Albert Cossery - Laziness in the Fertile Valley

Life was going to be pleasant, if he could only prevent his father’s marriage. This awful catastrophe still called for his constant watchfulness. True, there was the hernia; but the hernia wouldn’t stop Haga Zohra. She was even capable of transforming it into a thing of glory. Rafik knew he had to keep his eyes open; the least negligence on his part might ruin everything. He must keep Haga Zohra out of the house; if he had to, he could beat her, in spite of her great size.

He got off the sofa, walked around the table, and looked out the window. The sun was shining on the house across the way, on the perpetually closed shutters. Rafik thought of the women held prisoner by the vanity of their males and congratulated himself for being sheltered, protected from them by these walls. Because, without a doubt, they would have tried to seduce him with their idiot smiles and their honest whore’s tricks. He would not have been able to get away from the intrigue of these females who had no conception of a life without complication or scandal.

Again he heard whispers. And this time there was no doubt; he distinctly made out the noise of voices in old Hafez’s bedroom. He ran toward the hall, stopped at the bottom of the stairs, raised his head and listened. He was right to have been afraid; Haga Zohra was up there with his father. She had gotten in and gone up while he had been sleeping like an imbecile. He climbed the stairs slowly, taking care not to make any noise. He wanted to surprise Haga Zohra, to frighten her.

The door of the room was open, and the sight that met him left him dumfounded for a moment; he couldn’t believe his eyes. Haga Zohra was standing by the bed, leaning over his father, seeming to mould some invisible object between his father’s legs. The hernia! Rafik leaped to the middle of the room.

Old Hafez, without thinking to hide his nudity, cried out:

“It’s you, villain!”

“Yes, it’s me,” said Rafik. “And I’m going to kill this intriguer.”

Haga Zohra was holding her hands in the air, terrified and trembling. She wanted to speak, but her throat was tight with agony, and she could only utter feeble cries. Her enormous body wilted before this madman. Rafik went up to her, seized her arm, and pushed her toward the door. Then he gave her a great kick that sent her tottering down the staircase. She tumbled down the stairs, followed by Rafik, and fled like a hurricane through the sleeping house.

Then old Hafez began to cry in a strangled voice:

“Police! Call the police! Arrest the villain!”

Uncle Mustapha was standing in the hall, nervously twisting his moustache; he was being put to a severe test. His brother, old Hafez, had imposed a delicate mission upon him, one very difficult to perform. The problem was to awaken Galal and persuade him to go up and see his father. Old Hafez wanted to talk to his eldest son about the latest events in the house. Uncle Mustapha had not been able to avoid this request, and now he was seized with misgivings. It was no small matter to awaken Galal, but to get him upstairs seemed pure folly.

However, after much hesitation, Uncle Mustapha decided to face the worst, and went into Galal’s room. As he expected, he found the young man sunk in a heavy sleep. His face emaciated and pale as that of a corpse, Galal was scarcely breathing, and he looked as though all life had long since left him. Uncle Mustapha paused for a moment, seized with horror at the sight of him. Then he put out his hand and touched his nephew’s shoulder. But the light touch had no effect. Uncle Mustapha braced himself again and shook Galal vigorously. At this the young man seemed to struggle in some dream, groaned, and finally opened his eyes. He looked as though he were coming out of the grave.

“Ah, what’s the matter with you?”

“It’s your father,” said Uncle Mustapha.

“My father? Is he dead?”

“God forbid! He only wants to talk to you.”

Galal turned resolutely to the wall to indicate that this was of no interest to him.

“Good heavens, he’s mad!”

“It’s very serious,” said Uncle Mustapha. “My dear boy, I beg you, get up.”

“Never,” said Galal. “Not if it was the end of the world. Tell him I haven’t time. Why does he have to see me?”

“I tell you he wants to talk to you.”

“Talk to me? What’s the idea? Why does he want to talk to me?”

“I don’t know, but I assure you it’s very important.”

“There’s nothing important enough to get me out of bed.”

It was a categoric refusal, but Uncle Mustapha was too used to these dark pronouncements, issues of sleep, to be taken aback. He didn’t despair of victory, but waited a moment, then said in a grave voice

“Your father will be very angry.”

“Let him be angry — all the better. Then he’ll leave me in peace.”

“Listen, Galal, my boy. It will only take a minute. I beg of you, do it for me.”

“You want me to kill myself for you! What is this? You come in here and wake me up at dawn so I’ll catch cold! You’re merciless!”

“It’s eleven o’clock,” said Uncle Mustapha. “You won’t catch cold. It’s a very nice day. Come along! Galal, it will only take you a few minutes. The change of air will give you a good appetite. Lunch is almost ready.”

“The stairs,” groaned Galal. “What about the stairs?”

“The stairs?”

“Yes, climbing up the stairs!”

“Well. ”

“Do you think I’m a hod carrier? I’d never get up those stairs.”

“Don’t worry,” said Uncle Mustapha. “I’ll help you. You won’t have to exert yourself at all.”

“I won’t go unless you carry me,” said Galal.

“I’ll do my best,” promised Uncle Mustapha.

Uncle Mustapha was pleased with his success; he hadn’t expected it to be so easy. He pulled his tarboosh firmly on to his head and got ready to help Galal out of bed. But the young man didn’t seem to want to move; a painful change was taking place in him. It took him a long time to give in to this waking state; each time he opened his eyes he shut them again. He couldn’t manage to keep them open. At last he grew tired and made no more efforts to open them; he clutched at his uncle like a blind man. Uncle Mustapha put his arm around his nephew’s waist and helped him into the hall.

Old Hafez was waiting for them, sitting up in his bed. He loomed in the room like a pregnant woman, his enormous hernia thrusting up the sheet. He had assumed a pompous air to receive his son, striving to appear dignified and imposing.

“Galal, my son, wake up. I must speak with you seriously.”

But Galal had scarcely entered the room and looked around, when he freed himself from Uncle Mustapha’s arms and let himself fall to the ground. He settled himself against the wall, dropped his head, and resumed his interrupted sleep, indifferent to his father’s words.

“What a boy!” said old Hafez with a sigh.

“I did everything I could,” said Uncle Mustapha. “Here he is. Talk to him if you can.”

Old Hafez, looking at the limp rag his son had become,

remained silent for a moment, thinking. He pondered how he could arouse this inert body that seemed to be under the influence of some drug. His decision to marry was stronger than ever. If only to prove his authority, he had resolved to finish what in the beginning, perhaps, was only the whim of a senile old man. Rafik’s inexcusable behavior had aggravated his desire for domination. He didn’t want to admit defeat to the audacity of that vicious and destructive boy. He had imagined he could persuade Galal to reason with Rafik. In reality old Hafez, afraid of Rafik’s outbursts, was repelled at the idea of finding himself in direct contact with him. The memory of last night’s scene still smarted too much for him to have forgotten it. His health had been weakened by the excitement, and as for his hernia, it had swollen again.