Albert Cossery - Laziness in the Fertile Valley

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The monotonous, insidious call of the corn vendor harassed him.

“Roasted corn! Eat some roasted corn!”

These wandering vendors — he despised them more than anything in the world; they cried their merchandise in the ears of the passers-by as if they offered an obscene invitation. This one was even worse than the others. He gave himself the airs of a conscientious, organized worker. The imbecile! He thought he was working because he pulled some ears of roasted corn on a cart! What stupidity! Rafik heard his call again, distorted by the distance, filling the night. He felt the mute cries of men around him, ready to devour him. He hurried on. The road was deserted now, but he felt the certain presence of monsters, always ready for murder. He felt them waiting behind the walls of houses, couching in the shadowy underbrush of the fields, and even in the dull sky above him.

Rafik prowled a few minutes under Imtissal’s window. He didn’t dare go up; he was afraid she’d be with a client. He’d never be able to survive such a humiliation! He suffered a deadly jealousy at the thought of Imtissal making love. He was tormented by visions; he stiffened under the intensity of his carnal memories. He glanced toward the entrance and was terrified by its look of a shadowy trap. The house was in deep shadow; the street lamps didn’t penetrate it. Its sinister façade and crumbling walls seemed buried in the night. Rafik couldn’t take his eyes off the entrance. His need to explain to Imtissal, that had brought him this far, had changed to a physical desire. Suddenly he felt himself torn apart, and a light split the darkness. A car passed at top speed, creating a wind of panic. Rafik felt himself caught and staggered like a drunken man. He couldn’t stand the least shock. His head ached, his limbs were weak and painful; he was afraid of falling on the road.

The café he entered was a sort of dirty hovel, lit by a gas lamp. Some shaky tables swam in the weird light. The proprietor stood behind the counter. He was about thirty, with a dull face, and had a bird tattooed on his right temple. He was busily preparing a multitude of apparently useless things, since there was no one in the café, except a shriveled old woman, whose head was covered by a black veil. She was sitting near the counter and never took her troubled look off the man.

Rafik ordered a cup of coffee; he waited, half conscious, for his strength to return. He was angry with himself for his cowardice. He had gone out with the intention of seeing Imtissal, and he hadn’t dared go up to her room.

Why hadn’t he dared? His desire for her had stopped him. In leaving the house that evening, his mind had been free of all mental reservations; he had simply wanted to explain himself to her. It was only when he stood under her window, thinking that perhaps she was entertaining a client, that he had felt the blood rush in his veins. His desire for her was not yet dead. She had been too close to him, the warmth of her body was still alive in him. He felt caught in the memory of former voluptuousness.

At this moment he noticed a strange scene.

The café owner was talking to the old woman at the table near the counter. There was nothing remarkable in that; he spoke with his usual voice and gestures. Then, suddenly, he changed his voice and his movements, as though he were imitating someone else. For some time he alternated roles. First he was himself, then another person. This other person was always the same; he had a well-defined voice and manner. He could be recognized quickly as soon as he entered the scene. It seemed to unroll according to established rite; no false note interrupted its charm.

Rafik was intrigued by this mystery. He was also growing impatient for his coffee. He tapped on the table and caught the man’s attention. The man nodded his head to show he had understood.

A moment later, he brought him his coffee. Rafik looked at the man curiously.

“Yes,” said the man. “That’s how it is!”

“What’s that?” asked Rafik.

The man put a finger to his lips and leaned forward.

“That woman is my mother,” he said.

“So?” said Rafik.

“She’s mad,” said the man.

“I see,” said Rafik. “But what sort of comedy are you playing?”

“It’s not a comedy,” said the man. “Listen, here’s the story. I had a brother who died last year. My mother doesn’t believe it. She’s crazy, I tell you. Well, so as not to distress her, I take my brother’s gestures and voice. That way she thinks he’s still alive, and that she sees him.”

“What a story!” said Rafik.

“Yes, it’s a pretty story!” said the man. “All this tires me enormously, especially with the work I do. Each time she comes here I have to begin these grimaces all over again.”

“I pity you,” said Rafik.

“It does me good to talk to someone,” said the man. “You don’t know what a burden all this is to me.”

Rafik got up and left the café. He was upset by what he had just seen. The collective insanity of mankind had never astonished him more. He knew its many forms. The café proprietor was as mad as his old mother! They were all mad. There was no salvation anywhere in the world. Rafik ran almost all the way back to the house.

Now the mouse was under the bed; Galal heard it nibbling the strips of the parquet floor. He didn’t dare move; he didn’t even dare open his eyes. Sweat chilled his body, he felt it running in small rivulets along his limbs. Every evening this mouse came to destroy his sleep. It was obstinate; it turned round and round, then began to run from one end of the room to the other, making a tiny noise, scarcely perceptible. Galal had the disagreeable impression that it was running across his skin.

He lowered the covers and looked over at the other bed; Rafik wasn’t there. Where could he be? They were all becoming maniacs in this house! What could keep them up like this, lost in their useless debates, as if they were plotting the end of the world? The idea made him smile. What if it really were the end of the world! A light flashed through his mind his father’s marriage. It was true his father had decided to marry. And he’d slept for days, without worrying about anything! How was such a disaster possible? It would be unbearable! He must do everything he could to stop this marriage. He must act quickly. Act! The very thought sent painful cramps through his body.

Thus his sleep was menaced! Why hadn’t he guessed the tragedy hidden in this marriage at once! A woman coming into a house would ruin a state of sleep established for an eternity. Once again he thought he would have to do something about this calamity. The best thing would be for his father to die. But this idea didn’t attract Galal much. His father’s death would bring complications of another order, just as disagreeable, if not more immediate. First, there would be the mourners who never failed to assemble. The cries of those infernal females would fill the house for days. And then, he would have to get up, to receive their condolences and follow the cortege to the cemetery.

No, it would be better if his father didn’t die. He would have to find something else. Galal realized that the idea of the marriage was going to be an endless torment. He believed he was in great danger and didn’t know what to do about it. No one was there to help him. Rafik was busy with the affair. That’s why he wasn’t in bed. Ah! Good boy! Perhaps he was murdering Haga Zohra! Galal had faith in him; he was almost an engineer, he had lots of profound technical knowledge. Galal felt a little calmer, but he still couldn’t sleep.

What time could it be? In any case, it still wasn’t dawn. Galal didn’t remember having heard the carts go by. The carts came from a nearby factory, and took red bricks to the city. They passed on the road regularly, with a thunderous noise that shook the house to its foundations. Galal was awakened each time as though by an earthquake. He couldn’t help thinking of the men who drove the carts. Agonized, he always asked himself what stupid miracle had awakened these men at dawn and sent them to work. It was something Galal could never understand.