Laziness in the Fertile Valley (6 page)

“Did they offer you much money?” asked Serag.

“Of course,” said Mimi. “But I don’t care about money. I paint only for art.”

“That’s very beautiful,” said Serag. “You should be happy.”

“Only art interests me,” said Mimi. “That’s why I’m so interested in your family. You too, in your own way, are artists.”

“I don’t understand,” said Serag. “We aren’t artists, you’re mistaken. We don’t do anything at all.”

“But that’s just it,” said Mimi. “This strange idleness, in my opinion, is a supreme and distinguished art.”

“You’re very nice,” said Serag. “But I assure you, you’re mistaken. We’re not artists.”

Mimi was silent. He was content to have expressed himself. After some lectures on the Occident, he had formed a rather cloudy notion of modern aesthetics. His own ambiguous morals had the same origin. Mimi firmly believed that a true artist must be a pederast by nature. When a friend had asked him what he thought of the philosophy of a celebrated contemporary writer, Mimi had answered: “What do you want me to think? He’s a married man!” His reply had pleased him enormously. He would have loved to tell it to Serag, but he had never asked him. No matter! it would do for another time. He moved his tongue over his lips and smiled easily. He seemed to have lost himself entirely in his unwholesome reveries.

“Come here, you dirty little dog! Aren’t you ashamed — a
female.”

Semsen rubbed himself against Mimi’s legs, sheepish and docile. The female dog did not move from her place, watching the scene with rather vague astonishment. Mimi kissed Semsen, picked up a stone and threw it at the other dog. She leaped in the air and ran away without trying to understand what had happened. Semsen regretfully watched her leave. He suffered from his abnormal situation. He was a small mongrel with reddish hair and debauched eyes. He was not a pederast by his own taste, but only for fear of displeasing his master. Mimi punished him brutally each time he approached a female. Semsen was resigned to his lot. His desire to follow his normal instinct seemed like a tragic error to him, since it always brought him blows and insults.

Mimi calmed himself; he reprimanded his dog with a feigned brutality.

“Son of a bitch! I should kill you!”

“What astonishes me,” said Serag, “is the way you could immediately tell it was a female.”

“I can recognize that easily,” said Mimi. “The dirty animals; they’re rotten and full of fleas.”

“It’s still astonishing,” said Serag. “I can’t ever tell.”

They walked on a moment without talking; they were almost alone on the road. From time to time, Mimi turned and threw a furtive look behind. He seemed to be waiting for someone. He put his hand in his pocket and drew out a handful of watermelon seeds. He began to crack them one after the other with a sharp sound. The noise bothered Serag and kept him from dozing. He shook himself and looked around. A cab had just appeared on the road; it came toward them slowly, like a soft dream. It was driven by an enormous driver, who was whipping his horses with fury. In the cab, a huge woman was enthroned on the cushions — a woman of great importance, one would have judged by the monument of her loose flesh. The breeze raised her skirts, revealing her corpulent nudity with cruel lewdness. The two young men gasped.

“Horrible,” said Mimi. “Did you see!”

Serag didn’t reply; he had stopped in front of Abou Zeid’s shop. Mimi’s presence upset him; above all, he couldn’t bear his voice. Mimi had an insidious and caressing voice, like syrup. Serag felt caught and was aware of a strange sensation in his whole body. He would have liked to lie down by the side of the road to sleep awhile.

Mimi wasn’t paying any attention to him. He was possessed by a great exaltation. He became feverish and looked around uneasily every minute. Obviously, he was waiting for something. Suddenly, he seemed relieved at the sight of a man stopped near a tobacco shop. He was about forty, with curled moustaches and huge rings on his fingers. His tarboosh was tipped over his right ear and he carried a cane in his hand. He gave Mimi a conniving look, then lit a cigarette, puffing the smoke with an easy and innocent air. Mimi smiled at him, turned, and put his arm through Serag’s.

“You seem preoccupied,” he said. “Are you, by any chance, in love?”

“I’m not in love,” said Serag.

