Return of the Spirit

by Tawfiq al-Hakim

  Muhsin felt that about them. He also felt that the secret of their amazing attentiveness and overwhelming contentment with him and his speech—clearly visible in their eyes—was attributable to one thing: that he was expressing what was in their hearts.

  CHAPTER 8

  Looking out at Salama Street, Saniya and Zanuba stood at one of the windows of the wooden balcony in the piano room watching for Muhsin’s return. It was afternoon, but Muhsin hadn’t come back from school yet. He was, however, due to head directly to Dr. Hilmi’s residence to give Saniya her first singing lesson. They had agreed to this the day before. So Zanuba had come to wait for him at Saniya’s.

  The two women began to look about discreetly and to pass the time by observing things. Quite naturally, Shahhata’s coffee shop, which was opposite the house, drew their attention. As usual at this time of day, it was swarming with its regular customers, inside and out.

  No sooner had Saniya cast a glance at the chairs and tables lined up on the pavement than she nudged Zanuba with her arm and whispered to her, “Look, abla, at the effendi with the shisha. What’s with him? He can’t keep his eyes off our balcony. Look! Every so often he twists his mustache in a way that could make you die with laughter.”

  Zanuba stared at that effendi. Then she turned quickly to Saniya and said immediately, “Yes! Absolutely. Don’t you know him? That gentleman is my cousin.”

  Surprised and a little embarrassed at what she had blurted out, Saniya apologized. “Shame on you, abla. Why didn’t you tell me right away?” She was quiet for a bit and then said, “So is he the engineer?”

  “No, sister,” Zanuba replied. “The engineer is my brother, Abduh. This one, he’s the officer, the one Muhsin was telling you yesterday has a musical instrument with bellows.”

  “An accordion?”

  “Right, sister, that’s it. You see the light.”

  Saniya looked at Zanuba’s cousin again and lavished praise on him to make up for her previous slur. “The truth is, abla, each of his gestures shows his dignity, prestige, and rank.”

  Zanuba looked at Salim in the coffeehouse. Then she laughed with gentle scorn. “Sister, why does he act like that? May God’s name protect us from such conceit!”

  At that moment Saniya suddenly emitted a small cry of amazement. She grasped Zanuba by the arm and with a ripple of enthusiasm directed her attention toward the coffee shop. “Look, abla! See—with the blond hair and the trim little mustache—that effendi who only just arrived. What a coincidence! He sat down directly behind your cousin.” Zanuba looked and her heart suddenly began to pound. The color of her face changed, but she hid her feelings.

  Gazing at the newcomer to the coffeehouse, Saniya continued, “See how he laughs as he watches your cousin. Does he know him? But he didn’t greet him.”

  Zanuba replied in a slightly altered voice, “They don’t know each other yet.”

  A little surprised at this choice of words, Saniya repeated, “‘They don’t know each other yet?’”

  Suppressing a sigh, Zanuba said, “Right, I mean they may possibly meet one day. . . .” She was silent for a moment. Then, as though she feared her words might betray something, she amended them: “You see, he’s our neighbor.”

  While looking at the man, Saniya asked in a rush, “This fellow? Is he really your neighbor, abla, or are you joking? Does he live alone? What’s his profession?”

  Zanuba replied absentmindedly, her eyes fixed on the coffeehouse, “Yes, his profession? He’s rich! An investor!”

  Zanuba became self-conscious and noticed that Saniya was staring too. So with a quick, brusque gesture she immediately drew Saniya away from the balcony, saying roughly, “Come back. You shouldn’t peer out like that so much, Saniya.”

  Saniya withdrew into the salon and remarked cheerfully, “I don’t make a habit of looking down from this balcony, but it’s truly a sweet spectacle. Do you suppose there are men like this in the coffee shop every day?”

