Return of the Spirit

by Tawfiq al-Hakim

  He waited a moment for them to say something. Finally he cleared his throat, adjusted his spectacles, and began to stare at his companions’ faces in turn. Their mood appeared to astonish him. He wanted to unravel the secret of their strange conduct this evening.

  “What’s it all about? What’s wrong with the folks?”

  But no one present stirred or tried to answer him. The servant Mabruk finally looked at him and said in a serious but barely audible voice, “The folks—I’m not kidding—have been quarreling.”

  Hanafi asked in amazement, “Quarreling? Who’s been quarreling?”

  Mabruk answered tersely, “Everyone.”

  Hanafi sought some clarification: “Everyone! Why? What’s happened? May God protect us.”

  Mabruk said, “To put it bluntly, everyone—they all felt like quarreling.”

  Hanafi’s curiosity was whetted, and he asked, “But what was the quarrel about then?”

  Mabruk remained still and did not respond. He cast a quick glance at the others and found them silent. So he kept his peace too, as though relieved and pleased to be a member of the silent group. Despite Hanafi’s insistence, winks, and prodding with his elbow, Mabruk remained quiet, not caring to speak. He moved only his large eyes, which traveled back and forth between his plate and the trencher. Hanafi gave up on him and turned away, muttering, “How strange, people!”

  The family’s president tried in vain to make them talk. Then bored and enervated, he threw himself totally into eating and began to swallow silently like the others.

  A short time later Zanuba returned with a dish in her hand. With one quick look from his sharp eyes, Mabruk discerned its contents and announced, “We have the honor of a goose leg.”

  Hanafi, the family’s president, shook himself in a mock, theatrical way and protested, “No!” He rose to his feet at once, adjusted his spectacles, and stared. He affirmed, “No doubt about it. It’s true, lads.”

  Then he suddenly straightened and changed his tone. He shouted, “Your excellency, the goose leg!”

  They looked up. Once they had identified the dish, they started to exchange glances. Their eyes finally came to rest on Abduh. They seemed to be asking his opinion and plan of action, especially this evening when he was so angry and agitated.

  Abduh, however, did not move or utter a word. Instead he let Zanuba place the dish confidently in the center of the table. Then he raised his eyes and gazed for a long time at the goose leg, which was resting quietly in its dish. But, suddenly, like a predatory kite, he swooped down on that leg. Grasping it, he ran to the window and threw it down to the street. Then he returned to his place without uttering a word.

  Faced with this silent drama, the folks were dumbfounded for a moment. Then, with the exception of Zanuba, they all started cheering happily and laughing. Hanafi and Mabruk, naturally, were laughing, yelling, and roaring the hardest. The family’s honorary president and servant were laughing straight from their pure, innocent hearts. They wanted the laughter and hubbub to continue now that they had finally found an excuse for it. Hanafi started to prolong his laughs and link them together while he looked at Mabruk, who was the only one still laughing with him. He said, “Oh! Oh, what a goose leg!”

  As though he had suddenly remembered something, he turned abruptly toward Abduh and said, “But Mr. Abduh, you forget that Master Shahhata’s coffee shop is below us, across the street. I bet the goose leg fell on a patron’s head.”

  The servant, Mabruk, replied immediately, “We are God’s and to him we return.”*

  Hanafi agreed just as solemnly: “Life is full of lessons and sermons.”

  Mabruk sighed and said, “My goodness gracious! A guy is sitting there, and, no kidding, everything’s hunky-dory. He’s ordered himself a cup of coffee—not a skewer to strike him unexpectedly.”

  Hanafi interrupted him in the same vein: “Descending upon him! May God preserve us and deliver us from evil!”

  Zanuba was beside herself with rage. She was no doubt the only one Abduh’s action had angered, but she suppressed her fury and said nothing.

  Shaking his head, Mabruk continued, “There’s no way around it: This world is made up of lessons and sermons.”

  Then Zanuba exploded and shouted at him, “Shut up then, servant, glutton, plate licker!”

