Return of the Spirit

by Tawfiq al-Hakim

  Zanuba replied politely, “They told me a lot, but I haven’t tried it yet.”

  The woman interrupted her: “No, sister. This is tried and true. I’m not the only one. Before I had this baby, I was—may it never happen to you—unable to bear a child. And what I did to try to get pregnant! What’s happened to me has been a catastrophe. My husband had his heart set on children. Morning and night he would tell me, ‘Woman, either you get pregnant or I’m going to take another wife. I’ll bring you a co-wife.’ So tell me, sister, what was I to do? The Lord knows, I tried every medicine and remedy, magic and practice. And none of it, on your life, did a bit of good. One day, my neighbor Umm Hasanayn, God bless her, told me, ‘Get up, sister. Go see someone named Shaykh Simhan beyond Sayyiduna al-Husayn. People have spoken to me about him and said . . .’ By God and your life, it turned out to be true. Do you know how long I had to wear the amulet? A month passed and as the crescent moon rose at the beginning of the next one, I felt my belly and let out a trill of jubilation.”

  Zanuba asked with innocent wonder, wanting to be sure, “He made you pregnant?”

  The woman replied immediately, “What else, sister! May you become pregnant that quickly! Just a month after the charm! What more could you ask for than that?”

  Then the door at the end of the room opened. The old woman appeared at the threshold and gestured to the woman with the infant. She said dryly, “Let’s go. Get up. It’s time for you and your son.”

  The woman leaned down over her child to look at him. Then she turned to Zanuba and said, “Sister, the baby is sleeping. All last night, sweetheart, he didn’t sleep a wink. If you’re in a hurry, sister, you go on ahead of me.”

  Zanuba rose swiftly. She thanked the woman and asked God’s help for her along with that of the Prophet and of Sayyiduna al-Husayn, that they should grant her wish and bless her son with a cure. Then she hastened to the door and followed the old woman.

  Immediately after crossing the threshold of the rear door, Zanuba found herself in the shaykh’s room. It was square in shape and dimly lit, with no windows except for an opening with an iron grate near the ceiling. Its furniture was limited to a few pallets on the floor around a small table that sat on an antique Persian carpet.

  In the center of this room stood the shrine of Shaykh Simhan. It wasn’t a shrine or tomb in the normal sense. It was, rather, a kind of cage hidden from sight by a heavy black cloth. On top of it was a row of ancient brass candlesticks, and its small door was like a little window with gold-colored bars.

  At that golden door to the tomb or cage, a middle-aged woman sat. She was plump and her face was not unattractive. This, they said, was the shaykh’s wife. She, alone, could contact him through this small golden door. Then she transmitted his cryptic words to visitors who came with requests. No one had ever seen the shaykh himself. How and why was he imprisoned in this cage or tomb? No one knew. Perhaps no one had ever asked. People simply knew that Shaykh Simhan al-Asyuti had mysterious powers and knew genuine secrets. He was in constant contact with—“In the name of God the Merciful the Compassionate”—the beings from below.

  Zanuba stood there frozen, staring at the mausoleum. The shaykh’s wife gestured silently for her to approach and sit on one of the mats near her. So Zanuba sat down in the place indicated. The woman scrutinized her and in a low, even voice asked, “Have you thought it over?”

  Zanuba was quiet for a moment; then she answered hesitantly, “Yes . . . but, just . . .”

  The woman knit her brow, which was almost hidden, swaddled in a navy blue kerchief, and asked, “But, just what?”

  Zanuba answered in embarrassment, “A pound! That’s a lot!”

  A contemptuous smile traced itself on the woman’s lips. She demanded, “A lot? One pound a lot . . . for what you plan to receive? What if I had told you five pounds like the woman just before you?”

  Zanuba said softly, “By the Prophet, if I were rich, I wouldn’t hesitate.”

  The shaykh’s wife replied gently, “Bless the Prophet, sister, do you think I’m asking for this money for myself? Do you think this is something that goes into our pockets? Never, by your head’s life! We are not in need, may evil stay far away! Good gracious! With your pound, sister, we’re going to purchase on your behalf, may God’s name protect you, a white sheep without any marking to sacrifice here at this door in your name. Then we will rub the threshold with its blood so God—by the blessing of his saints, who hear us—will open the door of happiness and bliss for you.”

