Laziness in the Fertile Valley

by Albert Cossery

  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.

  IX

  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.

  The mouse seemed to be seized by a sudden frenzy; it leaped all over the room as though in search of some way out. Galal listened to it, scarcely breathing, the covers drawn up to his chin. Above all he feared it would jump into the bed. The thought drove him mad. He would have liked to have turned on the light, but to reach the switch he would have to make a crippling effort. He lay still under the blankets, forcing himself to forget everything, and tried to fall asleep again.

  He felt some presence near him and started up.

  “It’s you!”

  Uncle Mustapha was standing near the bed. He was dressed as usual and wore his tarboosh on his head.

  “Are you going out?” asked Galal.

  “No, I’m not going out,” said Uncle Mustapha. “I’m worried.”

  “I see,” said Galal. “You’re always dressed as though you were going out. And that tarboosh! How can you stand it on your head? Isn’t it heavy?”

  “That doesn’t matter,” said Uncle Mustapha. “I beg you, wake up a minute.”

  “Say what you have to say,” said Galal. “I’m awake. What do you want?”

  “I’m worried,” said Uncle Mustapha.

  “Why? What’s the matter now?”

  “It’s your brother, Rafik,” said Uncle Mustapha. “He went out last evening and he isn’t back yet.”

  Uncle Mustapha was silent and watched Galal. The night bulb in the hall sent a thin streak of light through the open door. In this, single beam, Galal’s face seemed hideously pale, like that of a cadaver. Uncle Mustapha recoiled, appalled. He sat on Rafik’s empty bed and sighed several times, even more profoundly than usual.

  “You’re worried for nothing” said Galal. “What time is it?”

  “It’s ten o’clock,” said Uncle Mustapha.

  “Is that all!” said Galal. “I thought it was much later.”

  “What bothers me,” said Uncle Mustapha, “is that he doesn’t usually go out. I don’t understand it.”

  “Maybe Serag took him along to look for work,” said Galal.

  “That’s impossible,” said Uncle Mustapha. “Rafik wouldn’t do it. He’s never looked for work. Besides, Serag is in his room.”

  Actually, Uncle Mustapha’s distress was only a pretext for coming to talk to Galal. He needed to talk to someone. He was growing feeble in this house; the deathlike silence oppressed his soul. His conscience also tormented him. The image of the washerwoman’s swollen stomach wouldn’t leave him. Ever since he had thought of her, he couldn’t manage to get her out of his mind. Every day it grew more overwhelming. Uncle Mustapha couldn’t fight it; the stomach swelling with mysterious life was crushing down on him, almost suffocating him. A strange thing was happening to him: he had begun to think about the child. What had become of it? Uncle Mustapha was ready to give some remorse to these reflections. His life was thus given a fixed point; he found this a charming relief. He could spend his leisure hours plumbing the remorse of his conscience. He finally felt like a man again!

  “Then yo
u’ve no idea where he could be?”

  “Uncle Mustapha, I haven’t any ideas. Don’t you know that, or are you doing this on purpose? I’m very patient. But I want to be left alone.”

  “Don’t be angry, my boy!”

  “There’s that cursed mouse too. That’s why I was awake.”

  “Is there a mouse in this room?”

  “Yes, it’s over there chewing on God knows what!”

  Uncle Mustapha had instinctively stiffened and drawn up his legs. He looked fearfully at the floor.

  “I’ll tell Hoda to set a trap,” he said.

  “Never mind,” said Galal. “I don’t want a trap. I might catch my foot in it.”

  There was a silence. Uncle Mustapha tried to hear the mouse. He stared at the line of light that came through the door; it was his only safeguard against the danger. But there was no noise. He raised his eyes and looked at Galal. In the half light, he saw his almost unreal face lit by an evil smile. He heard a faint snickering.

  “Uncle Mustapha! I know where Rafik went!”

  “Where, my boy?”

  “He’s undoubtedly gone to murder Haga Zohra! He’s full of courage. He wants to rid us of our great misfortune!”

