Laziness in the Fertile Valley

by Albert Cossery

  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.

  VIII

  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.

  After a moment the door opened, and Imtissal appeared, her hair loose, her long body undressed for the night.

  “It’s you! Come in, darling!”

  “I’ve come for a visit. Am I disturbing you?”

  “On the contrary. I’m very happy to see you. Come in and sit down.”

  Hoda went into the room; she didn’t sit down, but asked:

  “Is the baby asleep?”

  “Yes, but you can take him on your lap.”

  Hoda went over to the corner of the room where Imtissal kept the cradle; the child was sleeping. She took it gently in her arms, then sat on the ground and held the infant in her lap. She was overcome with joy.

  Imtissal, the students’ friend, sat negligently on the edge of the bed. She wore a yellow dressing gown, embroidered with large scarlet flowers. It revealed her full body that had an almost primitive sensuality. In the light of the kerosene lamp, her outrageously painted face looked like a mask. She had a heavy, tragic beauty.

  “Tell me,” she said. “Has Rafik sent you?”

  “No, by Allah!”
said Hoda. “I came by myself. I like to see you and play with the baby.”

  “I like to see you too.”

  “You’re so nice to me.”

  “Aren’t they nice to you?”

  “They’re terrible. The nicest one is Serag.”

  “That’s because you love him,” said Imtissal.

  “I guess you’re right,” said Hoda.

  “And does he love you?”

  “I don’t know. You can’t ever tell with him.”

  “No one can ever tell with any of them,” said Imtissal.

  Her voice was husky and slow; it promised infinite sorrows and joys. She heaved a sigh and was silent. Since her experience with Rafik, she had nourished an unspeakable hatred for his family. She had never forgiven them for destroying her love, nor, especially, her dream of a more dignified life. Imtissal believed old Hafez had taken his son from her because she was a prostitute; she didn’t understand the true reasons for his refusal. She had cursed him unto the tenth generation.

  “They sleep all the time, don’t they?” she asked.

  “They did sleep,” said Hoda. “But now they’ve all gone completely mad.”

  “Why, what’s happened?”

  “They’re threatened by a real catastrophe.”

  “A catastrophe! What is it, darling?”

  “It’s my master. Can you believe it, he wants to get married!” said Hoda.

  Imtissal burst into hysterical laughter; it shook her entire body.

  “Oh, that’s wonderful!” she said. “So old Hafez wants to get married! What does Rafik think of that?”

  “He’s the most upset of all. He swears all day long. He hardly sleeps anymore; he’s waiting.”

  “What for?”

  “He’s waiting for Haga Zohra, the go-between. He wants to keep her from seeing my master. She’s the one who’s arranging the marriage.”

  Imtissal seemed to be overcome by a frantic gaiety. Her eyes shone; she clapped her hands and turned over on the bed.

  “It’s marvelous,” she said. “Then they’re awake and waiting. You can’t imagine how this delights me. I’d love to see them!”

  “It’s not very amusing for me,” said Hoda. “The whole load falls on me.”

  “I feel sorry for you, darling,” said Imtissal. “I forgot you have to bear with all their extravagances.”

  She took the comb from the night table and began to comb her hair. She had black hair, very long, that hung all the way down her back, divided into two heavy plaits. Imtissal took great care of it. She knew the power of its secret aroma to arouse desire in the inexpert bodies of her young clients. She was a prostitute endowed with an exceptional temperament. Her business didn’t tire her too much; above all, it wasn’t repugnant to her. She felt no revulsion from her contact with her young lovers. Their ignorance and timidity in their search for pleasure amused her. She had taught many of them how to make love. She was proud and maternally concerned with their progress. Rafik was the only man she had ever loved. To him she had revealed the passionate secret of her body and all the experience acquired in her business. She had believed he would always love her; thus her deception was slow to heal. Then the baby had come.

  The child slept on Hoda’s knees, his pale face lined by the reflections of the lamp. She looked at it with a bitter smile on her painted mouth. She was afraid of seeing him grow; then she wouldn’t be able to keep him in the room with her. Sometimes, when he cried, she had to hold him in her arms, while she submitted to a client’s lovemaking. One day they would have to separate, or go elsewhere and live in larger quarters. This was her sole preoccupation now.

  “Are you expecting anyone?” asked Hoda. “Tell me if I should leave.”

  “No. I’m not expecting anyone for the moment,” said Imtissal. “You can stay. Go on.”

  “What more is there to say?”

  “Tell me about Serag. Is he upset about his father’s marriage?”

  “Oh no! Serag only thinks of leaving to look for work. I’m afraid for him.”

  “Why are you afraid?”

  “I don’t know. Do you think they’re made for work?”

  “I think they’re incapable of it. There’s no danger of losing him. He’ll give up the idea soon.”

  “May God hear you!” said Hoda. “It’s given me a heavy heart.”

  “Yes,” said Imtissal. “I know them, I know what they can do. They scorn people who work. They’d rather wet their pants than unbutton their trousers — it’s too tiring.”

  “That’s Galal,” said Hoda. “He’s exactly like that.”

  “That one I don’t know,” said Imtissal. “I’ve never seen him. When I came to live here, he was already buried in sleep. He seems to be their teacher. Rafik admired him tremendously.”

  “He’s astonishing,” said Hoda. “When I watch him, all at once I want to go to sleep myself.”

  Instinctively, at the memory of Galal, she opened her mouth and yawned. The child was heavy on her knees. She was tired from her day’s work and her limbs felt stiff. The odor of the kerosene lamp, mingled with the aroma of perfume and cosmetics, was strange and heavy in the room. Hoda felt herself falling asleep. The great bed, the mirrored chest which reflected all Imtissal’s movements, all the atmosphere of faded, cheap luxury, began to dizzy her. She saw Imtissal’s supple, adorned body languishing on the rose quilt. One of her legs, slipping through her dressing gown, seemed, in the weak lamp light, like the supreme indecency of all flesh. Hoda felt drugged in the stagnant air; she heard the death-rattle of love infiltrate the silence. The room seemed, for the first time, strange and corrupting. She shook herself, blinked her eyes, and asked in a smothered voice:

  “You don’t want to see him again?”

  “Who are you talking about?”

  “I’m talking about Rafik,” said Hoda. “He still devils me about you. He thinks it’s my fault you won’t see him.”

  “Tell him I’ll never see him again,” cried Imtissal. “And that I curse him with all my soul. To think he stuffs himself there, in the middle of his disgusting family. Ah! You don’t know his pride! He’s bursting with vanity. Do you know what he said to me one day, when he saw a funeral go by? That he wished he was the dead man. Because of the pomp of the cortege, you understand! How can anyone be so vain!”

  “He told me he wanted to explain some things to you,” said Hoda.

  “What has he to explain? I don’t want a single explanation. It’s enough to know he’s plunged in unhappiness! Ah! It’s going to be so funny! I hope someone will pass out sugarplums at that rotten old man’s wedding. Don’t forget to bring me my share.”

  Imtissal had risen; she was standing now at the foot of the bed, in a martyred pose. A bitter pain twisted her highly painted face. Now she finally had her revenge! She bared her breasts and burst out in hysterical laughter.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  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 sti
ffened 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.