the house and hurried down the side of the road. Hoda was waiting for him in a shadowy corner, dressed up as if for a promenade. In the dimness
that enveloped her, she seemed shrunken; her face, unskillfully painted, looked like the image of a candy doll. She had been waiting, peaceful and resigned, but when she saw Serag she ran to meet him.

“What made you drag like that?” said Serag. “By Allah! I thought we’d never finish dinner.”

“I did my best,” said Hoda.

“Well, let’s go,” said Serag.

“Kiss me first,” said Hoda.

Serag kissed her, then took her hand and they started down the road. First they walked rapidly, then, little by little they slackened their pace, stopped for a moment, looked at each other and smiled. The night was clear, and the sky resplendent, spilling over with stars so real and so close that it seemed one could pluck them like ripe fruit. A fresh wind swept the countryside, bringing the odor of herbs and, from the distance, the acrid and violent odor of the great city. Serag breathed this wind of conquering liberty with delight. He felt it on his face; he felt it on his hands, and it seemed to revive him as though he had just come out of a grave. An immense joy floated through him; he turned to the young girl.

“Are you happy?” he asked.

‘Yes,” Hoda said. “I’m happy to be with you.”

“At last, I’ll be able to work,” Serag said.

He was exulting in the thought of the effort he was about to undertake. He was going to share the destiny of humanity and participate in the boiling energies that governed the world. His life would be sterile no longer. A daring existence, full of the unpredictable, awaited him. He was impatient to get to the city.

“Try to find a job that isn’t too tiring,” said Hoda.

“Why, girl? On the contrary, I’ll look for the most difficult work.”

“You’ll get sick.”

“I won’t get sick. What do you take me for, girl? I can do any kind of work.”

Hoda reflected.

“You could be a cab driver,” she said.

“No,” said Serag. “That isn’t a serious job.”

“It’s very serious and, at the same time, very amusing,” said Hoda. “All day long you only have to run around in a car. You could take me along with you.”

“Be quiet,” said Serag. “I don’t want to. It’s not serious at all. You call that a job; to sit down all day driving a cab. I want real work, do you understand?”

“It’s too bad,” said Hoda. “You could have taken me with you. I’m so fond of driving in a car.”

“What are you thinking about, girl? Let’s be serious. We aren’t here to amuse ourselves.”

“So much the worse,” said Hoda. “Do what you like.”

They had just passed the last houses and now found themselves alone on the road, surrounded by the vast countryside and the threatening sounds of distant perils. Serag looked at the road in front of him; it lost itself in infinity, a long line of flickering street lamps. He slackened his pace and seemed to hesitate before the enormous effort of accomplishment. His exaltation had suddenly disappeared and he began to feel a treacherous regret in the depths of his heart. The warm peacefulness of his father’s house, from which he had just fled to run after tempting adventures was still too attached to his whole being for him to forget it easily. The subtle threads, made of torpor and the inexpressible joys of sleep, held him to the destiny he wished to betray. He had been insane to think he was different from them, and pledged to the grotesque and boring efforts of men. All that was nothing but puerile vanity. He began to think with terror of the evil pitfalls of the great city.