  “Be quiet, Galal, my boy! You astonish me. You’re a wise, thoughtful lad. And here you fling yourself beyond all reason!”

  “The thing that’s beyond all reason is this marriage.”

  “Your father wants to marry. It’s his right. No one can stop him.”

  “What about our rights! Uncle Mustapha, haven’t we the right to sleep in peace’?”

  “What stops you from sleeping?”

  “Uncle Mustapha, why do you play the fool? A child would understand. How can we sleep with a woman in the house? A woman who runs in and out all day, arranging everything around her. She’ll want everything right and proper to impress the neighbors. She’ll begin by getting a maid, because little Hoda won’t be enough for her. Imagine it, Uncle Mustapha, a maid in the house! It makes me tremble! Without counting all her relatives! They’ll come visit us. We’ll have to get up and dress to meet them. We might even have to talk to them. What kind of life would that be, I ask you!”

  “You’re exaggerating, my boy! And then, your father wants it. He’s the master. After all, he wouldn’t be so disagreeable if there was a woman in the house. Life would be much pleasanter.”

  Uncle Mustapha had built a delightful picture of the change his brother’s marriage might make in the life of the house. He already rejoiced at the thought of receiving people, and perhaps, even, of paying visits.

  “Uncle Mustapha, I always thought you were a traitor. But not that way! You must want to see us all dead!”

  “Calm yourself! I haven’t said anything so tragic, believe me!”

  “Let me sleep. Who knows if our days for sleeping aren’t numbered already! I don’t want to talk anymore.”

  “I beg you, don’t go back to sleep. Talk to me a little longer.”

  Uncle Mustapha didn’t want to go back to his room. The image of the washerwoman’s swollen stomach was up there, waiting for him. This evening he didn’t feel strong enough to face it. It was like a tatter of living flesh that he could only touch with infinite caution. He wanted to rest, as long as he could, in this shadowy corner, face to face with a human being, even if he was half buried in sleep.

  “Listen to me! Maybe the marriage will never take place.”

  Galal rose up in the bed, just enough to show his astonishment.

  “Why not?”

  “Because of the hernia!”

  “What hernia?”

  “Your father’s hernia, you’ll see!”

  “My father has a hernia?”

  “You didn’t know?”

  “No. How should I know? That’s extraordinary news. I knew he had diabetes. I even thought it was a lucky thing and would make it easier for him to marry.”

  “Not at all. The diabetes was Haga Zohra’s idea. The truth is your father has a hernia.”

  “Have you seen it?”

  “As I see you now. It’s enormous!”

  There was a solemn silence.

  “Then we’re saved!” cried Galal.

  “I think so,” said Uncle Mustapha.

  “Well! Uncle Mustapha, thank you for the news. You can go now. I’ll be able to sleep.”

  Uncle Mustapha got up in spite of himself yet he still hesitated to leave. But he already heard Galal snoring and knew it was useless to insist. He left the room with the sad face of an abandoned man.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  The sudden glare of the electric lamp fell on him like cold water. He gave a start and sat up in the bed.

  “You must be crazy to turn on the light without even warning me.”

  “Excuse me, I couldn’t find my pajamas.”

  It was Rafik who had just come in and was undressing nervously.

  “Well, did you kill her?”

  “Kill who?”

  “Good heavens, have you forgotten? Weren’t you supposed to kill Haga Zohra? What a fool I was to count on you.”

  “I haven’t forgotten a thing. Don’t do anything, I’ll kill her one day.”

  “Where were you? Uncle Mustapha was worried about you. He was in here bothering me about it.”

  Galal kept his eyes shut while he talked; he couldn’t bear the hard glare of the electric light. He seemed like a blind man, his hands twitching in the void.

  “Turn off that light, I beg you!”

  Rafik had finished undressing and tied his pajamas. He turned out the light and lay down on his bed. He seemed determined to sleep.

  Galal’s voice rose in the darkness:

  “Listen: Uncle Mustapha just gave me some wonderful news.”

