Laziness in the Fertile Valley (4 page)

“I thought there must have been a fire!” said Galal with a gasp.

He came forward unsteadily and slipped into a free place at the table. He waited a moment, to take up consciousness again, to realize fully his state of being awake. He seemed very unhappy to be in action and obliged to move. His timid manners and mechanical gestures were like acts of daring revived each day. He served himself, sniffed his plate before putting it down in front of him and became motionless again. He still felt the remains of sleep — of a particular savor — and he wanted to make it last as long as possible. But soon he began to eat.

“Tell me, are the lentils good?” he asked.

“They’re rotten,” replied Rafik. “What else do you expect from this girl?”

“This is no life,” said Galal. “All day long we’re upset by worries.”

“You’re wrong to be bothered,” said Rafik. “You could easily give up eating. Try it, you’ll see it’s not so bad.”

“I’ll try,” said Galal, “when you’re all dead.”

“O shame!” cried Uncle Mustapha. “Is that how you insult your father?”

“Who insulted my father?” asked Galal, disturbed.

“You just said, a second ago, ‘when you’re all dead.’ You Galal, you, the oldest — you’re a bad example to your brothers.”

Galal began to eat, indifferent to his uncle’s reproaches. Everything that happened around him was only illusion, vile conspiracies against the splendid web of sleep. He lived in the midst of his family completely immune to its quibbling. They were after him all the time with their little intrigues, but he always knew how to escape. Actually they were only weak novices who knew nothing of the delights of this drug like oblivion. Galal was several years ahead of them. Uncle Mustapha was still the most obtuse. He had only been living in the house for three years. What could he understand? When he was living alone in the city, he must have spent his time seeing people, going out every night, enjoying the company of easy women — an intemperate existence, without repose. At first, he used to come often to gossip with Galal. What did he take him for? Galal slept on and didn’t answer. It took Uncle Mustapha a long time to understand. Now, he didn’t disturb Galal except on grave occasions.

Hoda came back from the kitchen and sat down at the table near Serag. She always ate with the family. She was the daughter of one of old Hafez’s distant relatives, a miserable widow who had no one but her in the world. Old Hafez had hired her for practically nothing. She came every day to clean the house, fix the meals, and then returned in the evening to her mother, who lived in the neighborhood. She was considered as a member of the family, and not as a servant.

“Have you taken lunch up to the bey?” asked Uncle Mustapha.

“Yes,” said Hoda. “I just did.”

“Uncle Mustapha,” said Rafik, “if you keep calling my father bey, I’m going to lose my temper and do something you won’t like.”

“But why, my son?”

“Because I don’t like privilege.”

“What insolence!” said Uncle Mustapha. “And besides, I’m not talking to you.”

“All the more,” Rafik continued, “since the bey in question is getting ready to be married. On my honor, that’s going to be a beautiful wedding!”

“Be quiet!” said Uncle Mustapha. “That’s none of your business. By Allah! Have you ever seen such an insolent boy?”

“That’s why you’ve been calling him bey lately! You want to raise his prestige. The parents of the young lady must know he’s a boy. You might also call him pasha. What’s to stop you?”

“Why are you making so much noise?” asked Galal, very disturbed.

“My dear Galal,” said Rafik, “the day your father marries there will be no more sleep for you. I just want to give you a warning.”

At this news, Galal started as though he’d been bitten by a snake.

“My father going to marry!” he cried. “This is horrible. But how? He’s way up in his room; he never goes out.”

“He doesn’t have to go out. It’s Haga Zohra, that daughter of a whore, who’s managing the whole affair. She’s been visiting him continually”

“Don’t let her go up,” said Galal, crushed with astonishment. “Kill her if you have to. Rafik, my brother, I haven’t time to do anything about this. But I have faith in you. I beg you, deliver us from this menace. A woman in the house! What a ghastly thought!”

“Don’t worry, I’m here,” said Rafik.

He looked at Hoda:

“And you, you bitch, if you ever let her in here, I’ll strangle you.”

“You really pass all limits,” said the uncle. “Rafik, I tell you again, this affair is none of your business.”

