Return of the Spirit

by Tawfiq al-Hakim

  She hadn’t spent five minutes in the kitchen until it started to look like a market late in the afternoon. She got down all the copper vessels, trays, bowls, and containers and placed them on the floor, scattering them every which way. There was no corner or spot without a tray, dish, or pot. Why all this?

  Perhaps she didn’t ask herself. No one dared approach the kitchen, because she had categorically refused help from anyone so she could claim all the credit.

  She left some empty cooking pots on the hot stove for a time, while she began to run here and there in the kitchen with a fish in her hand. She was crooning, “O Reviver, O you with the almonds . . .” while tripping over the trays and containers strewn in disarray across the floor.

  Fish was also scattered throughout the room. No one could imagine how that happened with such speed. There was fish on the floor, on the shelf, in the bowls, and in the basin under the spigot—as though the kitchen had turned into a fish market.

  But Maestra Labiba Shakhla‘ doubtless paid no attention to the condition of the kitchen, for she was truly caught up in her work; enthusiasm for it had grasped hold of her. She called out from time to time, laughing, “God, God, darlings! Where’s the audience now to watch Maestra Shakhla‘ at the height of her powers?”

  * * *

  • • •

  At last she threw together a number of dishes and emerged from the kitchen with sweat dripping from her and food dribbling from her white apron. In the parlor she shouted, “It’s done, darlings! I’ve stewed the eggplant and trimmed the ends of the okra. And the fish . . . O my spirit! I’ve fried it in a way to bewitch and enchant the mind.”

  She suddenly fell silent and her face went pale, because just then Dr. Farid, who had been summoned to examine the sick cook, appeared at the parlor door. This Dr. Farid was one of Maestra Shakhla‘’s most enthusiastic patrons and most avid fans. He saw her frequently and heard her at wedding parties and soirees. No sooner had he seen her there in a kitchen apron with scraps dribbling off it than he shouted in astonishment, “God! Are you working as a cook here or what?”

  But Shakhla‘, the moment she recovered from her surprise, turned tail and fled, hiding her face with a hand one moment and slapping her side curls the next. In a weak, choking voice she begged, “Hide me! Hide me!”

  * * *

  • • •

  This was not all that her volunteering to cook brought down upon her that day, nor all the Alexandria-style fish cost her. Another crisis threatened to prove more serious, because unbeknownst to her, the fish was spoiled. She ate a lot of it, as did all the members of the ensemble, because she had fixed it. Unfortunately she and the troupe were booked that very evening to perform at a soiree in the home of one of the local notables.

  She went and sang till the festivities were at a climax of commotion and joy. The guests were assembled and the excitement and agitation were intense. It was then that Maestra Labiba suddenly felt acute pains throughout her digestive tract. At first she tried to conceal it for fear of a scandal, but she had hardly staggered to her feet when she saw that all her musicians were suffering from the same indigestion. Each of the accompanists was leaning on another, writhing, a hand on her belly. She grasped the truth of the situation. It was quite a scene, as recounted afterward by Shakhla‘ with her lighthearted spirit, weeping and laughing at the same time. Immediately thereafter the guests witnessed all the members of the troupe reeling and writhing. They rose quickly at the same moment, each with a hand on her belly. All the artistes rushed off, clearing a way for themselves through the crowd, in search of a bathroom or toilet.

  But the most pitiful sight of all, in truth, was Salm, the blind woman, whose colleagues had abandoned her in that predicament. She stood in the center of the room, anxiously groping about, one hand on her stomach and the other beating the air as she sought her way. She was calling out, “O what a disaster! Bring me a basin or a chamber pot. Those who love the Prophet! May God protect you one day!” At first the invited ladies laughed, but then they rushed to her assistance.

  Young Muhsin wasn’t with the troupe that evening. Despite his tears and pleas, his mother had not permitted him to accompany the artistes. He had therefore to satisfy himself with hearing the story, like the others, from the mouth of Maestra Shakhla‘. She narrated and recounted it frequently in a diverting manner. Muhsin would laugh with childish good humor and feel consoled at hearing that account. He would forget his wish to accompany them.