  Zanuba’s heart pounded suddenly at this thought. She lowered her gaze for a moment in embarrassment. Then she regained her poise and composure, removed her handkerchief from her bosom, and untied its knotted ends. She extracted a pound note from the money in the handkerchief and placed it with a trembling hand on the small table. She asked, “Just a sheep? No amulet or anything?”

  Staring at the pound on the table out of the corner of her eye, the shaykh’s wife replied, “Well, sister, well, an amulet, incense, the material for the spell . . . I know the right incense for you, never fear: gum ammoniac, jet, verdigris, Persian gum, euphorbia, and jinni’s eyelid! You must have an amulet you wear at all times and never remove—may God’s sovereign name protect me—because you are vulnerable. Be patient a little more, until I ask the shaykh for you.”

  She put her mouth to the aperture or golden door and called, “Shaykh Simhan!”

  They heard a faint voice, which seemed to come from a corpse in a tomb on the day of resurrection, issue weakly from the gloomy depths of the shrine. The woman turned to Zanuba quickly and demanded, “Tell me at once your name and those of your father and grandfather.”

  Zanuba replied hurriedly, “My name is Zanuba. I’m the daughter of Rajab, who was the son of Hamuda.”

  The woman returned to the door of the mausoleum and shouted: “Shaykh Simhan! Her name is Zanuba, daughter of Rajab, who was the son of Hamuda.”

  A deep and terrifying silence reigned for a moment. Then, suddenly, that weak, indistinct, distant voice came again. The woman put her ear to the golden door and began to listen attentively. Zanuba in her concern watched the woman closely with impatient eyes. She craned her neck and positioned her ears to try to catch a few words.

  The woman finished quickly, left the door of the shrine, and approached Zanuba to reveal the results to her. “Listen! The shaykh says he wants a clipping from his hair, but it must come from the part at the top of his head.”

  Zanuba stammered in a low voice, embarrassed and agitated, “Whose hair?”

  The woman looked at her wickedly and exclaimed, “Whose hair! The hair of the man you have in mind.”

  Zanuba repeated to herself, “A clipping from his hair?”

  The shaykh’s wife added by way of confirmation, “From the part at the top of his head. Don’t forget. If you’re clever, you’ll have a word with the barber who cuts his hair and get him to supply what you need. Listen too, sister. The shaykh says you must have, as well, the heart of an orphan hoopoe.”

  Zanuba inquired innocently, “The heart of a hoopoe?”

  The woman affirmed: “An orphan—the heart of an orphan hoopoe. Be careful not to forget.”

  Zanuba asked, “Just that?”

  The shaykh’s wife answered, “Bring those first. An amulet made from these will never fail—the shaykh said so from below, and he is the supreme authority on the mysterious and miraculous. Whoever wears this amulet, man or woman, will be able to cast anyone he has in mind at his feet.”

  Zanuba was convinced and blushed.

  CHAPTER 4

  That afternoon was just like a spring day. The sky was pure blue without a dollop of cloud in it. Egypt’s sun seemed rejuvenated in its eternal, flaming vigor and sent down on Cairo a scorching heat, which was partially alleviated by a heady Nile breeze.

  At that hour Zanuba and Muhsin were on the roof, sitti
ng on a small mat they had spread by their neighbors’ wall for shade. This wall separated their roof from that of Dr. Hilmi’s residence. Zanuba was busy stitching on a dress, and her face had a thoughtful expression. Muhsin, who was wearing his new suit, had a book in his hand. He was turning its pages without showing much interest in reading. They had been silent for a long time and seemed disengaged from each other, lost in thought, forgetting the other person’s existence. Finally Zanuba noticed and decided to break the silence. She asked Muhsin casually and without stopping her work, “What’s your book?”

  Without looking at her Muhsin answered tersely, indifferently, and listlessly, “A poetry collection.”

  Zanuba pushed the needle against the thimble on her finger and asked, “A collection of what?” Muhsin didn’t answer.

  Zanuba was silent for a moment. Then she sighed and said, while cutting out a piece of fabric: “How unlucky I am! If only I knew how to read and write! What a pity! All I lack is reading and writing.”