“Do you know,” Rafik continued, “what this worthless Haga Zohra is hawking all over town? She’s telling everyone our father has diabetes!”

“Diabetes!” said Serag. “But why?”

“Yes, why?” asked Galal, alarmed by this new misfortune.

“I’ll explain it to you,” said Rafik. “You’re too naïve to understand. According to this ignorant woman’s powers of reason, it would seem that a man with diabetes is a man who’s eaten many sweets in his life. And if a man’s eaten many sweets in his life, it doesn’t matter who he is. He must be a man of high social rank. Now do you understand?”

Galal burst out with a dull laugh, but stopped at once. He understood that it was no laughing matter, but rather a tragic turn of events.

“But the woman’s a fool,” said Serag.

“She isn’t a fool,” said Rafik. “She’s an admirable go-between. What parents, pray tell, wouldn’t be proud to give their daughter to a man who’s got such a glorious disease? At least it proves that he hasn’t eaten only bread and bad cheese.”

“Once more, my dear Rafik, save us from this misery,” said Galal. “I count on you and name you guardian of our sleep. Show us what you’re worth. You’ve studied — you’re almost an engineer.”

“I don’t have to be an engineer to know how to slice Haga Zohra into a thousand little pieces. You can count on me.”

“You’re a brave man!” said Galal, reassured.

“My children,” said Uncle Mustapha, “don’t interfere in this. Your father is master here. If he decides on something, it’s his own business.”

“Uncle Mustapha, it’s not possible. You want to kill us!” said Galal. “A woman in the house! As if this girl weren’t bad enough.”

During this discussion, Hoda had prudently remained silent. Old Hafez’s marriage had given rise to endless disputes, and she hadn’t managed to escape the consequences. She was worried about the future. She got up silently, gathered the dirty plates, and carried them to the kitchen.

Uncle Mustapha didn’t speak, but he was busy thinking. Not able to make himself respected, he was careful to defend his brother’s decisions. Old Hafez’s permanent absence gave him a right to authority. Unfortunately, he used it badly and had become the constant butt of his nephews. Uncle Mustapha suffered to find himself reduced to this subordinate role. But he couldn’t do anything to change his situation. Actually, he was very fond of this quiet house and found himself strangely at home there. He now slept as much as the others. Only sometimes he remembered his old happy bachelor’s existence and was seized with regret. He gave vent to several sighs of unexpected feeling and looked vaguely around him. These sighs of Uncle Mustapha always gave the impression of an unjust and terrible fate that darkened his existence past the limits of mere weariness.

“Uncle Mustapha,” said Rafik, “you should go on the radio. Then your sighs would be heard around the world. I like your sighs; it’s as if the world should be bored along with you.”

“I don’t understand your insolence. What’s this new idea?”

“Simply,” said Rafik, “I think it’s a shame that such beautiful sighs should be lost to strangers. I’m sure the radio would pay you well.”

Uncle Mustapha, in reply to this flippancy, gave several more of his singular sighs and became silent.

“You’re right to sigh, Uncle Mustapha,” said Galal. “It’s horrible to wait like this. Where did that girl go?”

“What are you waiting for?” asked Rafik.

“I’m waiting for dessert. And I haven’t time.”

“You’re in a hurry?”

“Yes, I’m in a hurry,” said Galal.

After a minute, Hoda came back with a plate filled with oranges and put it on the table.

“I’ll take mine with me,” said Galal. “I’ll eat it in bed. I guess I’ll take two: one for dinner, too. I don’t think I’ll be able to eat with you tonight. I’ve wasted enough time in this dining room.”

He got up and went toward the door. Suddenly he came back.

“I don’t have to tell you not to make any noise. Come to bed. What are you doing here awake? On my honor, you’re all vicious. Goodbye!”

“Adieu,” said Rafik. “And don’t forget to write. We’re always anxious to hear from you.”

