Laziness in the Fertile Valley (3 page)

A smile of admiration touched his toothless mouth like a wound.

“It’s malicious gossip,” said Serag. “How could you believe such things? It’s true my brother Galal sleeps a great deal. Sometimes a whole day. But to sleep for a month — no one in the world could do it. Believe me, it’s nothing but gossip.”

“The world is so spiteful,” said Abou Zeid with a certain deceit. “Men say so many things.”

Serag was deeply humiliated. He remembered having already heard such stories about his brother. It was true that Galal had broken all records for sleep and was even capable of worse performances. He only woke to eat or to go to the bathroom. But from this to accuse him of sleeping for a whole month, surely it was an exaggeration. Serag wondered if the public included him in this vice. He suffered under the weight of inertia that bound him to his family. His youth still saved him, but how much longer? Work was the only thing that could rescue him, but it was such a remote possibility, he didn’t dare think of it.

Next door, in the tinker’s shop, a workman twisted over an unwieldy pot while a small boy helped him work the ancient bellows of the forge. Some winter flies moved about silently, but persistently. Abou Zeid drove them away with a controlled and cunning gesture of his hand. At another shop a servant who was doing his marketing swore heatedly at a vegetable seller who had allowed himself to make a joke. His voice echoed in the middle of the road like that of a hysterical madman, as though someone had tried to violate him or tear out his eyes. Abou Zeid tossed his head at this show of human depravity, then took up the train of his mediocre thoughts again. He had just found an idea for his business that seemed congenial.

“About the shop, my son, what do you think of my selling radishes? They’re beautiful — radishes!”

“It’s not bad,” acknowledged Serag. “But it’s still not right. Just the same — think of filling this shop with radishes. It would be amusing.”

“What’s really amusing,” said Abou Zeid, “is to see it empty as it is right now. Believe me, it gives me a scare.”

“Be patient a few more days. I promised to put my mind to it. You know, Abou Zeid, at the moment I’ve a few worries myself. When things are going better, I’ll find a really spectacular idea for your business.”

“Allah watch over you, my son! Only you’d do well to hurry. And above all, try not to bring me ideas that are original and tiring. I’m an old man; I can’t allow myself to have fancies. As you see, my strength declines day by day. But I have confidence in you. May God help you!”

Abou Zeid’s laments originated in a conjugal drama which he had never mentioned to the young man. His pride had kept him silent. Abou Zeid was the victim of a nagging mother in law’s ambition. She kept after him all day, calling him a misshapen monster, unfit, and a failure at business. She made his life unbearable and incited her daughter to rebel. Abou Zeid was reduced by this to beg caresses from his wife. To escape the reproaches of this fury, he had, several months before, quit the little corner of the street where he had sold his merchandise in order to rent this shop. Here he had consecrated himself to becoming a famous tradesman. He now found himself in a trap and was trying to avoid, as much as possible, the disaster that menaced him.

A bus passed, stopping at a nearby station. Some men got out and walked without haste toward their homes. No doubt they were coming back from work, but from what sort of work? Serag observed them with a certain contempt. They didn’t seem harassed, but rather sad. They must have been sleeping in their dusty offices at the bottom of some corporation. The thing that annoyed them above all, was that they couldn’t sleep in their own homes. They had to disturb themselves and go elsewhere to sleep, in order to give the impression they were doing important work. Serag thought them contemptible. They walked off and the bus went on its way, spitting out a great jet of blue smoke.

With the corner of his shawl, Abou Zeid wiped the saliva that was soiling his beard; then he straightened his baskets a little and asked with much interest:

“Why are you worried, my son? Is it — I pray not — that you’re sick?”

“I’m not sick,” replied Serag. “I’m very well. Goodbye.”

Why were they all asking if he were sick? The child too had asked. Did they see something in his face? He walked on a moment, then turned to the right and entered a little alley of hard dirt. After a few feet, he stopped before the iron railing of his house. It was a small villa, shabby in appearance, two stories high. A tiny garden, rapidly filling with rubbish, separated it from the alley. Setag had stopped, his back turned to the villa. He didn’t dare go back into the house; he feared the moment of finding himself with his family again. The sun had come out; entirely free of the clouds, it gave out a penetrating heat. Serag felt warm again, forgot his torments and sank back in an endless revery.

