Return of the Spirit

by Tawfiq al-Hakim

  Muhsin felt a need to confide his total bliss to someone. But to whom? He remembered her silk handkerchief, which he carried at all times, the way pious people carry the Holy Qur’an. Let him confide his feelings to her handkerchief, then.

  His soul yearned to be alone and secluded in some remote place, so he could be by himself, kiss this cherished handkerchief, and reveal to it many things, chatting with it at length. But the group had returned from outside and supper was ready.

  * * *

  • • •

  Muhsin sank into his beautiful dreams and did not hear the tumult and uproar rising around him. They were searching for Mabruk. Salim and Abduh were looking with annoyance at the door leading outside.

  Twisting his mustache, Salim said, “This isn’t like him at all to be late for supper. His whole life he’s been the first.” Abduh responded with nervous gestures of his hands.

  Perturbed, Zanuba observed their distress silently and anxiously. From time to time she attempted to calm them, telling them, “It’s still early for supper. Why are you in such a hurry? Mr. Hanafi is sleeping. When I went to wake him just now he yelled, with his eyes closed, that he’s not getting up or moving so long as the sky hangs over the earth.”

  Both Abduh and Salim cast a swift look toward the bed of the honorary president. Abduh grumbled and huffed, “God deliver us from such laziness!”

  A period of silence ensued. Then Salim suddenly turned toward Zanuba and asked her mischievously, “You mean you don’t know where Mabruk went?” Zanuba, however, looked away evasively and walked quickly toward Muhsin.

  Abduh, finally noticing Muhsin’s solitary seclusion in a corner, rose and approached him. He asked, “And you, Muhsin, are you hungry or not? God! Why are you so quiet today, sitting by yourself?”

  At this moment Salim approached Zanuba as though he had remembered something. He asked her in a meaningful tone, “Mabruk hasn’t gone on an errand . . . to . . . for example . . . ?”

  Zanuba pretended not to hear. Trying to change the topic, she tapped Muhsin on the shoulder gently and turned to Abduh to say proudly, “May he have the protection of God’s name—Muhsin enchanted Dr. Hilmi’s family today with his sweet voice. The old lady, Saniya’s mother, swears it’s a performance exactly like Abduh al-Hamuli, and Miss Saniya, who plays the piano to perfection, asked him, who knows the songs by heart, to teach her to sing.”

  When Muhsin heard her say this, he was displeased and fearful. He didn’t want any of his uncles to know about this, at least not so soon.

  He was right, for Zanuba’s release of this information produced an immediate effect. On hearing it, Abduh appeared dazed and incredulous. He looked at Muhsin with doubt and suspicion. Then he seemed to have grasped at last the secret of his silence and seclusion. Similarly, Salim didn’t fail to notice on the young boy’s face the profound impact this visit to the neighbors’ home had made on his psyche. Salim twisted his mustache and cleared his throat and in a cold, stinging tone remarked, “God’s will be done! A fine craft that provides honey to eat: a paid singer in private homes! I wonder how much you charge for that, Mr. Muhsin.” Muhsin raised his eyes and glared harshly at Salim but did not condescend to answer him.

  This increased their doubts. Abduh turned on Zanuba and said to her sharply, “Madam, so you take him around to sing to people? That’s the last straw!”

  Muhsin suppressed his rage and gained control of himself. He replied quietly, “What’s it to you?”

  Abduh flared up in anger and raged, “What did you say? What’s it to me? Do you think you’re an adult? You’re a little boy! You came here to concentrate on your studies, not to work as a song stylist. You sit your competency exam this year. By God, if only your parents knew!”

  Muhsin couldn’t stand this and screamed, “It’s not your job!”

  Then he rose violently to move away, fighting to control his outburst of temper. Zanuba stopped him and asked mildly and gently, “Where are you going, Muhsin?”

  He didn’t reply. He freed himself from her and went off toward his bed. Zanuba followed after him a step, asking, “Aren’t you going to have supper?”

  Without pausing, Muhsin answered tersely and gruffly, “No!”

