Albert Cossery - Laziness in the Fertile Valley

Old Hafez liked her respect; such deference to his social position he had not received since he had broken all his ties with the world. Haga Zohra’s esteem, even though it was soiled by a desire for money, easily satisfied him in a way he had long since forgotten. He moved in his bed, wiped his hand across his face, then suddenly remembered an important detail.

“But Haga Zohra, what are you saying! I don’t have diabetes.”

Haga Zohra recoiled a little, and almost spilled her ponderous flesh over the floor of the room. She caught herself in time and said, breathing very hard:

“Now what? What difference does it make? It’s something that doesn’t show.”

“Even so,” said old Hafez, “it’s an illness.”

“It’s an illness of the rich. It can only make you more respected. Believe me, I know what I’m doing.”

Old Hafez reflected a few seconds; he was thinking about his hernia and telling himself that this new and spectacular malady would perhaps compensate to some extent for the repulsiveness of his infirmity.

“You’re sure of what you say, O woman?”

“Of course. I’ll cut off my arm if I’m lying.”

There was a silence. Old Hafez threw off his anxiety, stretched out in the bed, and drifted into senile reveries about his future marriage. The annoying afternoon light that flooded the room kept him from enjoying the agreeable visions that began to come to him. He closed his eyes and for a long time lay lost in happiness. But he was frightened by the silence around him; it seemed full of things that were after him, determined to destroy his newborn peace. He felt the sweat running down his limbs and was again overcome by doubts. He opened his eyes, heaved a majestic sigh, then turned toward Haga Zohra and fixed a cadaverous look upon her.

Haga Zohra had been meditating upon the different ways in which she might draw the best profit from the situation, when old Hafez’s sighs interrupted her culpable reflections. She thought she had been detected; her heavy flesh quivered, and she instinctively drew the folds of her melaya around her vast flanks. Then, her elbows propped on her knees, she leaned forward and asked hoarsely

“Why are you sighing? What are you complaining about?”

Old Hafez, with his frightened cadaver’s face, opened his mouth, and gave several plaintive moans in reply.

“What are you complaining about?” repeated Haga Zohra. “Here you are almost a married man. What is there to fuss about?”

Old Hafez made an effort and decided to speak.

“I have to tell you something.”

“I’m listening,” said Haga Zohra. “What is it?”

“You know about my hernia. Well, it gets bigger every day! It’s unbelievable.”

“What’s that? The last time you told me it had begun to go away. What’s happened to it?”

“By Allah, I don’t know,” admitted old Hafez.

“It isn’t possible,” said Haga Zohra.

“I suspect the children are playing a trick on me,” said old Hafez.

“The children! What about the children? I don’t understand.”

“It’s very simple. They’re influencing it. They want to keep me from marrying those devils.”

“But how could they do it?” asked Haga Zohra, alarmed to find herself so close to evil spirits.

“I don’t know yet. However, I have strong suspicions.”

Haga Zohra shook her head. The old man was obviously losing his mind. But it wasn’t her affair to correct him. After all, nothing was impossible. Those demons were capable of anything; making a hernia swell would be a marvelous joke for them.

At any rate, her interests compelled her to calm the old man’s fears.

“But Hafez Bey, the children couldn’t do such a thing. After all, you’re their father.”

“They’re criminals, believe me. But it’s not just that. I’m worried about something else as well. Tell me: haven’t you thought this would be a hindrance to my marriage?”

“Your marriage! What’s this idea? Since when has a hernia kept a man from marrying? Really, you hurt me, Hafez Bey!”

“Then you don’t think it’s anything to worry about?”

“A man like you,” said Haga Zohra, “strong and handsome as a lion, to worry about a silly little hernia!”

“Alas, it isn’t little!” said old Hafez. “It’s huge.” He hesitated a moment. “Don’t you want to see it?”

“I’d be glad to,” said Haga Zohra. “What wouldn’t I do for you?”

“Then get up and come look. I’d like to know your opinion.”

“I’ll tell you right now. By Allah, you’re worrying about

nothing.”

Haga Zohra pulled her melaya around her, breathing deeply to prepare herself for the effort she was about to make. Then with slow, measured movements, she managed to get up. When she was near the bed, old Hafez drew back the covers and exposed his lower abdomen. The hernia lay between his legs, surmounted by his stunted sex; it was like an inflated football. At this sight, despite her reputed courage as a hardy woman, Haga Zohra couldn’t repress a shudder.

“What do you think of it?” asked old Hafez.

“It’s nothing,” replied Haga Zohra. “I knew it before I looked, you’re frightened for nothing.”

“It’s huge isn’t it?”

“What are you saying? Why do you say it’s huge? My word, Hafez Bey, you’re dreaming.”

“Maybe. Actually, perhaps it is only a dream.”

“Don’t worry,” said Haga Zohra. “I’m going to massage it for you. You’ll see, it will go away in a few minutes. Just let me give you a treatment.”

She leaned over and expertly placed her fingers around the hernia. At first she trembled at the contact of this flesh, hard as a rock, but she quickly recovered herself. Very soon she forgot everything that had brought her to the house, her business as a go-between, the decaying old man moaning in his bed. Nothing existed for her but this strange thing her fingers were kneading delicately, that fascinated her with its horrible obscenity.

♦ ♦ ♦

Rafik woke up abruptly; he had been sleeping on the sofa in the dining room while he waited for Haga Zohra to come. He blinked his eyes, wondering how long he had been asleep, and cursed himself for having failed at his post. What if Haga Zohra had come while he slept? He thought he heard whispers upstairs. He listened, but heard nothing to confirm his apprehension. He stretched himself, making a painful grimace. He felt tired out; his limbs were heavy from his recent fatigue. He had just dreamed that he was a porter in a station, and that a thin, eccentric traveller, wearing a yellow tarboosh, had given him an old fashioned trunk to carry. It was an enormous trunk, and he had a horrible time lifting it on to his back. Then he had followed the traveller and they left the station. The man walked very fast, going down long streets, constantly changing sidewalks, not seeming to care where he was going. Sometimes he took perverse pleasure in walking down narrow alleys, where Rafik, with the enormous trunk on his back, only managed to pass by a miracle. This chase lasted an infinity; Rafik was out of breath from following the strange traveller. The weight of the trunk was crushing him, and each second he was ready to drop. Then, suddenly, the traveller halted, seemed to look for something around him, turned with a deliberate movement and burst out laughing in his face. Rafik, stunned, let go of the trunk, and it fell with a tremendous crash. and he woke up.

He still heard the traveller’s wicked laugh in his ear. It wasn’t the first time he’d heard it, it was the same laugh he had heard the night before at Imtissal’s. He remembered his visit to the prostitute, and felt happy to be free forever of that old, dangerous love. He was finished with her now. Her memory wouldn’t poison the sure joys of sleep any longer. He had no more to do; he had explained everything. But had she understood? No matter! He had definitely broken with the past. He would not be prey anymore to those regrets that had tortured him for two years.