III

Standing in front of the kitchen sink, Hoda was washing a dish. Her tongue between her teeth, her elbows resting on the edge of the sink, she hurried with the precise movements of the well trained domestic. Through the window came the strong rays of the sun, spotting the flags of the floor with dazzling splashes of light. The kitchen was the only clean place in the house, it was her domain, and no one ever penetrated it. Hoda could clean there at her leisure without the usual trials. In the other rooms, cleaning was a hazardous affair that required much patience and discretion. The family was always on the verge of falling asleep and didn’t like to have her working around. Hoda had learned all sorts of devices for putting at least a semblance of order in the house.

In spite of the deafening noise of the oil stove, she heard from the dining room the sound of Rafik’s piercing voice, impatient with the company of Uncle Mustapha. Hoda stopped a moment and listened. She was afraid it was because of her again. It was always the same story: she was late with lunch. Actually, it wasn’t her fault; the habits of the house kept her from coming earlier in the morning. For one thing, Galal had expressly forbidden it. Although she always managed to get in without being seen, the mere knowledge that someone was awake in the house kept him from sleeping. He would have preferred never to have her there at all. He complained about the slightest disturbance around him. His sensitivity was miraculous. He seemed to be equipped with antennae that warned him of the least change in the atmosphere. He was the easiest to satisfy in this strange family, but became intransigent as soon as something concerned his sleep. His complaints were weak, unsuccessful stirrings in the abyss. Even the caresses he allowed himself with her were always almost innocuous, discouraged, and terribly monotonous. Because of this, Hoda wasn’t much afraid of him. She always managed to escape his summary embrace without great damage.

She stood on tiptoe, reached the faucet and turned it on full force. Then she passed some soap covered plates under the stream of water. Soon they were clean and shining. Hoda admired them complacently for it gave her a childish joy to see these immaculate things come from her hands. It was one of the rare satisfactions in her wretched life. But suddenly a thought darkened her face. She had just remembered she hadn’t seen Serag this morning. She had hunted in vain for him in his room. She wondered where he could be. Undoubtedly, he had gone out early. He was the only one in this sleep-besieged house who behaved a little as though he were alive. Hoda was glad he was not like the others; yet she feared all sorts of dangers for him. One never knew what could happen to a boy like him, left all alone to the hazards of the streets, among evil people and things. She saw him crushed by a car, or asleep, in a field, helpless against the sting of a scorpion. She stood for a moment speculative and uneasy, her tongue still between her teeth, the last dish in her dripping hands.

She caught herself, and thought with dismay of the late lunch. And to complete her anxiety, the lentils weren’t done. Hoda left the sink, raised the cover of the pot on the stove and dipped the soup ladle into the steaming lentils, tasting them with the end of her tongue. They were cooked, but not salted enough. Hoda took a handful of salt from a jar, threw it in the pot and put the cover back on.

Now she must find Serag and tell him lunch was ready; then wake Galal who was sleeping, as always, with his head buried under his quilt. Old Hafez ate alone in his room on the top floor. He was never disturbed, living in almost complete isolation. Hoda had been ordered by him to bring his meals to his room. She was responsible for everything and took care of the family as if it consisted of sick children.

She wiped the plates, stacking them in a pile to carry to the dining room. At this instant, as she turned her head toward the window, she saw Serag standing in the alley, his back turned toward the house. Her heart trembled. Instinctively, she wanted to call to him, but found herself unable to pronounce a word, held back by his strange pose. Serag was standing very erect, his hands thrust in his pockets, his head thrown back, his face held up to the sun. He seemed to be contemplating something fascinating in the sky. Hoda couldn’t see his face, and that intrigued her even more. What could he be gazing at, motionless as a statue? Hoda put the stack of plates on the table and crept to the window.

Serag was still in his ecstasy, cut off, entirely lost in some dream. Hoda raised her head, looked at the house opposite, then at the sky where light clouds were scattering in the wind. There was nothing unusual to hold the attention. No doubt, Serag wasn’t looking at anything. Perhaps his eyes were even closed. What a strange boy! He could stay that way forever. Hoda stood still for a long time, hoping to see him move, then decided to open the window.

“Serag! Lunch is ready!”

