Laziness in the Fertile Valley

by Albert Cossery

  “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.”

  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.

  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!”

  XV

  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 c
atch 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,