Mimi smiled and said ecstatically:

“All love! I couldn’t live without love.”

Serag didn’t answer him. After a minute Mimi said again:

“Tell me: how’s your brother Rafik?”

“He’s all right,” said Serag.

Mimi had been in the same class with Rafik and always favoured him. He loved his rude manners, the harsh sound of his voice, and his pallor of the sensual male. Unfortunately, Rafik had always met Mimi’s advances with a stiff and cold disdain. Mimi was profoundly wounded each time, yet his desire grew. He was almost completely happy when he could just see Rafik and delight in his presence. But since Rafik had resolved to stay in the house, Mimi had been left to the torments of the abandoned lover. Actually, his whole conversation with Serag had only been to hear some news about his brother.

“Why doesn’t he ever go out?” asked Mimi.

“He doesn’t like people,” said Serag. “He’d rather stay in the house.”

He hates me,” said Mimi. “I don’t know why. I like him very much.”

“I don’t think he hates you,” said Serag. “You’re wrong about that, I’m sure.”

“He hates me,” said Mimi. “Every time he sees me, and it’s scarcely ever now, he tries to avoid me. What have I done to make him hate me? Would you, my dear Serag, do me a favour?”

“With pleasure,” said Serag. “What is it?”

“Well, I’d like you to ask Rafik why he doesn’t like me. It’s very important to me. I’m so fond of him. Will you tell him?”

“I won’t forget,” said Serag.

Mimi turned and looked behind. The man with the moustaches and the large rings was following them slowly. Mimi came close to Serag and whispered in his ear:

“I’m terribly sorry, but I must leave you. I have to meet someone.”

In pronouncing these words, he seemed to confide a momentous secret to Serag.

“I’m very glad to have seen you,” he said again, before going away. “Goodbye.”

“Goodbye,” said Serag.

A group of wan children was standing in front of Abou Zeid’s shop; the neighborhood school had just let out for the afternoon. Some little boys and girls, their books under their arms, were buying things and pushing one another around. Abou Zeid was not waiting on them with his usual nonchalance; he seemed a bit frightened by his turbulent clientele. Serag waited until there was no one left, then he went up to Abou Zeid.

“Hello!” he said, “O illustrious merchant!”

“Ah! it’s you my son! By Allah! Spare me your sarcasms.”

Serag squatted near Abou Zeid and let sleep overcome him. Abou Zeid watched him sleep, and then he too closed his eyes. Behind them, the black beetles took possession of the empty shop.

VII

Old Hafez woke up with a start; he was shivering and bathed in cold sweat. He had just had a bad dream, an endless, terrible dream. He raised the handkerchief tied over his eyes with a feverish movement and shrank back under the covers fearfully. He tried to remember his dream, but it had become confused in his mind. He had only a vague, troubled memory that excited his senile sensuality. After a moment, he grew calmer and looked around. The room was plunged in half darkness, so that he had no idea what the time was. Old Hafez tried to discover the hour by some sign in the room. He glanced around, then stopped before a tray on the table. He’d eaten lunch. Therefore it must be afternoon, and he had just taken his siesta. He pulled off the handkerchief that still bound his forehead and protected him from the disturbing brightness of the day. He couldn’t sleep without it.

He sat up in bed and began to think. As usual, his reflections were simple and passionless. But for some time he had been prey to gnawing thoughts; a mute uneasiness was devouring
him. This marriage he had resolved upon, at the decline of his life, preoccupied him beyond all reason. It was the desire for renewed youth, and, at the same time, an act of authority. In his solitude, he had imagined this marriage as the last manifestation of his failing will. His unsociable spirit was always toying with all sorts of caprices whose essential aim was to contradict those around him. For some years he had not given an undeniable proof of his bad disposition; his family had begun to forget. Thus before dying, he wanted to leave some ineffaceable evidence of his tyrannical power.

