Albert Cossery - Laziness in the Fertile Valley

A strange emotion mastered him. He paused for a long moment, then rose, approached the cradle unsteadily, and stared at the sleeping infant: Imtissal watched him, her face hard and anguished.

“He’s sleeping,” he said.

“Yes,” said Imtissal. “He’s as lazy as you are. But he isn’t your son.”

“I know. No matter, I love this child. He sleeps so well. Above all he doesn’t talk of work.”

He returned and looked at Imtissal, his eyes half-closed, as though lost in an exquisite dream.

“Let me sleep on your bed for a moment,” he asked in a supplicating tone. “I promise — only for a moment. Then I’ll leave at once.”

Imtissal remained stifled, without strength. She knew she was defeated by this immense inertia which nothing could rouse. She shook with sobs and began to tear her hair, screaming curses. But Rafik went over to her slowly, unmoved by her cries. Suddenly he sank down on the bed, and was carried away by the heavy waves of sleep.

Old Hafez was sitting in his bed contemplating his hernia with wonder and dismay. Each time he awoke, the sight of his impotence filled him with despair. He put a trembling hand on the horrible swelling that never stopped growing — defying him. It was really amazing how it increased every day, as though it took pleasure in torturing him, in becoming more and more outrageous. Old Hafez couldn’t even believe it anymore; it had passed the bounds of the possible and even of the detestable. There was no doubt that some evil being had cast a spell over this growth, trying to destroy him. Wasn’t it one of the children’s tricks to ruin his marriage? They were capable of the worst villainy, those children. But, even so, old Hafez couldn’t imagine what devilish and intricate mechanism they could have used to produce this result. His mind became confused in the maze of this terrible conspiracy. The absurdity of such suspicions, that came from pure indulgence, didn’t bother him at all; he stubbornly held to the contrary, not wanting to founder in hopelessness and accept defeat. He was even suddenly tempted to go downstairs, to tell his children that he had discovered their plot and to teach them some respect. Only the vanity such a move would imply stopped him.

Soon he was tired of looking at his infirmity. He lowered his nightgown, pulled up the covers and began to lament his fate. How, in this condition, could he hope for a marriage that would rejoice his declining years? Everyone was plotting against him, everyone had abandoned him. Even Haga Zohra had given no sign of life since her visit so long ago, when she had promised miracles. No doubt she had forgotten him. Thus there was nothing left him in his solitude but the dismal spectacle of his hernia. He was alone, faced with this agonizing hernia that he felt forever growing between his legs and filling the bed with its incongruous mass.

To escape his obsession, he took the paper off the night table and opened it. It was a very old paper, yellowed, the type blurred with time, giving its news a doubtful aspect that corresponded with his own views of the world. But he had scarcely read a line when he felt tired and started to fall asleep.

After a moment, he was awakened by someone pronouncing his name in a muffled, respectful voice.

“Hafez Bey!”

He quickly opened his eyes; it seemed to him that someone was calling him from a great distance, almost outside the house. He thought he was dreaming and wanted to go back to sleep, when he saw a black form standing in the doorway.

“Ah! It’s you. Come in. I’ve been wondering what had become of you, O woman!”

“I’ve been working for you,” said Haga Zohra.

She was out of breath, and her panting was like that of a steam engine. She immediately began to complain.

“What a curse those stairs are! I’m too old to go up such stairs. If it weren’t for you. ”

She came into the room, enormous and flabby, her black melaya wrapped around her huge body. Each time she moved, her voluminous breasts stirred dangerously. The room seemed filled by her presence.

Old Hafez sat up to watch her better. The sudden appearance of Haga Zohra filled him with optimism. He already foresaw an end to his misery.

“Come, sit down,” he said. “Tell me your news.”

“Give me time to breathe,” said Haga Zohra.

She squatted on the ground, her melaya spread out, arranging her huge body with infinite precautions on the hard floor. Then she became motionless, resolute as fate. It was the torture of the damned for her to drag her flabby, swollen flesh around to these bourgeois houses, where her work as a go-between took her. Also, once she was settled somewhere, it was difficult for her to leave. She had stopped panting, but she said nothing. Her venal mind, greedy for money, knew the value of the silence that preceded revelations.

“How did you get up?” asked old Hafez. “Didn’t the children see you?”

“I didn’t meet anyone.”

“Good. They ought to be asleep, it’s time for siesta. Anyway, if they ever stop you from coming up, just shout and I’ll come down and take care of them.”

“Why should they keep me from coming up?” wailed Haga Zohra. “What have I done to them? By Allah, I’m just a poor woman!”

Haga Zohra was well aware of the difficulty old Hafez was having with his children since he had announced his marriage, but she preferred to be discreet and play the martyr. Her work demanded it.

“They know you’re arranging my marriage,” said old Hafez.

“So?” lamented Haga Zohra again. “They haven’t seen

anything yet, and they’re complaining already. I haven’t proposed a one-eyed, hunch backed girl that I know of. I’m bringing the most beautiful girl in the country. When they see her, they won’t believe their eyes.”

“That’s not it, O woman! The children don’t want me to marry. But don’t worry, I’ll be married in spite of them. They’ll see I’m the master.”

“By Allah, what’s come over the world? Why don’t they want you to marry?”

“I’ve no idea. They’re criminals, but I’ll teach them. And now, leave the children to the devil and tell me what you’ve done.”

Haga Zohra sighed and assumed a funereal air to show her sorrow at the tribulations of the world.

“It’s done,” she said. “But I won’t hide that I had a lot of

trouble.”

“I hope at least that she comes from a good family.”

“From a good family! What do you think, Hafez Bey? You know quite well I’m not going to propose an orphan! By God, she has a family. And what a family! I had to live with them for a week to persuade them to accept.”

Old Hafez wanted to expose this flagrant exaggeration, but he allowed it to pass, and said:

“But why? I hope you told them who I was.”

“Of course. But the girl is only sixteen. They thought they’d give her to a prince.”

“That’s insane!” exclaimed old Hafez.

“That’s what I made them see after a week,” replied Haga Zohra. “In the end they could hardly believe everything I told them about your fortune and your name. Finally, to convince them, I confided that you had diabetes.”

“What did they say?” asked old Hafez, without taking offence at this illness that had so generously been conferred upon him.

“First, their faces lit up, then they smiled and told me: ‘If what you say is true, he must be very well off.’ I replied: ‘Have you ever seen, O people, a beggar with diabetes? My word! What do you want!’ From then on they were for it.”

“Very good,” said old Hafez. “You’re a clever woman. I won’t forget to reward you.”

“I didn’t do it for rewards,” said Haga Zohra, a little insulted. “I like to give service. You know the esteem I have for your family. What wouldn’t I do for you? You’re the light of the quarter.”