  Zanuba went back to Abduh and gave him a look of blame and censure. She said, “You have no right to get angry. By the Prophet, that was not at all necessary. What’s wrong with him teaching Saniya to sing when she, name of God, is going to teach him to play the piano?”

  Abduh shook with rage. “What are you saying!”

  Salim emitted a forced laugh and said to Abduh, “Do you hear? He teaches her singing and she teaches him piano. How extraordinarily beautiful!”

  Zanuba turned toward him and stared at him for a long time. He grasped the meaning of her look and wanted to retreat a bit. Trying to seem an impartial counselor, he said, “Of course, our only goal is his welfare, because of his studies and . . . and his parents . . . and . . .”

  Abduh nodded his head in agreement while his eyes wandered through space. At that moment, the two felt the mutual accord between them being reestablished—that old, harmonious entente between them.

  * * *

  • • •

  Muhsin undressed and climbed into bed, retreating inside the mosquito net draped over it. He sought the solitude and independence that only a person with a private room can enjoy.

  For the first time Muhsin resented this style of living: five individuals in a single room. For the first time he felt exasperated by their communal living that had always been a source of happiness, contentment, and joy for everyone—for him, his uncles, and Mabruk, the servant; in other words, the folks, as they chose to call themselves.

  Muhsin hid his head beneath the covers, wishing to block out the cold, merciless voices of his comrades so he would hear nothing but the beautiful, enchanting, musical voice of Saniya. He began to recollect, trying to remember the events of that happy day.

  Muhsin didn’t omit anything, not even the most trivial details. He didn’t overlook even ephemeral gestures and passing words that memory usually doesn’t retain. He began to set out in his imagination everything related to the day’s events. Finally he lingered over his memory of how appreciative and enthusiastic Saniya had been when he finished singing . . . and that smile she cast him when she offered him the rosewater punch and explained that it was his reward. Those hands and fingertips that presented the glass, those sweet smiles, her teeth, her looks, her eyelashes!

  Muhsin closed his eyes to see her. Then he tried to fall asleep, hoping she might appear to him in a dream. But how could he sleep that evening when his heart was so awake it seemed divine?

  Sleep fled from Muhsin’s eyes, and he realized he would not sleep that night unless she gave him permission. He remembered the words of Mihyar al-Daylami:

  Send me your dream visions in my sleep,

  If you permit my eyes to slumber.

  CHAPTER 6

  Abduh’s and Salim’s patience had limits. Zanuba’s attempts to pacify and calm them were futile. They finally resolved not to wait for Mabruk and went to the dining table, grumbling and fuming. Abduh ordered Zanuba in a nervous voice to wake Hanafi and Muhsin at once and to serve the meal without further delay.

  No sooner had Zanuba obeyed and stepped toward the bedroom to rouse the sleepers than the outside door opened and Mabruk appeared, panting like a tired dog. Between gasps of breath he exclaimed, “Oh, oh! I’ve totally destroyed myself walking around, you Muslims!”

  Abduh and Salim turned toward him in amazement. Abduh asked, “What’s the matter? Where’ve you been?”

  Mabruk answered in the voice of a person on the point of death, “The orphan hoopoe . . .”

  Salim put a hand to his ear, trying to understand. “What?”

  Mabruk moaned, “The orphan hoopoe! May God requite and bless us for this hoopoe,
this orphan! Oh world! Oh people!”

  Zanuba stopped in her tracks, struck by fear. She began to look stealthily at Abduh. He was frowning and asked Mabruk dryly, “What orphan hoopoe? I don’t understand you at all!” He turned to ask Salim, “Have you understood him, Mr. Salim?”

  Salim twisted his mustache and put a finger to his brow. He replied, “I’m still investigating this puzzle in my bean.”

  Zanuba regained control of herself and began to gesture secretly to Mabruk not to say anything. But Mabruk appeared not to understand her signs, for he began to rub his knees, saying, “Oh, my knees! Starting this afternoon, by the life of the Prophet’s beard, I have been running around—from Al-Husayniya to the Citadel, to Zaynhum, and to Al-Darrasa.”