  Muhsin raised his head with a smile and glanced at her wryly. He repeated her word mischievously in a whisper. “All?”

  Zanuba didn’t notice his sarcasm. She fixed her eyes on a section she had finished. She lifted it in her hand and drew her head back to examine and scrutinize it. Then she said to Muhsin with pride and satisfaction, “Look, Muhsin! Tomorrow you’ll see it when it’s finished.”

  At first Muhsin looked with little interest, but suddenly he remembered something that made him blush slightly. He said with almost fanatical admiration, “God! It couldn’t be more beautiful.”

  Soon he added hesitantly with embarrassment, “It looks just like a dress of . . .”

  Zanuba quickly added proudly, “Saniya! Exactly! It’s patterned after Saniya Hilmi’s new outfit. Have you seen it?”

  Muhsin stammered in his agitation, “Seen?”

  Zanuba said, “Her outfit, Saniya’s new suit. Haven’t you seen it? It’s enough to make a person delirious. The latest fashion! You’ll see it now with your own eyes too, Muhsin; in just a moment Saniya will come to their roof to hand it over the wall.”

  Muhsin’s heart throbbed, and he looked incredulously at his aunt, as if seeking confirmation. But Zanuba lifted her head, looked at the top of the wall, and explained, “I arranged that with her this morning. I wonder why she’s late.”

  Muhsin trembled and asked, “She’s coming here, now? I mean her suit? That is to say, the suit. . . .”

  He got tangled up in his words and immediately fell silent. Then, as though his heart had been filling with repressed delight, he burst out suddenly with unusual enthusiasm, “Yes, aunt, yes! I certainly want to see the model for your new dress. I just have to see it and examine it. If only you knew, auntie! By God Almighty, I always love for you to be well dressed. A pretty person must dress well.”

  Looking at her new dress, Zanuba replied, “Of course!”

  Muhsin continued enthusiastically, “That’s true! You know, auntie, tomorrow people will be going wild over you. By God Almighty, tomorrow you’ll be in good shape. People will be saying, ‘Wow!’”

  Zanuba lowered her eyes bashfully as though she were a girl and said in a voice that was slow and soft with a ring of forced modesty to it, “Don’t fib!”

  Suddenly she thought of something that agitated her a little. She once again busied herself with her work as though nothing were troubling her, but her mind began to reflect and brood.

  Muhsin continued chattering enthusiastically. She was eager to listen to his praise to satisfy her vanity, but something still preoccupied her mind.

  Finally her face revealed that she had found what she sought. She turned to Muhsin and said with unusual affection and sympathy, “You’re handsome too, Muhsin, by the Prophet, in your new coat and trousers.”

  He replied in a tone of innocent, childish pleasure, “Really?”

  Zanuba responded while looking at his hair, “By the Pure Lady, it’s just that, well, what a pity.”

  Muhsin anxiously asked her, “What?”

  Zanuba inquired hesitantly, “Where do you get your hair cut?”

  Muhsin quickly raised a hand to his head and began to comb his hair with his fingers.

  Out of the corner of his eye he cast a quick, stealthy glance at the top of the wall. Then he asked, “Why? What’s wrong with my hair?”

  Zanuba said tenderly, “Nothing. . . . All I mean is that your barber isn’t as good as he might be.”

  Muhsin asked, “Master Dasuqi?”

  Zanuba said, “Do I know him? Isn’t there anyone else in the area?”

  Muhsin replied, “What’s the matter with him? He’s the barber for all of us, for me and my uncles and . . . and all of us.”

  Zanuba added snippily, “And for the servant Mabruk?”

  Muhsin replied instantly, “So what? What’s the matter with his haircuts?”

  Zanuba was perplexed and fell silent. After a bit she retorted, “No, all I mean is that someone wearing a suit like yours deserves to have his hair cut by a barber for quality people.”

  Muhsin lifted his eyes and looked straight at her as though trying to grasp her meaning. He was afflicted by a light anxiety concerning the intent of her remark. Was she directing covert criticism at him and his new clothes and his fresh interest in his appearance? Did she mean to insinuate that his clothing and elegance now set him apart from his uncles and companions? Her tone and facial expression, however, weren’t critical. Zanuba continued, “Oh, if I were you, I’d get my hair cut by a barber for well-to-do, respectable people. I know why you let this happen. Your father is rich, but you may not know where to find a good barber. Oh! See, what good luck! There’s our rich neighbor, the investor, who lives below us. He must have a superb barber.”