For several days old Hafez had been waiting impatiently for Haga Zohra. She had promised to help him. She was a notorious go-between, and the allure of a profit made her extremely diligent. Old Hafez wasn’t worried about that; his worries were elsewhere. He paused in his reflections and listened to the silence of the house. No noise came from the first floor — everywhere the same silence. They must all be asleep. Old Hafez thought bitterly of his children. He hadn’t seen them for a long time; sometimes he managed not to see them for months. But through Uncle Mustapha he knew everything that was being plotted against him. Decidedly, they weren’t pleased with the idea of his marriage. He also knew Rafik was at the head of the revolt, that he’d sworn to kill Haga Zohra. He had given them too much freedom, and now they thought they could do anything. But he knew how to break them; he would show them he was still master.

Unfortunately, this struggle with his children was only a minor concern. Something else preoccupied him much more — a monstrous affliction. Old Hafez considered this affliction as the only serious obstacle to his marriage. He couldn’t even think of it without seeing his dream of a tardy union dissolve at once. He pulled back the covers, raised his nightgown, and examined his lower abdomen worriedly. An enormous hernia protruded like a mountain between his thin legs. It was really horrible. Each time old Hafez looked at his hernia, he was stupefied by its form. Every day it assumed fantastic shapes. Old Hafez was saddened when he uncovered it. He asked himself anxiously how he could dare present a young wife with such a calamity.

He put out a trembling hand and tested the swollen, hard skin with extreme circumspection. Then he began to massage the edges slowly and expertly. Old Hafez watched hopefully to see this stubborn swelling between his legs grow smaller, but it seemed, on the contrary, to enlarge under his hand. It was ridiculous, insane. After some minutes, he gave up his treatment, pulled up the covers, and began to call for Hoda. No one answered. He took a package of cigarettes from under his pillow, drew one out and lit it. Then he called again. This time, he heard Hoda running up the stairs.

“You don’t listen when I call you!”

Hoda was panting slightly; she was always afraid when she entered the old man’s room. She felt physically ill and wanted to vomit.

“I came up right away,” she said.

She lowered her head humbly; her hair was hidden under a scarlet kerchief, bordered with tiny white shells. She watched the old man furtively, waiting for his orders. Sometimes he was completely unreasonable. Most of all, she feared he would make her look at his hernia. Old Hafez frequently showed it to her, simply to watch her reaction. Hoda’s obstinate silence usually comforted him, but today it didn’t help; he tossed in his bed and groaned:

“Open the window!”

Hoda went to the window and opened it. The rude light invaded the room, and the objects resumed the look of dead things. It was a large room, filled with heavy furniture, tarnished and dusty. Old Hafez felt drowned by this profusion of light; he blinked his eyes and turned to the wall.

“Tell me, girl! Hasn’t Haga Zohra come yet?”

“No,” said Hoda. “Not yet.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’m sure,” said Hoda. “I haven’t seen her.”

He rolled over and squinted at her.

“You’re lying, daughter of a bitch! I know my children told you not to let her come up.”

“That’s not true,” said Hoda. “No one has told me anything. I’ll bring her up when she comes.”

“Listen to me, you little ingrate! Don’t forget that I’m the master in this house. You take orders from me alone.”

“Yes, master,” said Hoda, “I do what you tell me.”

“If you don’t, I’ll throw you out of here. I only keep you out of pity for your mother. Don’t try to fool me. As for the children, I can take care of them, even if I don’t see them very often.”

He moved his hand over his chin, feeling the stiff hairs of his beard.

“And now, get ready to shave me.”

Hoda disappeared and came back with a basin of water, putting it on the table. Old Hafez got out of bed, and walked tremulously toward the rocking chair near the window. He was incredibly thin; his nightgown flapped around him. He walked bent over, his legs crooked, weighted down by his hernia. He dropped into the chair, threw back his head, and waited. Hoda began to soap his face. He closed his eyes with satisfaction. He felt a voluptuous pleasure at this freshness on his skin. He had a face of acute angles, cut by an abundant moustache, with edges yellowed by tobacco smoke. It sickened Hoda to touch this decaying, old man’s skin. His breath stank, and Hoda, afraid of fainting, strained not to come too close to him.

“What are the children doing?” he asked.