  Zanuba did not reply. Saniya returned to the balcony for yet another look but right away called out enchantingly, “Here’s Muhsin! He’s come.” She was silent for a bit while she followed him with her eyes. Then she picked up again. “He’s gone first to the coffeehouse to greet your cousin and has left his books with him too. That’s a good idea. He can come here directly, by the street door.”

  Zanuba had not heard a single word Saniya said. She was, rather, silently observing the coffeehouse, her thoughts adrift in dreams. Then she straightened quickly and moved toward the salon. She had seen something that made her decide to depart at once. She had seen Salim rise from his place in the coffeehouse and head for their residence, carrying Muhsin’s books, while the young lad was knocking on Dr. Hilmi’s door.

  What interested Zanuba about all this was that she saw Mustafa Bey sitting there alone now. She cast him a final glance before leaving the balcony window and going to fetch her wrap from the bench in the hall. Saniya perceived her intention and asked, “Where are you going, sister?”

  Zanuba answered quickly and anxiously, with feigned indifference, “I’m going to the dressmaker and will be right back—just long enough for the errand.”

  Saniya commented with mild censure, “You’re going to leave me alone? You know Mama isn’t here.”

  Cloaking herself in her wrap, Zanuba replied, “By your life, I’ll be back in ten minutes.”

  Saniya complained, “Is the dressmaker really necessary right now?”

  “Yes, sister,” Zanuba replied, preoccupied with her appearance. “I’ve remembered something very important. There’s nothing to fear. If I’m so much as five minutes late, then you can complain.”

  In front of the mirror she began to arrange her garments carefully. She adjusted the way the fish-scale patterned bridge of her face veil fell on her nose and made sure that locks of her tinted hair were visible on both sides of her head. She focused on her toilette with the eagerness of a girl of twenty, making Saniya smile in spite of herself.

  At that moment the black maid came to announce Muhsin’s arrival to Saniya. A minute later the youth appeared at the door of the salon. He stood there hesitating in embarrassment for a time. Then he went to Saniya and greeted her politely and with profound respect.

  Zanuba took advantage of Saniya’s preoccupation with greeting Muhsin to slip to the balcony. She looked out the window and stood leaning there so her torso could be clearly seen by the men at the coffeehouse. That accomplished, she swiftly stepped back to Saniya and Muhsin and assured them of her early return and short absence. She bade them farewell and departed quickly. Muhsin and Saniya were left alone, face-to-face.

  At that, the young boy felt his reserve and embarrassment increase to the point of fear and dread. He sensed that the courage that he had worked up during the day and that he had meant to hoard for this moment had abandoned him in the twinkling of an eye. He stood there silently, looking at the floor like a guilty child facing punishment.

  Saniya wasn’t afflicted by embarrassment, reserve, or fear. Although she was a girl of seventeen, or only about two years older than Muhsin, she was self-assured and even womanly in her physical and psychological development. If at times she lowered her long, lovely eyelashes while speaking to Muhsin, laughed in a quintessentially feminine way, and limited her eyes to polite, bashful, reserved glances, none of that came naturally to her. It was, rather, a stratagem. This is perhaps the most refined magic of the Egyptian woman, for the truth is that she is gifted at perceiving instinctively the impact and effect a single glance can have. For this reason she does not gaze much at the person with whom she is speaking. She does not glance idly or randomly as daring, frivolous, European women do. Instead, she keeps track of her glances and holds them between her languid lashes—like a sword in a scabbard—until the desired moment arrives. Then she raises her head and releases a single, devastating look.

  Saniya
finally broke the silence by saying in a friendly and congenial way, “Come right in, Muhsin Bey.” She directed him to a large chair next to the piano. Then she smiled and added, “What are you going to teach me today, professor?”

  Muhsin answered with such superfluous good manners, reserve, and decorum as to be tedious, “Just as you wish.”

  Saniya replied with a smile, “I don’t know why I love today’s pop songs, but what you sang yesterday, though it’s in a very old style, still, I can’t tell you how much I liked it. That’s the first time in my life I’ve liked the old style, but the merit is yours, Muhsin. You truly sang it in an exemplary way. It was really very beautiful!”