  Shakhla‘ would scarcely have finished her story before Muhsin quickly begged, without allowing her time for a cigarette, “Tell me the story of the Jewish wedding.”

  * * *

  • • •

  Maestra Labiba and her troupe had been invited to perform at a wedding party at the home of a well-to-do Jewish family. That was in the Coptic month of Tubah, when winter is at its coldest. The maestra sat in the center of her troupe, awaiting the arrival of the bride from her bath and toilette. Shakhla‘ explained that one of the Jewish marriage customs was for the bride to bathe in cold water mixed with holy water sprinkled by the rabbi. After this bath, the bride is dressed and adorned. Then, it is forbidden for anyone who isn’t Jewish, whether Muslim or Christian, to touch her. If that occurs, she must bathe again in the cold water.

  Labiba Shakhla‘ waited until the bride appeared, strutted forward in her gown and finery, and took her seat. Then festivities commenced and heated up. As the climax approached, the wind was howling, and the rain that night was coming down cold and freezing in Cairo in an unprecedented way. Labiba rose without warning and approached the bride to admire her magnificent clothing. Wanting to scrutinize and check the fabric in the bride’s gown, she stretched out her hand and touched the bride. No sooner had she done that than an appalling cry rang out in the room, stunning her. Voices were raised in anger from every direction. Caught by surprise, she recoiled and stood frozen where she was, not moving. When she looked up, she saw that everyone—the bride, her family, and her attendants—had left, frothing and foaming, in spite of the roar of thunder outside. They were leading the bride to the bath a second time, the bitter cold notwithstanding.

  The poor bride eventually returned from the cold bath, moaning, her teeth chattering. Her male relations heard the commotion and came to see what was happening. The women from the bride’s family and the women guests hurried to them, yelling, “May Labiba be diced up! May Labiba be burned! Labiba touched her!”

  Labiba heard that while cowering among the members of her troupe. Her body was trembling in fright and terror, and under her breath she had begun to recite the Throne Verse from the Qur’an. From time to time she peeked out to see whether the family’s fury had abated. Then she would cling to the musicians near her and whisper, “Move a little closer, Najiya! Hide me. Do me a favor. Hold me, Salm. Have mercy on me. Ransom me, children! O Master Abu al-Su‘ud, by your miracles—half a dozen candles. Just permit us to escape from here unharmed.”

  Even though she was more fearful than Shakhla‘, Salm tried to calm her and scolded her maestra in a whisper, “Drat! I mean, what can they do to us?”

  Najiya answered in a whisper, “The least they can do is plunge us in that soot bath too.”

  Salm’s teeth chattered and she said, “Shield us, Lord. Are we responsible for all this?”

  Then the shouting calmed down, and it seemed the hosts thought the stream should now return to its banks so the evening would not end badly. They became quiet and at once signaled to Maestra Labiba to resume the singing and music. Shakhla‘ decided to obey the order immediately to avoid causing any new problem and to distract them from what she had done. She straightened herself in her seat and ordered the troupe to pick up their instruments. She said to Najiya quickly, “Tune the lute for Hijaz-kar.”

  Then she raised her voice and sang “The Jealous Critic’s Ruse.”

  She had barely finished the preamble when s
he heard whispering and a commotion among the members of the troupe. She noticed Salm’s voice calling out and drowning hers: “God! God! Maestra Shakhla‘, you Egyptian . . . Pride of the kings!” Salm then bent over her and whispered, “God! . . . God! That’s Discord-kar!”

  Shakhla‘ turned on her sharply. “What’s come over you, girl?”

  But Shakhla‘ immediately realized she was singing off-key because of her fear and terror. So she composed herself and smiled. “What shall I do? They brought this calamity on me. Sing, children; sing no matter how. Just let’s get through this evening with our skins . . . They can do what they please with ‘The Jealous Critic’s Ruse’ when we’re on the way home.”

  * * *

  • • •

  But among all those memories there was one night Muhsin would never forget. It was a night when he, although young, saw things that engraved indelible pictures and sensations into his memory and the depths of his soul.

