In an Antique Land

by Amitav Ghosh

  The girls released him, but stood where they were, watchful and ready to spring. ‘You said you’d help,’ one of them said. ‘Now you’ve got to do it.’

  ‘All right,’ he said, shrugging, haughtily. ‘All right, all right, all right.’

  He straightened his jallabeyya with a flourish and walked away from them, strutting like a prizefighter. As soon as his back was turned the girls ran past the livestock, exploding into giggles, and after pausing for a moment they raced into the maize field, vanishing as suddenly and mysteriously as they had come.

  After they had gone, ‘Eid tossed his head with a show of disdain and seated himself beside me. ‘Did you see how they were behaving?’ he said, crossing his arms across his chest. ‘Did you see? Do you see how they’ve filled out; how they move their bodies when they walk? I’ll tell you: what those two want is to get married. That’s what they want, you understand—especially the big one, the one in the green dress—she wants to get married, she really wants it.’

  Picking up a maize-leaf he began to chew on the stem, gazing narrow-eyed into the distance. ‘Actually it’s me they want to marry,’ he said, after a long pause. ‘Especially the big one, the one in the green dress; she really wants me—it’s obvious. But I’ve made up my mind; I won’t have her; she’s too big for me. Why, if she rolled on me, I’d be finished. There’d be nothing left.’

  There was a rustling sound in the maize again, and he jumped quickly to his feet. ‘There, you see,’ he said, with an air of world-weariness. ‘You see—they just can’t leave me alone. They’re back again.’

  When the two girls ran back into the clearing, a moment later, he cupped his hands around his mouth and announced: ‘I’ve told him; I’ve told him how much you want to marry me.’

  The girls stood transfixed for a moment, and then, with loud hoots of laughter they began to chase him around the trough again, tickling and slapping him playfully.

  ‘Of course we’ll marry you, ya ‘Eid …’

  ‘We’ll both marry you …’

  ‘As soon as you grow a little …’

  ‘When you’re a man …’

  In a matter of seconds he was squealing and shouting, crying out to them to stop, but the chase went on until he had been reduced again to a squirming heap in the dust. Then, leaving him lying where he was, the girls vanished once again, suddenly and mysteriously.

  ‘It’s sad,’ said ‘Eid, once he had picked himself up again. ‘It’s sad how desperately they want to marry me. I want to get married too—it’s about time now—but I don’t want to marry them. They’re no good; they’re not pretty enough for me.’

  ‘Who do you want to marry then?’ I asked.

  ‘I know the girl I would like to marry,’ he said. ‘She walks past here sometimes, on her way to her father’s fields. I’ve said a few words to her, and from the way she smiles I know she would agree. But her parents wouldn’t let her, so it’s no use thinking of it.’

  ‘Why not?’ I said.

  ‘Because she’s in school, studying,’ he said. ‘And her people are well-off, while in our family we don’t have very much and often things are very hard in our house. And apart from that, her father is a Badawy, and he probably wouldn’t let her marry into our family. There’s nothing I can do—in the end I’ll probably have to marry one of my cousins, like my parents want.’

  Then, squatting beside me, he explained that he hadn’t told anyone in his family about the girl he wanted to marry: it was no use hoping that anything would come of it, because there had been trouble between the Jammal and the Badawy for a long time, since long before he was born. It went back to the days of a Badawy ‘omda, one Ahmed Effendi, who had owned a lot of land around the village.

  ‘Look over there,’ said ‘Eid, pointing with a stick. ‘Do you see the land in front of us, from there to there, almost four feddans? That was all his land, and it still belongs to his son, who lives in Cairo. Khamees and I and my brothers, we work on it as sharecroppers—it doesn’t belong to us. We only get a small part of the crop, he takes all the rest. We have some land of our own, which we got during the Reforms, but that’s far away and it’s not half as big as this.’

  Ahmed Effendi, the old ‘omda, had always treated the Jammal as though they were his slaves, said ‘Eid. He had made them work without payment, in his house and on the fields, and as a result, once elections were started, the Jammal voted against him. There had been fights between the two clans afterwards and for a while it was just like a feud. Ahmed Effendi would gladly have evicted his Jammal tenants, but by then the law had changed and there was nothing he could do.