  Muhsin blushed, and his heart throbbed with joy at this enchanting praise. Apparently deriving some daring and courage from it, while attempting to raise his head, which he had kept bowed all this time, he said, “Thank you, Miss Saniya. You’re too kind.”

  Saniya replied, “I assure you, Muhsin Bey—you have an amazing talent in singing. It’s this art that I want you to teach me. Isn’t that so?” She smiled graciously, went to the piano, opened it, and took her seat there.

  Totally charmed, Muhsin rose and approached the piano, as though wishing to put his embarrassment behind him and relax by conversing with her a little. He said, attempting to imitate her recent phrasing deliberately and gracefully, “Here’s the piano I want you to teach me. Isn’t that so?” But his face flushed as soon as he got these words out.

  So Saniya sent him a look that could have softened the heart of a rebellious Amalekite and said, “No doubt about that. I guarantee that you’ll progress rapidly, since you told me you know how to play the accordion.”

  She turned back to the piano, running her fingers over its keys. Muhsin stood behind her. His anxiety had calmed a bit, and he relaxed. She could not see him where he was standing, so he started to glance at her stealthily. For the first time he noticed that her hair was cut in the latest fashion. His eyes began to gaze at her ivory neck, which was superlatively white. Above it rose a beautiful head with a circle of intensely black hair, which gleamed in a captivating way like an ebony moon. Muhsin remembered a picture he had looked at frequently in the year’s assigned text for ancient Egyptian history, a picture he loved a great deal. He spent lengthy portions of the history class gazing at it while swimming through a world of dreams from which nothing would bring him down to earth except the teacher’s voice when he began to explain the lesson. That picture portrayed a woman whose hair was also cut short, gleaming black as well, and rounded like an ebony moon: Isis!

  Saniya raised her head unexpectedly and turned toward Muhsin, smiling. She said, as though remembering something suddenly, “Look—I’ve been forgetting something terribly important.”

  The boy was taken by surprise and looked at her like a person roused from a dream. He trembled slightly, for he was afraid she had caught him sneaking a glance at the back of her beautiful head. He pulled himself together nevertheless and stuttered, “What?”

  Saniya continued, “I wanted to ask you about Maestra Shakhla‘—the singer who taught you her craft.”

  Muhsin was silent for a bit, until he could calm down. Then he said, “Oh! But that’s a very old story.”

  Saniya pleaded delicately and somewhat coquettishly, “I want to hear it. I’m very eager to learn it.”

  Muhsin asked with delighted amazement, “Are you really?”

  “Yes, I want you to tell me how you met Shakhla‘.”

  Muhsin paused as if trying to remember things long gone. Earnestly and pensively he began, “Shakhla‘! I had forgotten. At the time I was very young. All the same I remember. Those were wonderful days. I was happy, even if I don’t know why. Yes, I recall that now. I remember!”

  Then Muhsin’s face took on an unusual expression. His was no longer the face of an innocent, embarrassed child. It had become in a moment a man’s face that expressed deep feelings. “Yes! It’s impossible for me to forget.” He said that in a whisper, as though to himself.

  Saniya was surprised and began to look at him in confusion. She gazed at the face of that young lad, the feelings it revealed, and his imaginative eyes, which were like ethereal veils over the past.

  CHAPTER 9

  Muhsin was six years old when Maestra Labiba Shakhla‘ was a frequent guest in his family’s home. There was more than mere coincidence to the story of that artiste and her close friendship with the family. Muhsin’s grandmother at that time was suffering from a nervous complaint for which no treatment or medicine could be found. Many physicians had treated her to no avail. At last, one, after trying everything else, said, “The best thing for a condition like hers is tranquility, calm, and a cheerful outlook. Entertain her as much as possible. A hearty dose of pleasure and joy may improve her health.”