Several seconds went by before the young man turned his head. Seeing Hoda, he made a face of annoyance, then smiled sadly. Hoda saw him open the gate to the garden. She ran to pick up the pile of dishes and started toward the dining room.

“Well, you bitch, is lunch ready?’ asked Rafik.

“It’s ready,” said Hoda. “You can sit down at the table.”

“Hurry up, you daughter of a whore!”

The dining room, on the first floor, was large, with black and white tiling, furnished with a few moth-eaten chairs. Except for the table and chairs, there was only a buffet and a couch, covered by a white cloth with yellow stripes, repulsively dirty. A rather large mat of braided straw covered the tiles under the table. The walls were bare and sweating from the humidity. Like all the rooms in the house, the dining room gave off a special odor of mustiness — the stale air of closed houses, of a vault or a cavern. On one of the walls, in a gold frame, was a huge photograph of old Hafez, retouched with water colors. Because of the dust and flyspecks that had completely covered the glass, old Hafez looked like a horrible daubed corpse. Old Hafez, who never left his room, found this a means of presiding, in a rather terrifying manner, at his children’s meals. But no one paid any attention to him; he grew dimmer in his gold frame, gradually forgotten in the general indifference.

Rafik was stretched out on the couch, dressed in dirty pajamas, his feet bare except for wooden shoes. He had just finished a very animated conversation with Uncle Mustapha, during which he had riddled him with sarcasms. Now he was relaxed, taking malicious pleasure in his uncle’s crestfallen face. Uncle Mustapha was already at the table, silently at his place, nibbling a piece of bread while he waited for lunch. He had assumed an imperturbable calm, even though he was deeply shaken. Rafik’s sarcasm always wounded his dignity, and he tried to compose himself in an attitude of serenity, which, unfortunately, fooled no one.

Hoda arranged the plates on the table and started back toward the kitchen. Rafik had been watching her malevolently. As she passed him, he grabbed her by a corner of her dress and asked in a low voice:

“Tell me: have you seen her?”

“Yes, I saw her,” replied Hoda.

Rank had a gleam like hope in his eye. His voice became deeper, agonized.

“What did she say?”

“She said she didn’t want to see you.”

“Bitch! You’re lying!”

Hoda tried to free herself, but Rafik held on to her dress. She feared him more than all the others, because of this gleam of lust always burning in his eyes. He seemed possessed by a constant fury.

“It’s not my fault,” she defended herself. “I can’t do anything about it. She told me she didn’t want to see you.”

“It’s impossible,” said Rafik. “It’s impossible she’s forgotten me.”

“She hasn’t forgotten you,” said Hoda. “She just doesn’t want to see you.”

“The whore! And you, you’re another!”

“Let go of me,” begged Hoda.

Rafik released her and fell back on the sofa. Hoda went back to the kitchen.

During this hushed dialogue, Uncle Mustapha gaped, his eyes fixed on some invisible point in the room. The bitterness of his thoughts led him inevitably to one of his prolonged withdrawals that astonished the household. He seemed to be always vegetating in some other world. He wandered about all day in his nightgown and an old jacket of maroon wool, his tarboosh always on his head for fear of the cold. In this garb Uncle Mustapha gave the impression of being there only for a visit. His endless displays of dignity tired him enormously. To maintain his self-respect among these lazy and disrespectful children was a job he found more and more exhausting. Uncle Mustapha took much pain to safeguard, in his present situation, a remnant of this solemn dignity which had been his prerogative long ago. From time to time during several minutes, he emitted strange sighs that seemed to come from some deep-rooted suffering.

“Here’s our great labourer!” said Rafik suddenly.

Serag had just come into the dining room. He had taken off his football shoes in his bedroom and now was walking around in his socks, with an uncertain step, his face tired as though he hadn’t slept for many days. Slowly he took his place at the table. His morning walk had left him rather exhausted and he was glad to find himself back with his family. Each time he came back from a hike across the countryside, he felt as though he had escaped some sinister danger. Then the desire to wander seized him again, and he began to hate this atmosphere of mystery and sleep that smothered him. At this moment he was smiling, almost contentedly.

“Hello, Uncle,” he said.

“Hello, my son.”

“Well,” said Rafik, “what good news do you bring from the outside?”