  Towards the end of his story, Zaghloul the weaver appeared, leading a cow and a buffalo. He listened to ‘Eid while giving his livestock their feed and then he seated himself beside us. Soon, in keeping with his habit, he piled a heap of freshly-shorn wool in front of him and began to spin yarn with a hand-held spindle.

  When ‘Eid had finished, Zaghloul broke in to say that he remembered Ahmed Effendi well; like every other man in the village he had often had to work on his fields. At the time of the harvest Ahmed Effendi had gone around the village, from door to door, with his watchmen in tow, and he’d left a sickle on the doorpost of every house which had an able-bodied man in it. Those who didn’t turn out on his fields next morning ran the risk of being being beaten by his watchmen, with whips. Ahmed Effendi had been able to get away with anything he liked because he had had friends amongst the Pashas, powerful people who had connections with the British.

  ‘And is it true, ya Zaghloul,’ asked ‘Eid, agog with curiosity, ‘that whenever he saw a good-looking girl he would ask for her to be sent to him?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Zaghloul. ‘When his eyes fell on a girl he would say to her relatives, “I want that woman in my house for the night,” and sure enough, she would go, for there was nothing anyone could do. He had only to raise his voice and you would see twenty men throwing themselves in front of him, crying “at your service Effendi”.’

  ‘And what about you, ya Zaghloul?’ said ‘Eid, with a grin. ‘Didn’t you throw yourself flat in front of him so he could use you as he liked?’

  Zaghloul smiled at him good-naturedly, his eyes vanishing into the folds of his prematurely wizened face. Then he turned to look at me, twirling his spindle in his hands.

  ‘So what has our boy ‘Eid been talking about?’ he said. ‘Has he been talking about the girl he’s staring at nowadays?’

  ‘Eid’s eyes widened in shock. ‘How did you know, ya Zaghloul?’ he cried in astonishment. ‘How did you know about that?’

  ‘I know about these things,’ said Zaghloul.

  ‘But how could you know? Who was it who told you?’

  ‘I’ve seen the way you stare at her,’ said Zaghloul. ‘No one had to tell me; it’s clear enough, especially since you’re at that age. If you’re not careful, you’ll find yourself saying “I’m in love,” like a student or a college-boy. Watch what you’re doing and don’t forget you’re a fellah: “love” is not for people like us.’

  ‘Eid didn’t answer; at the mention of the word ‘love’ he flushed red and darted off to replenish the stock of fodder that lay in front of his livestock. Busying himself with armloads of maize plants, he pretended not to hear what Zaghloul had said.

  ‘What do you mean?’ I asked Zaghloul. ‘Why can’t a fellah fall in love?’

  ‘For us it only leads to trouble,’ said Zaghloul. ‘Love is for students and mowazzafeen and city people; they think about it all the time, just like they think of football. For us it’s different; it’s better not to think of it.’

  ‘Eid was back now, his eyes wide with curiosity. ‘How do you know, ya Zaghloul?’ he said. ‘Did it ever happen to you?’

  ‘Something happened to me once,’ Zaghloul said quietly, fixing his gaze upon his twirling spindle. ‘It began when I was a boy, about your age, fourteen or fifteen, and it went on for five whole years. She was a girl from the city, the daught
er of a relative of ours who had a job in Alexandria. Her father would come down with all of them once every summer to visit his family in Nashawy. I had known her all my life, but that summer when we were fourteen, I saw her when she came to the village, and suddenly everything changed. We would talk sometimes, for we were relatives after all, and I would try to tell her things, but I could never find the words. You know, she and her family used to sleep in a house that was in the centre of the village, a long way from where we lived. But when she was in Nashawy, I was never able to sleep. I would steal out late at night and go silently across the village, and when I reached their house, I would put my ear to the crack in her door and listen to her breathing in her sleep; it was like my life was in her breath. And that was how I lived for five years, waiting for her to come to the village for a few days in the summer so that I could listen to the sound of her breath at night, kneeling by her door. And all the while my family kept trying to get me married, and every time I’d say no, no, not yet, and in my heart I would think of her and the day when she would come back again to Nashawy.’

  ‘Eid cocked his head to look into Zaghloul’s lowered face. ‘So what happened, ya Zaghloul?’ he said. ‘Why didn’t you try to marry her?’