“They aren’t doing anything,” said Hoda. “They’re sleeping.”

“It’s all they know how to do,” said old Hafez. “By Allah! They’re beyond hope. Does Serag go out very much?”

“He’s been out once or twice,” said Hoda.

“That child is crazy! What’s he looking for outside?”

Old Hafez had a particular fondness for his youngest son. The boy seemed to him to possess a demon for adventure. He didn’t know how to steer him off his dangerous road. Old Hafez felt personally responsible for the difficulties that would not fail to overwhelm Serag if he persisted. He had created an existence of complete repose for him, and here he was, running out of the house with the diabolical idea of looking for work! Surely this generation was inconsiderate and frivolous. He thought he should have a serious talk with Serag. He would show him that his rash scheme was only an absurd and fruitless game. Old Hafez didn’t want one of his children to become a tramp on the streets. The honor of the family forbade it.

“You tell Serag I don’t want him to go out,” he said. “That child is going to be killed one of these days.”

“Yes, master,” said Hoda. “I’ll tell him.”

Hoda had finished shaving old Hafez when Uncle Mustapha came to see his brother. He lived on the same floor in an adjoining room.

“I’ve come to ask you for a cigarette,” he said with a forced smile.

“You and the children, you take all my cigarettes,” said old Hafez, groaning. “They’re on the bed, help yourself.”

Uncle Mustapha went up to the bed, took a cigarette and lit it. It was a very cheap tobacco, and Uncle Mustapha smoked it with weary distaste. He sighed and recalled the luxurious cigarettes he had smoked during his zenith.

“I beg you, stop sighing,” said old Hafez. “Why should you be so unhappy? Haven’t you everything you want?”

Old Hafez felt nothing but scorn for his brother Mustapha, who had squandered his part of their inheritance in a marriage with a disreputable woman. When, after the catastrophe, he had allowed Uncle Mustapha to come to the house, he had not made a gesture of brotherly pity. Rather, he had hoped to be able to humiliate him. Uncle Mustapha, not long before, had been extremely arrogant with old Hafez — the only one who had resisted him. He had never concealed the fact that he considered old Hafez a timorous bourgeois, miserly and mean. Old Hafez had never forgiven him for this insulting attitude. Now he avenged himself.

“I’d like to talk to you,” said old Hafez.

Uncle Mustapha was sitting on the edge of the bed. He smoked his cigarette with a terribly unhappy air.

“I’m listening,” he said.

“Well!” continued old Hafez. “You know about my decision to marry.”

“A happy decision,” said Uncle Mustapha. “It would be good to have a wife to take care of you. Allow me to congratulate you.”

“You can congratulate me later. Right now I want you to tell the children not to meddle in this affair. I suppose you’re not in league with them. That would really be shameless ingratitude.”

“Me!” said. Uncle Mustapha. “On the contrary, I’ve undertaken you defence. But I can’t do anything with Rafik. He’s capable of killing me.”

“That’s ridiculous! You’ve let yourself be frightened by a child! Rafik’s a bad boy, and that’s all. But I’ll teach him.”

“You’re right.”

“I’m always right. In any case, I’ll be married in spite of everything. I’ve told Haga Zohra to find me a young woman of a good family. There are plenty around here. I plan to marry as soon as possible.”

Uncle Mustapha didn’t answer. He knew his brother’s obstinacy and, above all, he remembered the story of the goat. It was a characteristic example of old Rafez’s bad faith and spirit of contradiction, One day when he was walking on his land with a cousin, old Hafez — who was then in his fiftieth year — stopped in the middle of a field and noticed a black form at the summit of a rise of ground. It was rather far away, and neither he nor his cousin could make it out clearly enough to say exactly what it was. “It’s a goat,” old Hafez said at once. “It’s a kite,” replied his cousin. Old Hafez told him he was blind and persisted in his own idea. After a minute, as they were arguing, the object of dispute flew up in the air and lost itself on the horizon. “You see, it was a kite,” cried the cousin, triumphant. Old Hafez retorted, not the least disturbed; “It was a goat, even if it flew away.” Before such aberration, the cousin went away, indignant, and stayed angry with old Hafez for a long time.

