Albert Cossery - Laziness in the Fertile Valley

“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.

He roused himself from his memories and asked his brother:

“How’s your hernia?”

“Thank God,” replied old Hafez, “it’s getting better.”

“You have to learn to take care of it,” said Uncle Mustapha “It could be a real nuisance.”

Old Hafez put his hand between his legs and caressed the swelling as one caresses a child.

“Don’t you find it smaller?”

“It’s hardly visible anymore,” said Uncle Mustapha.

He wanted to appease his brother; his situation as a parasite demanded that he be courteous. Old Hafez knew he was lying, but his lie was agreeable all the same.

“Is that true?’ he asked.

“On my honor, it’s true. I wouldn’t fool you! A few days ago, it was frightening. But now you can scarcely see it.”

“May God hear you! I wish it would go away entirely. Do you think it will be an obstacle to my marriage?”

“How silly! Your wife will be happy to take care of you. I tell you, she’ll even be proud of your hernia.”

Old Hafez smiled contentedly. The enormity of this lie didn’t seem to bother him. He lit a cigarette, offered another to his brother, and they began to smoke in silence.

Hoda was in no hurry to go back to her mother’s; this evening she wanted to see Imtissal. Ever since Rafik had sent her there, Hoda had been on friendly terms with the prostitute. She loved, most of all, to play with Imtissal’s baby, and to rock it on her knees while it slept. It was a beautiful child and aroused Hoda’s maternal instincts. The prostitute was always very friendly; she spoiled Hoda, giving her syrups and all kinds of sweets. Hoda didn’t quite realize what it meant that Imtissal was a prostitute. She had a rather confused idea about it, and it didn’t disturb her relationship with Imtissal. To her she could talk about Serag, because the prostitute always listened with a tender friendliness. Now there was a sort of conspiracy between them. Hoda had no one else to whom she could tell her grievances, and old Hafez’s latest caprice, along with the whole load of his contrariness and surprises, was too heavy for her to bear alone. She wanted to tell Imtissal about this sensational event. It would do her good to lighten her heart a little.

The night was long in coming, and in the grey twilight the street lamps flickered weakly, like half-formed stars. Some people were lagging along the road, before going home to bed. The houses were already becoming black and immobile. In some places, there were long vistas over the fields; the country slept in its snare, and an infinite sadness stretched as far as the horizon. Hoda walked purposefully, with the bearing of a serious and well-bred young lady. She wore a blue beret and carried a large shoulder bag that knocked against her hip.

This bag was the height of elegance, a present from Imtissal, and Hoda was proud to show it off. Basically, she was given to coquetry, like the rest of her sex. She practised it with amusing naiveté. Imtissal lived at the end of the crowded area; after her house there were only a few villas scattered along the road. Hoda was frightened crossing the last yards that still lay between. She was seized by a superstitious terror. She almost ran, stopped in front of the house, panting, and raised her bead. There was a light in Imtissal’s window. Hoda went in and climbed up the dark stairway with the worn steps. The bannister was rickety, and there were obscure designs on the wall. Hoda stopped on the second floor; Imtissal’s door was on the right. She straightened her beret, smoothed her dress, licked her lower lip, then knocked on the door.