  ‘My father wouldn’t hear of it,’ said Zaghloul. ‘I told him once, to his face I told him—I want to marry that girl and none other. But he said to me: “Get that idea out of your head; you’ll never marry her. We want a girl for you who can work in the fields and milk the cattle and sweep away the cow dung. She’s a city girl, that one, she doesn’t know how we live.” I wanted to tell him that I loved her, but I knew he would slap me if I did, so I kept my peace, and later that year he arranged for me to marry a girl from the village, one of his cousin’s daughters, and that was that, khalas.’

  There was a tight, lopsided little smile on his shrunken face as he looked up and nodded at ‘Eid.

  ‘But I was lucky,’ he said. ‘At least I didn’t lose my reason like some men do. If you go through Nashawy and the next village and the village after that and you ask everyone how many mad people there are and what it was that drove them mad, you’ll see that there was one reason and one alone: it was love. That’s what happens, ya ‘Eid, that’s why you have to be careful and mind what you’re doing.’

  ‘Eid rubbed his chin, frowning reflectively. ‘But in the city,’ he said, ‘they all fall in love—in Cairo and Alexandria and Damanhour. You can see it on TV.’

  ‘Things are different there,’ said Zaghloul. ‘All kinds of things happen in cities: why, do you know they have places there where women will let their bodies be used, for just a few pounds?’

  He nodded sagely as ‘Eid stared at him, in speechless astonishment. ‘Yes,’ he said, warming to his theme, ‘that’s right, there are houses in Alexandria where men pay five hundred pounds to spend a night with a woman—five hundred pounds, for one night!’

  He paused to reflect, chewing on his lip, remembering perhaps that the sum he had just quoted was equal to the figure his harvest of cotton earned him in a year. ‘Of course,’ he added quickly, ‘that includes food and other things—turkey, whiskey and things like that.’

  ‘Eid, goggle-eyed in wonder, cried: ‘And do they all cost that much—five hundred pounds?’

  ‘No,’ said Zaghloul, ‘not all—some are as cheap as five pounds and some take just a pound and a half. But that’s just for a couple of hours, or even less.’

  ‘Where, ya Zaghloul?’ said ‘Eid, prodding him eagerly with his elbow. ‘Where can one find these houses? Tell me.’

  Zaghloul shook his head vaguely. ‘My cousin worked in Alexandria,’ he said, ‘for a few months in the winter, and the men he worked with used to go to those places. He told me about them, but he never went himself—one can’t really.’

  ‘But where are those places, ya Zaghloul?’ cried ‘Eid. ‘Tell me—on which street? I’d like to go and see one of those places.’

  Zaghloul smiled at him gently. ‘They’d make a fool of you, ya ‘Eid,’ he said. ‘They’d feel your face, like this, and ask for five pounds. They’d stroke your chest, like this, and ask for ten. They’d reach under your jallabeyya, like this, and ask for fifty, and before they were done, you’d lose everything your father possesses.’

  ‘We’ll see about that,’ said ‘Eid, ‘just tell me where those places are.’

  They began to laugh, but soon their laughter died away, and they fell silent, squatting on their heels—tiny ‘Eid, too small for his age, and bandy-legged, prematurely wizened Zaghloul—they smiled and rubbed their groins and scratched their thighs as they sat there, day-dreaming about forbidden pleasures in faraway cities.

  Presently ‘Eid said: ‘Why do they do it, those girls? Do their families make them?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Zaghloul. ‘That’s what happens; their families put them up to it. They take thirty pounds a month from the owner of the house and that’s that, khalas—they leave their daughters there and the owners are free to do what they like with them.’

  ‘Eid grinned and shot him a glance. And how much do you charge for your wife, ya Zaghloul?’ he said. ‘Fifteen pounds? I’ll pay it, will you let me?’

  ‘It’ll cost more than you can afford,’ Zaghloul said, smiling at him, unmoved.

  Then, turning to me, he added: ‘Don’t take offence: we fellaheen, we love to joke; “our blood is light,” as people say.’

  ‘Oh the black day!’ cried ‘Eid, jumping to his feet, as though he could not contain himself any longer. ‘I’d really like to go to one of those places.’