“And you, what do you think of the marriage?” asked old Hafez.

“It’s an excellent idea!” said Uncle Mustapha. “Heavens, I envy you!”

He had become disarmingly humble, not dreaming, himself, of the transformation. To live in this house, he had undergone a sort of enchantment. He had never thought that one day his money would be exhausted; he had let it all go. He had lived, a long time after his ruin, expecting a miracle. He didn’t want to believe he had no more money.

He was still awaiting the miracle, even though it was impossible that a miracle could arise in this sordid room, with the infirm old man seated in his rocking chair, wanting to be married. Uncle Mustapha looked at his brother and, for a moment, thought he was dreaming that all this rotten atmosphere was only a snare devised by sleep. Suddenly, he felt a burning at his fingers; the cigarette was entirely consumed. He put it out in the ashtray on the night table and sighed again, as if to impress himself with the reality of his misfortune.

Old Hafez sprawled in his armchair; he twirled his moustache pensively.

“You haven’t told me about the children’s newest plots.”

“They haven’t any new plots. Only Rafik has taken possession of the dining room. He stays on the sofa, waiting for Haga Zohra. I don’t think he’ll be able to keep it up long.”

“Cursed boy! And Galal, what’s he doing?”

“He doesn’t do anything, he sleeps as always. He’s put Rafik in charge of the whole affair; he relies on him. He’s an astonishing boy.”

“Why do you say that?”

“No reason. Only to see him sleeping like that all the time seems rather strange to me.”

“There’s nothing strange about it, believe me. What do you want him to do? At least he’s peaceful, he doesn’t bother anyone.”

Old Hafez frowned; his children were a burden to him. He didn’t know how to make them reasonable, without disturbing himself.

“You’ll have to talk to Galal,” he continued, “He’s the eldest; his brothers will listen to him.”

“Talk to Galal!” exclaimed Uncle Mustapha, astounded. “You don’t know what you’re saying. He only gets out of bed to eat, and not always then. Do you know what he dared ask me once? It’s really shameful! He asked me to bring him the chamber pot, because he wanted to use it and didn’t want to disturb himself. It’s barbarous, and I don’t like it. Speak to him yourself.”

“This is insane! Tell him to come up and see me. I don’t know what you’re good for. It’s unspeakable that you can’t give me the least help when I need you.”

“It’s easy to see you aren’t used to being around them. Those children are impossible. They want to drive me crazy.”

“Never mind! A man like you, you should be able to exert a little authority!”

Uncle Mustapha felt the vengeful irony in these reproaches. He saw himself caught in a circle of vile atrocities. The unreal atmosphere, the unused furniture, all the shabby comfort revolted his soul. And this dangerous sleep that submerged everything, like a devastating flood. He looked at his brother, this stupid old man who was dreaming of marrying, his enormous hernia bursting through his nightgown between his spread legs. He was fascinated by the hernia. It reminded him of an old scene that had had the same grotesque fascination.

It had happened so long ago it was nearly lost in the folds of his memory. It had occurred in a bachelor apartment he had rented in the city. A woman had come to wash his linen each week in the bathroom. Uncle Mustapha couldn’t remember her face — an expressionless face, the sort that left no trace in one’s mind. She was always silent and did her work with a tired, resigned air. Uncle Mustapha had lived for a long time without thinking about her actual presence, as if she moved in a separate existence on the edge of a dream. Then, one day, he didn’t know how, a terrible thing happened: he slept with her. This only happened once, and Uncle Mustapha didn’t think of it again until, several months later, he noticed the woman’s stomach had become huge. He was worried and asked her if he was responsible. At each visit, the woman’s stomach grew with an agonizing and precise rhythm. She always kept her passive beast’s attitude, never pronouncing a word. It finally became unbearable; Uncle Mustapha grew sick. Each week he watched this lewd stomach, and each week it seemed more impossibly swollen. He would have gone mad if the woman hadn’t disappeared one day and never come back.