  “What news?” asked Rafik.

  “It’s news of the greatest importance for all of us,” said Galal feverishly. “Father has a hernia.”

  Rafik stirred, then leaned over the bed.

  “You’re sure Uncle Mustapha wasn’t lying?”

  “I don’t think so. He told me he’d seen it. The marriage won’t take place.”

  “It’s a good thing,” said Rafik in a dreamy voice. “Is it big?”

  “It seems that it’s enormous! We can relax.”

  “Not entirely,” said Rafik. “I’ll still have to wait for Haga Zohra. She’s a damned good go-between. She could marry off a corpse.”

  They slept with peace in their souls, thinking of their father’s hernia that had saved them from disaster.

  X

  Standing on the embankment, Serag inspected his surroundings and found himself at the same spot where he had seen the child hunting with a slingshot. He was certain he would soon appear again from behind the tall stalks of corn. The sycamore stood before him at the side of the path, and he heard birds twittering in its branches. The path wound across the corn field and the road was at the end, lost in vaporous distance. Serag trembled at the slightest noise, looking around with a lost air. He was sad because the child wasn’t there. In going out that morning to look at the unfinished factory, Serag had thought of him, telling himself he must wander around this neighborhood. He was disappointed not to see him. He had imagined the child would have to be there, waiting, and he was almost angry with him for this betrayal.

  He looked around again, but saw no trace of the child. He didn’t know what to do now. The child’s absence was a bad sign. Fate was against him. He had intended to go to the city with him. He wanted to link himself to the child, and follow him to exciting adventures. But the child had deserted him; he traveled the roads alone, fearless. Serag thought he would never find him again. He felt a bitter nostalgia at the memory of their first meeting.

  He was tired from having waited in vain for the child. He still had to go as far as the factory; his supreme hope lay there. He came down from the embankment and started across the fields.

  It was almost summer now. It was a hot day and Serag was uncomfortable in his heavy sweater. He
thought he would have to change his outfit if he kept up these visits. Perhaps he would even have to buy some dark glasses to protect his eyes from the sun. Nevertheless, this heat was better than the changeable winter weather. There was no chance of wind or rain. There were no more heavy, sullen clouds, bringing sadness and desolation. Serag felt the desire for adventure stronger than ever. New blood seemed to be moving in his veins. Life with his family had become unbearable. Ever since his father had decided to marry, a demon seemed to have come into the house. Rafik was up in arms; even Galal no longer slept as much as usual. It was really pitiful to see Galal so upset; he had become almost human. Serag suffered for him.

  He routed these harassing thoughts and walked faster. This brightness all around opened unsuspected horizons. He imagined he was really going to work. It was a beautiful illusion and Serag smiled contentedly.

  He reached the top of the little hill, puffing. Now he could see the factory; it looked the same as it had on his last visit — no change in its half finished walls — the same sad abandonment, the same hostile air. Serag saw a man crouched near a hut. In front of him was a little wood fire on which he was cooking his meal. Serag felt a ray of hope, but he quickly saw that the man was a caretaker and not a worker. He wondered for a moment if he should ask him about the factory. Then he would finally know why it wasn’t finished, and if it would ever be finished. The man should know. However, Serag hesitated about making the extra walk. He was still rather far from the man, and the way was uneven and full of obstacles. It was really a rather hazardous walk. But Serag dearly wanted to know what chance he had of working in the factory. This was his only hope of finding out. He gathered his courage, walked down the hill, and, gritting his teeth, began to cross the cluttered ground towards the walls of the factory.

  He moved with difficulty among the piles of huge rocks that lay scattered in the sun. The ruts impeded his steps. It was even more dangerous than he’d imagined. Several times he almost fell. He seemed to be going down an endless road. Finally, he stopped. It was the first time he had ever seen a factory so close. He was frightened by these walls that seemed to conceal the desperate labour of men. He saw them grow before him as if to rebuff his sacrilegious presence.