  Then he raised his head, turned toward Zanuba, and said, “All of this because of you and because of—I’m not kidding—the orphan hoopoe. I have asked throughout the town and found only one hoopoe. I don’t know whether he’s an orphan or not. I didn’t ask him. Am I someone, Miss Zanuba, who understands, no joke intended, bird talk?”

  He still did not get the message from Zanuba’s winks, which were secretly signaling him to be quiet in front of those present. He continued, “The upshot was that when I was on my way back I met a fellow named Balaha, who’s the butcher’s assistant. He said, ‘No problem! Give me a riyal, and I’ll get you a fine piece of hoopoe, just like you want, an orphan on both his mother’s and father’s side. If you find any of his family, return him and you won’t need to say anything to me.’”

  Salim burst out laughing and told Mabruk, while nudging Abduh with his elbow to try to get him to laugh too, “The best thing would be to look for him in an orphanage.”

  But Abduh didn’t laugh. He did not wish to jest or joke around. Instead he continued to frown and asked gruffly, “Tell me, what’s the point of this story?” Then he turned on Zanuba and asked her, “What’s this orphan hoopoe you’re after?”

  When Zanuba didn’t reply, Abduh cast her a frightening glance and shouted, “Magic again? Haven’t you given up on magic and wasting money on nonsense?”

  Zanuba recovered some of her composure and protested, “What magic? Don’t say that. This is medicine.”

  Abduh replied angrily with chilly sarcasm, “Medicine!”

  Zanuba responded forcefully, “Yes, by the Prophet! Real medicine—a doctor’s prescription!”

  Salim guffawed. He said, “Hold on! Let’s get serious! What physician, then, clever girl, prescribes hoopoe? I want to know the name of this physician. I suppose he wrote ‘hoopoe’ on the prescription for you. I beg God’s forgiveness: ‘orphan hoopoe.’ Yes, he’s got to be an orphan, because if his mother or father were still alive that will ruin the effect of the medicine?”

  At that point, Abduh shouted at Zanuba, “No way is the money going to stay in your hands after today! No way! Enough’s enough! We can’t stand for things like this. Food like tar and the money wasted on magic—our money being wasted. Our whole budget is spent on spells for bridegrooms.”

  Enraged by his words, Zanuba burst out screaming, “Cut out a tongue that says such things of me . . . that I do magic for bridegrooms! Lies! Fine, by the Pure Lady, if you don’t stop that talk, I’m not going to have anything to do with you again. Take your money, for what it’s worth. You be the ones to plan, spend, cook, and see to the housework. By the Prophet, I’m not going to lend a hand to anything. I don’t see what you’ll do without me. If it weren’t for me, your worn-out clothes would be lying at your feet.”

  Abduh’s anger and nervous agitation intensified. He shouted in a terrifying voice, “What are you saying? You think you can threaten us? Fine. I swear by God Almighty that you won’t cook or serve meals. Bring the money you’ve got at once. Give us back what you still have of the month’s account immediately. We don’t want your guidance. Enough! We know how to care for our affairs. Bring the money!”

  Clenching her teeth, Zanuba managed to say, “Fine. Gladly. By the Prophet, a blessing from God, rest for the brain. Does anyone dislike rest? Okay. I’m going to hand back what I have left of yours.”

  She headed straight for her room and entered it.

  At that, Abduh turned forcefully toward Salim and said, “Let her boil! It’s the best thing for us a thousand times over. Don’t you agree?”

  Salim answered in a jesting tone while twisting his mustache, “I agree totally. Our food was really awful, and our dear, distinguished governor was spending our funds on her personal affairs and nonsense.”

  Abduh quickly added, with no change in his serious expression, “It’s enough to drive a person insane. It’s infuriating. She leaves us hungry, yearning for a crumb, without a piece of meat to be found.”

  Salim concluded, “And if she errs and buys a goose one day, we have to keep eating on it for two months.”

  Meanwhile Mabruk was propping himself up with his arm on the edge of the table, silently watching the action, like an ordinary bloke at a fancy play.

  Abduh happened to glance at him and asked him at once, “What about you, Mabruk? Why are you silent? Don’t you agree?”