  With a sigh of relief and a smile of understanding, Muhsin asked quickly, “Mustafa Bey?”

  Zanuba said hesitantly, but with her concern showing in her eyes and a slight blush on her face, “Smarty-pants, do you know where he gets his hair cut?”

  Muhsin looked at her out of the corner of his eye and answered with a smile on his lips, “Yes, well . . . I know. I saw him once sitting at the large barbershop across from the mosque—the one with ‘Perfection Salon’ written above it.”

  Zanuba wanted additional clarification and asked, “Opposite Al-Sayyida Zaynab Mosque? Do you mean in the square beside the store . . .”

  She didn’t finish, because a sweet, musical voice called from the adjoining roof, “Abla Zanuba, where are you?”

  Then a beautiful face with glistening black hair appeared above the wall. Zanuba looked up. Muhsin’s face suddenly turned white and then red. He froze, lowered his eyes, and fixed them on the book in his hand.

  Zanuba called out, “Come here, Saniya.”

  But Saniya noticed Muhsin and said delicately and graciously, “Oh . . . no. It’s not important. Another time.”

  Her beautiful face disappeared immediately behind the wall. Zanuba shouted at her and rose to chase after her, “Come. Come, Susu! There are no strangers here. This is Muhsin. Are you going to hide and conceal yourself from a small child? Are you—name of God protect you—who are well schooled, embarrassed to see him? Come on!”

  Saniya returned to the wall with a polite but enchanting smile on her lips. She said, “I didn’t notice.” Then she turned toward Muhsin cautiously and circumspectly and said engagingly, “Bonsoir, Muhsin Bey.”

  Feeling flustered and confused, Muhsin quickly rose to his feet and stammered out an answer while looking at the ground: “Bonsoir!”

  Zanuba put her hand over the wall, which wasn’t much more than a meter high, and accepted a small parcel from Saniya, after asking, “You brought the dress? Give it here, sister. Come, cross over the top of the wall and jump down here with us like always.”

  Saniya apologized sweetly. “I can’t stay, sister. Mo
ther is waiting downstairs for me to play the piano for her.”

  Zanuba asked, “Now? Right now?”

  Saniya answered with a smile, “Yes, now, right now!”

  Zanuba urged her, “Just stay for five minutes. What difference does five minutes make? Just sit down, and then I’ll go with you.”

  Saniya asked happily, “Is that true, abla?”

  “Yes, by the Pure Lady. Just sit down here first so you can see how I have cut out my dress. Then we’ll go down together.”

  Saniya replied, “I accept, for your sake. Give me your hand, abla, please.” She rested her soft hand on Zanuba’s broad shoulder and hopped down to the mat. Then she announced with a smile, “So here I am on your roof.” The two women sat beside each other while Muhsin gradually scooted away from them till he reached the very edge of the mat, leaving himself no room to retreat.

  Zanuba quickly took the parcel and opened it. She chattered on, although her voice had a serious tone to it, mixed with some astonishment. “Since when, sister, has your mother liked listening to the piano?”

  Saniya replied, “Always, abla. Mama loves the piano, especially when she’s feeling tired. Today she’s home alone and doesn’t have any visits or errands scheduled, or anything. Papa left early as usual to hold forth at Al-Jawali Pharmacy. Oh. Look, abla! By the Prophet, Mama wanted to call on you today, and I’m the one who prevented her.”

  Zanuba protested, “Why, Saniya? What a shame!”

  Saniya replied in a merry, playful voice, pointing to Zanuba’s dress, “Because I knew you were busy with your dress. I was afraid the visit would delay you. Didn’t I do the right thing, abla?”

  Zanuba patted beautiful Saniya’s shoulder and said, “Many thanks for your taste and graciousness, but, by the Prophet, you were wrong. How would your mother delay me? In short let’s quickly look at the way the garment is cut out and go down. It certainly wouldn’t be right to leave your mother alone.”