  “Entertain and delight her how, doctor?”

  “I mean sing to her. Cheer her up. Song and instrumental music will be the best remedy for her.”

  The coincidence came later. Muhsin’s mother heard Maestra Labiba Shakhla‘ at the wedding reception of one of her relatives and was immediately taken by that famous artiste’s manners and decorum, modesty, and taste. She found her exquisite. Shakhla‘ likewise picked out Muhsin’s mother from the crowd of ladies. A certain aloofness in her personality caught her eye. So they made each other’s acquaintance. On that occasion Muhsin’s mother mentioned the sick lady whose cure was music and seized the opportunity to invite Shakhla‘ to visit.

  From that time on, the Maestra Labiba Shakhla‘ visited Muhsin’s family every summer in Damanhur, accompanied by her troupe and their instruments. She would stay all summer, or part of it, as their honored guest. She revived her soul with the sights and air of the countryside while entertaining the ailing old lady and filling the house with animation, joy, and pleasure.

  Those days that Shakhla‘ and her troupe spent in the house of Hamid Bey al-Atifi were her best, she said. Nothing interrupted them unless al-Hajj Ahmad al-Mutayyib sought her and the troupe from time to time for an unscheduled performance or a good contract.

  Especially for little Muhsin, those days were without doubt the happiest of his life. He waited for them all year long, counting the months on his fingers in anticipation. It was a matter of great joy to him whenever a month passed.

  What sweet and innocent dreams they were! How agreeable the magnificent childhood mirage was that passed before the boy’s amorphous soul, which was hard to pin down, even at that age.

  What pleased and flattered Muhsin was being considered a member of the troupe. He wasn’t satisfied unless he sang, ate, sat, and squeezed in among the artistes. Woe to anyone who did not specify he was a member of the ensemble! Many a time he had wept and raged because someone forgot to realize that he was a member of the chorus exactly like Hafiza, Najiya, and Salm, who was blind. Time and again he had raged and stormed to make them teach him the argot that they, the fellowship of artistes, employed.

  His identification with the troupe and his imitation of its members were such that he became known for his sincere respect for the leader, Maestra Labiba Shakhla‘.

  Yes, he would never forget his happiness when he sat on the floor with the ensemble around the maestra, who loomed above them in a large chair in the center, holding the lute in her arms. He would look up at her as though observing a goddess on a marble plinth. He would turn his small head right and left to his colleagues in the chorus with psychological satisfaction that could not be described or characterized.

  At times he felt a strange sensation looking at that charming woman of about thirty, particularly at evening receptions or parties, when she appeared decked out in glittering jewelry before the female guests and visitors who came especially to hear her at Muhsin’s home.

  He sensed at times that he understood nebulously the spell that Shakhla‘ cast over him. Actually, in addition to her magical singing, Labiba had a merry
nature and a light and graceful spirit. She provided her listeners bliss and delight.

  Muhsin loved to sit with her, flattering and praising her after he had spent the morning plucking and gathering bishop’s weed, which she would boil and drink to clear her throat. He would beg her, in return for that, to tell him some of her anecdotes, which she would recount at length to him and the others, without the repetition detracting in any way from their charm.

  “Tell me the cook story,” little Muhsin would ask her plaintively.

  She would laugh and then pretend to frown, telling him and those around, “Cook? What a disaster, kids! Whatever I forget, will you remind me?”

  * * *

  • • •

  The starting point of the story was that the real cook fell ill one day, and Maestra Labiba suggested seriously and earnestly that she should take her place. She affirmed that no one had ever tasted anything more delicious than the food her hands would produce. She advised everyone to take care not to eat their fingers along with the food, since it would be so tasty. She claimed she was a gourmet cook and that a person eating her Alexandria-style fish might well say that he had never eaten fish before in his life.

  They were happy to let her try. So they led her to the kitchen and brought her the vegetables, fish, and all the other necessary ingredients. She set to work . . . but what work?