  Mabruk was silent for a time and asked, “Did I say something? This is, to put it bluntly, a very big sermon. A customer orders at most a cup of coffee costing a piastre or a pipe for two milliemes. Then, without so much as a ‘by your leave’ there falls on him out of the sky, without warning, a country-style goose leg worth a pound.”

  Zanuba said sharply, “I told you to shut up.” Then she turned on Abduh. Emboldened by his silence she exclaimed, “You, by the life of our dear Lord, will see what happens tomorrow. Spit in my face if you think you’ll gain from it.”

  Abduh’s face became flushed from anger; he shouted, “What are you saying?”

  But Zanuba steeled herself and continued, “Tomorrow you’ll see if our Lord forgives you or acquits you. You’ll be up against me, if you get transported to paradise or a prophet intercedes for you.”

  Abduh gestured nervously with his hand, frightening her, and she fell silent at once. Apparently thinking it best to placate him, she asked, “Was I bringing that for you? By the precious Prophet, this wasn’t for you. I was bringing this bird for Mabruk. Isn’t that right, Mabruk?”

  Mabruk glanced at her and then looked anxiously and hesitantly at the others, feeling trapped, not knowing what to say. Finally he agreed with her in a mildly sarcastic tone: “Oh . . . the bird!”

  Zanuba continued, ignoring Mabruk’s response: “Because this fellow Mabruk likes cold fowl.”

  Mabruk, who had no choice but to agree, nodded and said, “Right, like, no kidding, the English.”

  Hanafi, the president, looked at him and asked, “How do you know what the English eat?”

  Mabruk replied, “What do you mean? Wasn’t my cousin taken by the authorities during the war along with the other camels, donkeys, and conscripts?”

  “True!” Hanafi said. “So did he eat cold fowl? By God, fantastic! It appears Miss Zanuba wants to turn us into Englishmen.”

  Zanuba realized that Hanafi was making fun of her. So she turned on him and shouted sharply, “By the Prophet, knock it off you, too. Put a cap on your failure. What are these calamities, sister? I know what’s come over you; by the Prophet, you’ve become absolutely unbearable!”

  No sooner had Zanuba completed her words than Abduh looked up and screamed in his terrifying voice, “Hush! Shut up! Not a word!” Then he continued, menacingly, “I swear by God the high and mighty, I won’t keep silent about you. You think we’re dogs and feed us this kind of food. We’re not!”

  Zanuba looked at him fearfully. Then she said meekly and gently, “Didn’t I tell you I was bringing it to Mabruk?”

  Abduh immediately replied, “Isn’t Mabruk a human being? Isn’t Mabruk one of us? Since when has Mabruk been treated any differently from us? Since when has there been discrimination in the house?”

  Abduh’s statement was at once affirmed and applauded by the folks, who were filled with unusual resolve and zeal. Mabruk, the servant, looked down in embarrassment, and his fingers began to fiddle with the buttons of his torn and stained caftan. In the depths of his heart he sensed things he did not understand. He felt a secret desire to steal a glance at Muhsin’s expensive new clothing, although something restrained him. Then he felt the urge again to sneak a peek at those costly new clothes.

  Those naive glances were innocent of any ulterior meaning, but even so they conveyed his submission, defeat, and dejection, without his being conscious of that, perhaps. At that moment he may have sensed a certain dividing line that would continue to separate him from the people with whom he lived. He wasn’t conscious of any of this. He did
n’t focus on anything in particular. It was just a quick sensation that flashed past like lightning.

  Abduh went on speaking harshly and gruffly to Zanuba, “We give you our money to spend on us—not on magic and astrology.”

  Hanafi, the honorary president, hastened to lend his support. “Bravo, Abu Abduh! The whole budget, on your honor, is wasted on incense, charms, and shabshaba spells.”

  Zanuba shouted in protest, but Abduh screamed her down: “Hush, not one word! You should realize that we’re not fools or little kids sucking our fingers. We all know. You economize and manipulate the expenditures so you can waste what you save on astrologers and charlatans. Ignorant woman, do you think this kind of activity is going to get you a husband?”

  The honorary head of the household spoke next. “Instead of depriving us and spending the budget on—in the name of God the Compassionate, the Merciful—afreets, spend it on us. We come first. Do you mean we’re less important than the afreets?”