IV

It was the sacred hour of siesta; the house was silent as though it were buried at the very depth of silence. Sometimes, a noise of dishes, imperceptible, muffled, laid itself upon the motionless air, like a cry lost in crossing the heaviness of sleep. Rafik, stretched on his bed, was not asleep. His eyes wide open in the gloom, he kept awake with meticulous care, exhausting himself in the unequal struggle against drowsiness. He was waiting for Haga Zohra, the go-between whose intrigues threatened to throw the house into irreparable chaos. He had decided that his father’s marriage must not take place; because of this, he hadn’t slept for several days. It was an act of daring, almost of folly, and Rafik was afraid of succumbing to his fatigue, of failing at the crucial moment. Sweat dripped from his forehead as he fought the pernicious languor that was taking hold of his limbs, this heavy inertia that crept through him. Already, he had begun to suffer. He was getting stiff and raised himself on his elbows, panting. He heard his own breathing and was alarmed; he had almost awakened Galal who slept in the next bed, his face turned toward the wall, completely shrouded in his quilt. Not a breath marred his sleep that seemed like death. Rafik admired this tremendous anesthesia that no anxiety could disturb. It was almost a comatose state, a stupor. Galal had had no choice; his sleep was not a desire to escape from a world that didn’t please him. He even ignored that there was a world outside, full of unhappiness, menacing and greedy. He abandoned himself to sleep naturally, without cares, as to a simple and joyous thing.

Rafik, on the contrary, always had with him the vision of a world of degradation and misery, and had chosen sleep as a refuge. He could feel at peace only behind the shelter of these walls, barricaded against the fatal presence of other beings and things. Around the house ranged a multitude of wrecks with human faces; their nearness was horrible to him. He recalled with terror the times when he used to go out, those chance contacts with the world of men; they were all murderers. He had an unbelievable hatred for them. When still very young he had learned to appreciate the value of the monotonous but sublime existence that his father’s house offered. This security, rid of all contingencies, he owed to old Hafez, who had always maintained an atmosphere of passivity around him. Rafik always respected his father for the one noble idea he had found in life, and when, at a certain period, old Hafez had forced him to sacrifice his love of a woman, Rafik had not hesitated, in spite of the suffering it had cost him, to obey his father’s will. Old Hafez had been right. Rafik was grateful and blessed him for saving him in time. But now it was his father who was about to ruin this security so painfully acquired by many generations. Rafik rebelled; he felt offended and betrayed.

The woman whom Rafik had loved, at the time when he went out in the world, was a young prostitute who lived in an old dilapidated house near the highway. The quarter referred to her as “Imtissal, the students’ friend,” because she only recruited her admirers among the youth of the universities. A whole clientele, scarcely past puberty, crowded to her door. Rafik had sometimes visited her with the other students. In the beginning, Imtissal had scarcely paid any attention to him; he was a customer like the others. Then came a day when she began to treat him differently and refused the money he gave her. Rafik thereupon conceived a certain pride that led him to believe he was an extraordinary being. Imtissal seemed to find a strange pleasure in making love to him. Rafik was never able to forget this time of discovery of the savageness of the flesh. Imtissal began to love him with incredible passion that was almost hysteria. She no longer received her numerous admirers, passing the days waiting for him; she became devouringly faithful. After a few months of this violent love Rafik decided he would marry Imtissal and bring her to live, with him at the house.

When he told his father of his resolution, old Hafez became intractable; he formally opposed it. His son must either leave the house or renounce his insane plan. Rafik’s first impulse was to leave and marry Imtissal. However he needed money to live. What could he do? Work! The word was so painful he couldn’t bring himself to pronounce it. He deliberated a long time, tortured between his real passion and the vicissitudes of a life where sleep and tranquility would be banished forever. Finally, he renounced his love; no joy of the flesh was worth the sacrifice of his repose. He announced his father’s refusal to Imtissal; he confessed his decision to separate from her. It was an unforgettable scene.

This adventure had taken place two years earlier, but Rafik had never forgotten the intensity of those carnal moments. The memory of them burned in him like a devouring flame. The image of Imtissal haunted him even in his sleep. Since their break, she had refused to see him. She had gone hack to her old life as a prostitute, and the young students had come back to knock at her door. Rafik kept informed of everything she did; he had learned that she had had a bastard child, whose father she didn’t even know. She was raising it herself, in the single room in which she made love.