  He ran across to the trough, where the livestock were feeding, and put his arm around his nanny-goat. ‘Look how I love her,’ he shouted, planting a kiss on her face.

  Later, on the way back to Nashawy, I came across Khamees, riding out to the fields on his donkey. He climbed off when he saw me, and after we had exchanged greetings and talked for a while, he asked casually: ‘Did you see ‘Eid on your way? Was he feeding the livestock, out by the water-wheel?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said, ‘that’s just where I’m coming from.’

  ‘Was there anyone else there?’ he asked, watching me closely.

  ‘There was Zaghloul,’ I said. ‘We were all sitting there talking.’

  ‘No one else?’

  ‘A couple of girls dropped by,’ I said, ‘just for a minute or two.’

  Khamees struck his forehead with a loud, despairing cry: ‘Oh the Protector, oh the Lord! That dog ‘Eid is going to bring my family to ruin. What were those girls doing? Go on, tell me.’

  ‘Nothing,’ I stammered, taken aback; it seemed wholly out of character for Khamees to be overcome by moral indignation. ‘Nothing at all, they just came by for a minute.

  ‘Tell me something,’ he said, shaking my arm. ‘Tell me, try to remember—were they, by any chance, carrying away our fodder?’

  It dawned on me that Khamees was right: the girls had carried away armloads of fodder every time they ran out of the clearing. The reason for their cultivation of ‘Eid’s friendship was suddenly clear to me.

  Khamees read the answer on my face, and at once, hitching up his jallabeyya, he jumped on his donkey.

  ‘That ‘Eid is going to ruin our whole family,’ he cried. ‘Those girls tickle him and tease him and he ends up giving away all our fodder—the fool, he thinks they like him.’

  He struck his donkey on the rump, and as it trotted away he turned around in his seat to call out to me. ‘What that boy needs is a wife,’ he shouted; ‘we’ll get him married to one of our cousins—that’ll help him understand life and its difficulties.’

  15

  ‘A COUPLE OF years after you left Egypt,’ said Shaikh Musa, ‘I heard some news about your friend Khamees and his family, and I thought—this is something the doktór would like to know.’

  He paused to prod the embers of his shusha, and settled back in his divan.

  A friend of his, he said, had stopped by in Lataifa one day, on his way to Daman
hour. His friend was from Nashawy, and while they were talking about the crops and the fields, who had planted what and whose cotton was doing well, his friend had told him an amazing tale—a story about a recent event in his village.

  There was a parcel of land in one of the village’s fields that was owned by one of the sons of the old ‘omda, Ahmed Badawy Effendi, a highly-placed civil servant who lived in Cairo. It was one of the few pieces of land that had been left to the family after the Land Reforms; a tiny fraction of what they had once owned, admittedly, but still a very large area in relation to the landholdings of the ordinary fellaheen.

  One morning, quite unexpectedly the civil servant’s car was seen driving into Nashawy. Everyone was taken by surprise, because he very rarely came to visit the village: he was afraid of getting mud on his clothes, or so people said. But there was yet another surprise in store for the people of the village. When the car stopped and the ‘omda’s son stepped out, the people who were watching assumed that he would go straight to his father’s old house. But no: to their utter astonishment, he headed in the opposite direction—towards a tumbledown mud hut that belonged to the fellah family that had share-cropped his land for the last so many years.

  Those members of the family who were at home were astonished when they saw the ‘omda’s son knocking on their door: it was years since they had last seen him, for he always sent one of his minions to pick up his share at harvest-time. But they threw their doors open and welcomed him in, and it was a good hour or so before he emerged again.

  No one knew exactly what the ‘omda’s son had said while he was in that house, but everyone agreed later that it was something like this: ‘I am soon going to buy a new apartment in Cairo, insha‘allah (or perhaps a car), and for that reason I need to raise a large sum of money quickly. Pray to the Prophet! I have given the matter much thought, and after speaking to my children I have decided to sell my land. So, as law and custom demands, I have come to your family first, because you have worked on that land for so long, to ask whether you can raise the money to buy it. If you can, you will be welcome to it—everything good is the work of God—but if you cannot, I must tell you that I shall put my land on the market, with God’s permission.’