  One afternoon al-Hajj Ahmad al-Mutayyib asked Maestra Shakhla‘ to perform for a great wedding, emphasizing its magnificence and importance. He counseled her to be in top form. The news spread through the troupe and had a marked effect. They all started to get ready. One rehearsed. Another tuned the instruments. A third got the glittering costumes and jewelry in order, along with their cosmetics: the powders, perfumes, kohl, and eyebrow pencils. In no time flat the members of the troupe were all bustling about, full of happiness and energy.

  Only one person stood looking forlorn and feeling heartbroken amid that movement and clamor. This was young Muhsin.

  He stood sadly by the wall, realizing that he had been chasing a mirage. He wasn’t a member of the troupe, nor had he ever been. Here the entire ensemble was preparing to leave him behind. The troupe could do without him and his services. They went to weddings and parties without him. Here were his colleagues Hafiza, Najiya, and Salm, each concerned with herself and not thinking about him. Indeed, not even one of them was aware of his existence.

  He began to watch Maestra Shakhla‘ while she primped in front of the mirror. His eyes were pleading in entreaty, but she too at that time was unaware of him and totally preoccupied with her own affairs. Even she seemed to have forgotten that he was an important member of the ensemble.

  That thought hurt him a lot, and he burst into tears. He started stomping his little feet and screaming, “Take me with you! I’m going too!” But his mother refused.

  Muhsin rebelled. His howling and storming intensified. The maestra and the artistes tried to calm him, but that was impossible. His anger escalated now that he had determined he would accompany the troupe, no matter what it cost him. “What’s wrong with me? Alas! I must go! I must go! I want to see the wedding. I’ve never seen a wedding!”

  Shakhla‘ laughed at him a little but then took pity on him. She went and whispered tenderly to him, promising to persuade his mother to give permission for him to go.

  The child hushed at once and gave the maestra a look that ran the gamut from gratitude to hope. He knew his mother trusted Maestra Shakhla‘ implicitly. She had lived with the family so long that they had complete confidence in her.

  Shakhla‘ actually managed to persuade his mother, although she hesitated a little at first. She ended up giving her consent and permission based on the maestra’s vow: “There’s no need to worry about him while he is with me. I won’t let him out of my sight. Let him see a soiree for himself.”

  Muhsin was listening from the other side of the door, his heart quivering with fear and hope. As soon as he heard the permission, he let out a whoop of joy and raced at once through the house to look for his new clothes, while telling everyone he encountered—all the servants and artistes—that he was going with the troupe too.

  In the depths of his young heart, he treasured a feeling for Shakhla‘ stronger than mere thanks and gratitude. It was a deep feeling he had never experienced before.

  That evening the carriage transporting the artistes stopped before the wedding house, in front of which a large and magnificent pavilion had been erected. It was decorated with various types of hanging lamps and chandeliers, and with small rectangular and triangular banners of different colors: red, yellow, and green. Posts with gas lamps had been set up on both sides of the road leading to the house, as though they were the rams lining the road to the Temple of Karnak.

  The pavilion was filled with hundreds of chairs, seats, and wooden benches. These were occupied by a number—known only to God—of guests. Not even the hosts shared that knowledge with him. Of course, there were the guests who had actually been invited, but along with them had arrived a vast number who had invited themselves and who had no idea whether the bride was named Zaynab or Shalabiya.

  Dressed in their formal black jackets, waiters and servants circulated with large trays of red-colored drinks. Hands reached out; that multitudinous crowd swarmed around, each person seeking his share.

  In one corner of the pavilion, the official (or semiofficial) army band was installed with its drums, winds, and brass instruments. It added to the clamor and deafening sound that are requisite for weddings of this importance and significance.

  As soon as the artistes arrived, there was an additional commotion among the throngs. Two butlers hurried to meet the carriage and to assist the golden-voiced maestra to alight.