What tormented Rafik above all was not his separation from Imtissal, but rather the misunderstanding that existed between them. Imtissal had only understood one thing: that Rafik had ceased to love her. He had never had time to make her understand his real motives for leaving her. She had suddenly begun calling him a pimp, because he had told her he never wanted to work. Without even attempting to listen to him, she had screamed like a madwoman, then had thrown him out, showering him with curses.

Rafik wanted to see her one more time; he wanted to try to explain the beauty of this peaceful existence he had chosen above her love. A few days before, he had charged Hoda to go to her and ask her to see him. But Hoda had told him, just before lunch, of the failure of this overture. Imtissal refused to see him. From that moment, Rafik had been thinking of the one means left to approach Imtissal: to go to her house without warning and thus force her to hear him. He resolved to go out some evening and do this. But would she admit him? He was anguished at the thought of this meeting. However, it was too strong for him; he had to try a last explanation with Imtissal. Perhaps he would be able to make her understand that he had never ceased to love her, that this had nothing to do with love; he was simply incapable of leaving his father’s house, that shelter which protected him from the ugliness of the world. To tell her all men were murderers, and that he was afraid of them — she would surely take him for a fool. No matter! In any case, after this decisive explanation he would be calmer. Because ever since this drama of love had slipped between him and his sleep, he hadn’t been able to taste fully of his quietude. The ghost of Imtissal, vindictive and murderous, always stood before him, an obstacle.

Rafik rose up from the bed, left his room and crossed the hall. In the kitchen, little Hoda was scampering about like a mouse; Rafik slipped noiselessly into the dining room. His plan to intercept Haga Zohra and keep her from seeing his father hadn’t left him for a moment. For this purpose the dining room was the best lookout. From the wide-open hallway door, Rafik could watch the wooden staircase that led up to the next floor. Thus, when Haga Zohra came, he could hardly miss seeing her. And then, there was the couch. Rafik could lie down while he waited for this vile go-between. He resisted the couch for the moment; it was still too soon. He would run the risk of falling asleep at once. He must give proof of his endurance. Without it all his laborious maneuvers would have been for nothing. Rafik sighed and called all the energy of which he was capable to his aid. Then he went to the window and looked at the sleeping alley. At this hour, everyone in the house across the way was asleep. It was a three story building, newly constructed, its walls unplastered, with the forbidding look of a prison. Rafik had only seen men there; the women must have hidden themselves, peeking out from behind the blinds. These bourgeois families, with their prejudices and barbarous customs, no doubt forbade their females to show themselves outside. Rafik thought he’d like to sleep with one of them. But that was dangerous, and then they’d be ugly. He gave it up without regret. After a moment a child appeared; he was coming up the other side of the street, playing with a hoop. It was an iron hoop, very heavy, and the child was having trouble rolling it on the uneven ground. He soon disappeared at the turning of the alley, shouting in triumph.

Rafik began to feel again the ravages of this unwonted watch. His eyelids burned, his legs were getting weak. That he had to miss his siesta because of this cursed Haga Zohra was an unbearable torment. This couldn’t go on long; in a minute he would have to lie down on the sofa. Leaning against the window and turning his head, he stiffened himself with all his might against sleep. He had the impression of swimming against the current in the middle of a river of treacherous eddies. From time to time, in a supreme effort, he managed to free himself; he raised his head and breathed deeply. Then, again, he found himself plunged into the depths of an annihilating sweetness. The waves of an immense, seductive sleep covered him. Once again he came to the surface to breathe. Suddenly a distant noise reached him; he thought he was dreaming, shook himself, then listened attentively. The noise became more distinct, louder, the deaf murmur of a crowd on the march. Rafik heard them approach slowly, and soon he could see a strange procession passing in front of the window.