“I didn’t see much,” replied Serag. “I just walked in the country.”

“Not really! You look so tired. And where do you think you’ll drag yourself next?”

“That’s none of your business,” said Serag. “I’m free to walk where I want.”

“You walk!” sneered Rafik. “Look where you’re walking now. I think you were looking for work. But excuse me, I see you’ve given up that folly.”

“Go to hell!” said Serag.

“Leave the boy alone,” said Uncle Mustapha.

“Uncle Mustapha,” replied Rafik, “you’ve lived in the city a long time; tell us, please, what men who work do.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said his uncle. “What are you trying to say?”

“It’s a question that only concerns Serag,” insisted Rafik. “He’ll have to prove himself. I can hardly wait till he brings some money back to the house. Because my dear Serag, I hope that with all your talents you’ll earn a lot of money.”

Serag was used to this insulting irony and didn’t answer. Only Uncle Mustapha always rose to his nephew’s bait. He couldn’t resist, even though he had been around him for almost three years. His bewilderment at such moments was pitiably funny. Rafik found him the perfect target and never lost an opportunity to abuse him. Actually, it wasn’t that he was innately malicious; he simply needed a release to calm his nerves which were continually on edge. Rafik’s sarcasm covered a painful sorrow; for at bottom he was the only sane person in his whole family. He had consciously chosen the quiet destiny that bound the native idleness of a whole clan. His reason, as well as his own temperament, had drawn him to it. He could analyze everything that such a destiny of disinterested grandeur meant and was provoked to see others not seemingly aware of their good fortune. From this came his scorn and sarcasm.

Since his conversation with Hoda, his face betrayed a strong annoyance that he tried to control but which shone through each of his words. He got up from the couch and took his place opposite Uncle Mustapha.

Hoda came back from the kitchen with the pot of lentils and placed them in the middle of the table.

“Help yourselves,” she said. “I have to wake Galal.”

“Have you served the bey?” asked Uncle Mustapha.

“The bey!” Rafik exclaimed. “What a sense of humour! Since when, Uncle Mustapha, is my father a bey?”

Uncle Mustapha reflected but didn’t answer. He wanted to find some ingenious formula to safeguard his dignity.

“Your father’s a bey,” he said. “And I too am a bey. If you weren’t so disrespectful, that’s what you’d call me. You above all, Rafik. You forget I was a rich man.”

“I haven’t forgotten a thing,” said Rafik. “Uncle Mustapha, you’re really quite a man. You should have been a minister of state.”

Uncle Mustapha sensed his helplessness and held back his irritation. He began to serve himself some lentils, then said with a detached air:

“You’re only a bad boy. Anyhow, I’m not going to talk to you anymore.”

“Oh, this is terrible. You’re not going to talk to me anymore! What’ll I do? Uncle Mustapha, answer me; it isn’t true — you’re not angry with me?”

Rafik put on a tragic face and fixed imploring eyes on Uncle Mustapha. But Uncle Mustapha didn’t budge. He kept silent and began to eat tranquilly, absentmindedly. Serag helped himself too; he was eating hungrily. The visit to the factory had made him ravenous. The suffering he felt outside was gone; he appreciated this peaceful security where there were no catastrophes. Rafik’s harangues with Uncle Mustapha created an atmosphere of complicity around him, a familiar warmth that enchanted him.

Silence reigned everywhere in the room. No one spoke. In the middle of the table the pot of lentils gave off steam that rose toward the ceiling in vaporous white clouds. Old Hafez, gloomy and smeared, disappeared little by little under the mist that filmed the glass of the picture. Finally, he disappeared altogether.

“Why are you awake?”

Galal, who had just asked this anguished question, was standing in the doorway with the frightened look of someone who has just awakened with a start. His eyes were still half closed; he yawned till he twisted his jaw. His disheveled hair fell on his forehead, and his face had a cadaverous pallor. He wore a large nightgown; foully dirty and stained with sweat, it clung to his skin. Obviously, he hadn’t changed it for months. Leaning against the wall, he stood without moving, blinking his eyes swollen with sleep, as if he wanted to take in everything in the scene.

“If we’re awake, my dear Galal, it’s only to eat,” said Rafik. “I swear it on my honor. Don’t think anything else.”