  Zanuba didn’t dare speak and pretended to be busy eating. She began to consume her food silently, her face gloomy and dark, her forehead clouded and furrowed. Silence and stillness quickly dominated the room again. Everyone else started eating too, without a soul raising a topic for conversation. Soon the only sounds to be heard were those of the spoons and of chewing and sipping. The folks seemed to have finally submitted to the will of their bellies and forsaken everything else.

  Nonetheless, anyone looking at Muhsin would have seen that some secret concern was troubling his mind at that moment. He was eating gravely, as though something was upsetting him. Moments before he had glimpsed that submissive, embarrassed, innocent glance that Mabruk had stolen at his new clothes. Perhaps such an innocent and naive glance meant nothing. No one should pay attention to it. But a soul like Muhsin’s was capable of discerning its significance and being affected by it. It woke in him an old memory from his childhood, back when he was eight and a pupil at Damanhur Elementary School. His young companions were poor. He was the richest of them and from the most prominent family. He was Muhsin al-Atifi, son of Hamid Bey al-Atifi, one of the wealthiest and most respected local residents. Hamid Bey’s wealth came from his mother, not his father. She wasn’t Hanafi’s or Zanuba’s mother; they were his half brother and half sister. For this reason, they were poor, while Hamid Bey was rich. He had resolved to raise his son, Muhsin, elegantly, surrounded by every kind of luxury and comfort.

  Muhsin, however, was one of those souls who find elegance and luxury distasteful, who perhaps are distressed by wealth. Muhsin was secretly embarrassed and pained by being rich. Time and again he had struggled, wept, and screamed to keep his family from dressing him up in fancy clothing. Time and again he had begged, pleaded, and shed tears to prevent them from sending the carriage to wait for him when he got out of school. Young Muhsin wanted only one thing: to be like his impoverished young comrades. Nothing embarrassed him more than being set apart from his peers by a garment, money, or a semblance of wealth. He felt so strongly about this that he used to keep his family name secret from his school friends.

  Thus he remained one of them for a long time; they thought he was an ordinary, simple pupil like them, a boy whose parents were poor or middle class, until an ill-omened day spoiled it for Muhsin. Once, when he was in poor health, his mother was so concerned about him that she ignored his entreaties. Unbeknownst to him, she sent the carriage to wait on him. The young pupil Muhsin emerged as usual in a band of youthful comrades, who were laughing together happily, innocently, ingenuously. Then he found himself face-to-face with his parents’ stately carriage. It was an unforgettable moment of embarrassment. He quickly steeled himself and ignored the carriage and its driver. He wanted to walk on by, as though he had no relationship to it. But Mr. Ahmad, the driver, noticed his young master and called him. Muhsin shuddered, pretended not to hear, and squeezed in among his companions. He wanted to hide in the group and flee, as though he wasn’t the boy being called. The driver saw what he was up to and called him again by name: “Master Muhsin Bey! Master Muhsin Bey! Come here!” Then he ran after him to bring him back to the carriage.

  It was at this moment that Muhsin’s companions realized who their friend was. They looked back and forth, from him to the elegant carriage with its pair of fine horses. Theirs were innocent, artless glances expressing a certain humility and subservience.

  What an indelible impact these glances made on Muhsin! Actually, his friends hadn’t meant anything by them, not those simple children.

  At that pure and innocent age, their looks couldn’t have implied anything, but Muhsin bowed his head in despair and walked toward the carriage as if to the gallows, as though he heard deep within him the echoes of an irreversible verdict proclaiming, “Muhsin has left our pack forever!”

  CHAPTER 3

  “Master Shahhata!” shouted Salim Effendi grandly. Then with a slow gesture of affected gravity he cast out over the table, “Bring me a shisha!” and began to twist his waxed, military-style mustache. He was deliberately attempting to give his gestures and pauses the stamp of an important person, someone with status and influence, as, from time to time, he shot stealthy glances at the balcony of Dr. Hilmi’s residence. This was a wooden balcony of the old type enclosed with windows like the mashrabiya latticework you see on the waqf, or religious trust, buildings on Al-Khalij Street.