It was a man burdened with chains, surrounded by a mob of clamoring children. Some of them marched backwards in front of him, to watch him the better. The man carrying the chains had the stature of a giant, and long hair that fell in curls to his shoulders. A huge beard hid his black face streaming with sweat. His breast was naked and his waist bound with a sort of loin cloth of rags. The ends of the chains were wound round his ankles, as if to weigh down his steps and give him a pathetic grandeur. He looked like a galley slave escaped from some wild and distant prison. With an enormous stone he hit himself on the chest above the heart. The blows were spaced far apart, and each time he raised his arm, the crowd of children became silent in anxious expectation. At the spot where the rock struck him, the skin was only a cracked and greenish crust. The man punctuated each blow with a muffled grumble and some indistinct words like an invocation. He played his role of penitent sinner with a tragic magnificence. Sometimes, from a window, someone threw him some money; the man gathered it up and slipped it into a leather pouch hanging around his loins.

Rafik had seen this creature several times before, and even, while still a child, had followed him in his rounds through the alleys. But was this the same man? There were numbers of them who had adopted this system of spectacular begging. They had formed a wild sect and were proud of these tortures they inflicted on themselves to make people pity them. Rafik was horrified. These diabolical means to which men were reduced to live seemed to him like the extreme limit of a universal nightmare. The man loaded with chains looked toward the window, slowly raised his arm and beat the heavy stone against his chest. During this brief moment, his gaze fell on Rafik standing at the window. Rafik closed his eyes and stood without moving, the keen look of the man planted in him like a knife. He waited a long time till the noise of the crowd grew distant, then he opened his eyes.

Again silence and peace. Rafik felt ill. He was tired; he trembled with humiliation and disgust. Instinctively he moved toward the couch and lay down. The spectacle of men devoted to the vilest misery depressed him as though he had been caught in their ruin. He had tried to insure himself against such contacts, had raised walls between himself and this degraded and subject humanity. He didn’t want to be a party to such abjectness. He felt outraged; he felt a physical repulsion even to witness such insane brutality. It was really a butchery; everywhere the same people, stupefied, jostling, carried along like a herd of buffaloes by the same everlasting lies.

Rafik breathed deeply, stretched and tried to forget the horrible eyes of the man with the chains. One more thing to forget. How many times had he tried to forget the hideous sights that were always before him? It was useless to try to hide them; the poisonous vapors filtered through the cracks of his hiding place. He remembered he had resolved to go seek out Imtissal and felt a desperate terror.

“It will be the last time I go out,” he told himself. He lay motionless, like a fox in his lair, waiting for Haga Zohra. There was nothing but silence, an impalpable silence, empty of all substance. Suddenly a voice echoed from the next floor. It was old Hafez calling Hoda, and his words seemed smothered by the monstrous silence. Rafik leaped up, ran to the door and looked into the hallway. He saw Hoda, barefoot, start hurriedly up the stairs. The young girl, shocked to see him, stopped short.

“Come here, girl!”

Hoda came back down the steps and up to him timidly.

“I know why he’s calling you,” said Rafik. “He wants to know if Haga Zohra is here. Tell him she hasn’t come and that she isn’t coming anymore. I’ll strangle you, I warn you, if you ever let that woman in the house. Besides, I’m here; I’ll wait.”

“It’s not my affair,” said Hoda. “What have I got to do with it? Why pick on me?”

“I know he’s promised you some money. And you want to make us all miserable, filthy girl!”

Hoda was ready to cry. She knew Rafik’s brutality, his rudeness and his violence. She lowered her eyes, assumed a look of humility, and resigned herself to his worst.

“I don’t want money,” she said. “I don’t want anything. Have I asked for anything? I just do what I’m told.”

“Then do what I tell you,” shouted Rafik.

“Ssh!” whispered Hoda. “You’ll wake everyone.”

Rafik stopped, disconcerted at the thought that everyone was asleep. He who was always so careful of others’ sleep — what had happened to him? Exhaustion had made him lose control of himself. But there was something else. Rafik realized that he wanted Hoda, and that his desire had been born the same instant she whispered to him to be quiet. The silence was erotic. It carried the heavy odor of an oppressing voluptuousness. He caught Hoda by the throat and tried to drag her to the couch.