  Shakhla‘ got out first, with great dignity. She dazzled the eyes with her ornaments, dangling gold jewelry, clinking anklets, and silk gown, which was embroidered with gold and silver thread and bangles, and was visible beneath her black wrapper. All this shimmered in the dull light of the lamps. She seemed to be a luminous piece of jewelry, constantly in motion.

  Maestra Shakhla‘ took the ends of her shawl and wrapped it tightly around her. Then she looked behind her to the chorus, the members of the troupe. She directed them to carry their instruments carefully and attentively, each bringing her own. The maestra sashayed ahead, trailed by little Muhsin, who was wearing his suit purchased for the Great Feast.

  Muhsin saw at once that Najiya was carrying the lute, Hafiza the darabukka drum, and Salm the tambourine. So he blustered, grumbled, and threatened to cry. He wanted to carry one of the instruments. Wasn’t he a member of the troupe? Shakhla‘ vainly attempted by plea and guile to silence him. Finally she ordered that Muhsin should be given the finger cymbals. She told him, smiling tenderly, “You carry the castanets. They’re the right size for you.” She took his hand, wanting him to walk beside her, but he wished to follow her exactly like a member of the troupe. At last Shakhla‘ led the way, followed by her accompanists. They were escorted by butlers and servants to the door of the women’s section. The looks and smiles of the male guests followed them. Words of flattery, courtship, and banter rose from the throngs: “Oh, my Lord! My Lord! Like that? Like that! Make way, fellows! You and the other one! One look, Granny! Watch out for her wrap, you! Ha ha!” and so on and so forth.

  This continued until the artistes disappeared from sight behind the door of the women’s quarters. As Maestra Shakhla‘ entered, she found herself in a spacious chamber filled with ladies who sparkled like stars in their gowns and magnificent jewels.

  As soon as she appeared at the threshold, the party’s hostesses came toward her, the mother of the bride among them. They gave her a welcome fitting a famous artiste and conducted her to the place set aside for the troupe. It was a spacious corner furnished with silk cushions and soft mats arranged in a circle. In the center was an armchair reserved for the clarion-voiced maestra.

  Then the members of the ensemble entered along with Muhsin. He caught the attention of the hostesses, and the mother of the bride asked Shakhla‘, “God’s name protect him, is he your son?”

  Muhsin, however, did not allow Shakhla‘ time to reply. He said at once in his piping voice, pointing to the finger cymbals he carried, “No. I’m in the troupe!”

  The bride’s family laughed, amu
sed by his serious tone, which was filled with determination and decision, despite his age. The bride’s mother wanted to kiss him, but he fled, clinging to his colleagues and squeezing among them. They had taken their seats and were busy setting out their instruments and preparing them. Shakhla‘ excused herself then and immediately followed Muhsin.

  Each of the artistes sat on a cushion or pallet around the maestra, who was elevated on a chair in the center. They began to chatter among themselves using their special argot.

  They began as usual to criticize everything their eyes saw. Blind Salm asked if the house, the wedding party, and the people were really as advertised: a household where both the people and the food were rich and the family and the bread refined. Her colleagues turned their keen and critical eyes round the room. They looked for a moment at the bridal dais, which was in the center. Entirely covered in white silk, it held chairs for the groom and the bride and was extremely elegant. Then they gazed at its baldachin, which was also lined with white silk and resembled a waxen sky. Hanging from it on every side were garlands of jasmine, white roses, and other flowers. But the bride and groom had not arrived yet. For that reason the artistes trained their critical judgment on the guests. In any case, all signs indicated that it truly was a magnificent wedding.

  Finally Najiya the lute player said, “Aye, in truth, the people are well-to-do, but they should have the courtesy to offer us cigarettes so we can relax with a smoke.”

  The maestra scolded her in a whisper, “Hush, triller, the bride’s mother is coming toward us.”

  In fact, the bride’s mother came up to Maestra Shakhla‘ and asked graciously if she would favor them with even one song before the buffet was opened, since the guests were longing for that.

  Shakhla‘ answered politely, “Most gladly. At your service, madam, but the troupe would like cigarettes and I would like a cup of coffee, without sugar, and the protection of God’s name on him—”