  Mabruk roused himself from his stupor, rubbed his eyes, and replied, “By God, I don’t know. May a calamity strike the father of the orphan hoopoe. It’s all the fault of his crest. But just the same, there’s no need to make Miss Zanuba angry.”

  Abduh shouted at him, “Don’t you be a fool too! We just want you to answer this: Do you like to eat well or not? That’s the question.”

  Mabruk replied immediately, “No, by the life of Saint Zaynhum, I like to eat well.”

  Salim smiled and said quickly, “Of course!” His face suddenly became serious. He motioned to Abduh as he said, “We ought to tell the others too.”

  Abduh concurred with the suggestion, nodding his head. He rose straightaway and headed to the bedroom to inform Hanafi of the new revolution. The tried-and-true method of waking Hanafi quickly was simple and known to everyone. It was to yank the covers off him in one jerk and then to scream in his ear for a long time. Abduh resorted to that method directly without wasting time on useless preliminaries. Hanafi Effendi moved at last, bellowing angrily, “People! Hey! I’m in the glory of the Prophet. Can’t I have a little nap? I taught five classes today, people.”

  Abduh said resolutely, “Wake up! Get up and hear the important news, Mr. Hanafi. It has now been confirmed that the government is wasting the budget on its own pointless, personal affairs.”

  Hanafi yawned. Closing one eye, he said, “How does that concern me? I’m not involved in politics.”

  Abduh frowned and retorted sternly, “How so? You’re the senior member of the household.” Hanafi shut his other eye and asked listlessly and indifferently, “Which paper reports this news?”

  Abduh replied with some amazement, “What do you mean, which paper? No, no. This isn’t in the papers. I mean our own government here in our house. I’m talking about Zanuba.”

  Hanafi rolled over in bed, turning his back to Abduh. Trying to resume his nap, he said, “Fine then; spare me, for the sake of the generous God.”

  A thick snore issued from his nostrils, marking his actual return to sleep. Abduh tried with all his might to prevent him. He stripped off the bedcovers once again and shook his shoulder violently. He threatened seriously to pour a glass of cold water on his head if he did not wake up at once. In short, he employed all the strongest procedures used in such circumstances. Finally the honorary president found he couldn’t avoid rising. He sat up halfway in bed, grumbling, scolding, raging, and cursing. When Abduh was convinced that he was wide awake, he left him and went toward Muhsin’s bed.

  But as he neared it he heard all of a sudden the sound of a quarrel erupting in the hall and recognized Zanuba’s voice. He left the bedroom at once and went straight to her, asking gruffly, “Where’s the money?”

  Zanuba did not answer or bu
dge. Salim pointed to the sum of one pound on the table. “Help yourself,” he said. “This is all that’s left.”

  Abduh looked at the pound and then at Zanuba. He shouted in a grating voice, “Impossible! It’s only the nineteenth! Twelve days remain. One pound is going to suffice for twelve days? Nonsense!”

  Zanuba didn’t respond. She was cloaking her rage with a calm exterior. At last she said coldly, “You don’t believe it? Suit yourself. That’s all of your money I’ve got. If you don’t believe me, go ahead and search.”

  Salim gestured secretly to Abduh to come and whispered to him provocatively, “Right. Let’s search!”

  Mabruk caught that, because he was close to Salim and could crane his neck and eavesdrop. He grasped what Salim said and, clearing his throat, whispered, as though to himself, “By God, Mr. Salim, all he knows how to do is search.” Then out loud, he continued, “The best thing is to pray for the Prophet. There’s no need to . . . May God protect us from evil. What is predestined will be seen, even if only after a time. Beg pardon, but is a pound nothing? Praise God. . . . Our destiny. What will we do? Nothing: Here’s the sky and here’s the earth.”

  Abduh gave him a long, strange look. An idea seemed suddenly to fall on him from the heavens. He quickly placed his hand on Mabruk’s shoulder and said in a firm, thoughtful, calm voice, “Listen, Mabruk, God will make it possible to do without her. You keep the funds. You will be our government from now on. Understand? You! Because with you at least there won’t be any fear of squandering and wasting money on foolish nonsense.”