  Salim Effendi noticed that although he had called al-Hajj Shahhata, the summons had not been obeyed. He immediately turned his bare head, which he had perfumed with a bouquet of colognes, and looked into the coffee shop.

  It was shortly before noon, and the sun felt burning hot. Even so, Salim was sitting on the pavement outside the coffee shop in his customary place. He was not one to pay attention to the heat of the sun. His fez, which he had taken off and placed on a chair beside him, bore witness to that. He did, however, keep taking his cheap silk handkerchief out of the sleeve of his jacket to dry his forehead with affected delicacy, care, and circumspection to prevent the handkerchief from mussing his hair or even touching the pointed tips of his mustache.

  Captain Salim Effendi called out once again, “Master Shahhata!”

  But Master Shahhata appeared not to hear anything. The clamor and tumult inside the coffeehouse were deafening. No request could be heard over the guffaws, coughing, spitting, and hawking of the customers. Master Shahhata’s patrons weren’t Salim Effendi’s type; they were inferior to him in rank and status, in temperament and sensitivity, and in their present circumstances. While Salim Effendi sat alone and aloof outside the coffee shop, preoccupied by his emotions and beautiful dreams, the rest of the clients were inside, busily shouting and making a racket, virtually tearing the place down around them. Al-Hajj Shahhata’s patrons carried on like that every day. They all knew each other. They all frequented that small coffeehouse at the same times to fulfill a duty they could not neglect, the duty to laugh. These people seemed to have no profession other than laughter and to have been created for that alone. They spent all their life, so far as could be told, guffawing between sips from their shisha or their straight Turkish coffee. They were always in their customary place, grouped around one man who was their leader. He was an outstanding and distinguished wit and comedian. Their eyes were fixed on him even when this mighty buffoon wasn’t uttering a word. They would all burst into laughter to the point of choking from their bellowing and mirth, whether what he said made any sense or not. They seemed to find in the very act of laughing and shouting a sensual pleasure. Master Shahhata and his waiters went here and there among them, bringing their orders and laughing too, not knowing why at times. They seemed to catch the contagion of it, or else they wanted to increase the uproar and merrymaking and to stoke its furnace. Not a minute would pass without Master Shahhata clapping his hands and shouting in a totally unnecessary way, as though he wanted the tumult and exuberance to reach their ultimate: “Proclaim the oneness of God! Whoever prays for the Prophe
t gains.”

  Nothing could be heard over his voice except the call of a patron: “Waiter, a glass of arrack,” or the echo of a backgammon piece striking the board powerfully and forcefully in a corner of the room as the player said, “My move . . . six-four!”

  But the loudest voice was always that of the grand buffoon along with his claque, who surrounded him as though he was an idol encircled by devout worshippers. He would talk to them, ordering and forbidding: “Listen, fellow, you and him!”

  Then voices rose: “Listen. . . . Hush!”

  When he spoke, he blended jests with song and mixed ordinary conversation with ballads. While addressing those closest to him in a whisper about some observation he had made or about some private matter, he would suddenly raise his voice without warning: “Seven waterwheels pouring couldn’t put out my fire. . . .”

  They would all respond, “God!”

  “Seven waterwheels pouring couldn’t . . .”

  At this point Master Shahhata passed by carrying an order. The singer stopped singing and, turning to his associates, said loud enough to be heard, “Seven waterwheels pouring couldn’t wash Master Shahhata’s face.”

  They all laughed in sync with the song’s beat: “Ha . . . ha . . . ha!”

  They kept laughing till their throats went dry and the master of ceremonies silenced them. Master Shahhata wasn’t offended and laughed with them. Then he cast the grand buffoon a look of censure and entreaty and said, continuing on his way with an order, “Fine, Hajj Hasan.”

  Master Shahhata heard a voice calling him from outside the coffeehouse and shouted, “Coming, coming!”

  In his haste, he collided with a chair and spilled a drink over the head of a customer. He bent down to pick the remnants of the glass from the ground, saying, “Bless the Prophet and gain. . . .” He ignored the patron whose face and cloak he had drenched.