Return of the Spirit

by Tawfiq al-Hakim

  At that moment Zanuba appeared at the door of the room. She must actually have gone to the dressmaker, or someplace far away, to take up all this time. She must equally have failed in the project she had resolved upon, for Mustafa Bey was still sitting in al-Hajj Shahhata’s coffeehouse. He hadn’t budged an inch.

  From the threshold Zanuba noticed that Saniya was looking out the balcony window. She couldn’t keep herself from shouting at the girl and scolding her in a way that was extraordinary and coarse. “What are you doing there at the window?”

  Startled, Saniya turned in surprise and saw Zanuba at the doorway. She said, as though stunned, “You’ve returned, abla?”

  Zanuba gained control of herself and realized that she had spoken harshly. So walking in, she said in a calm voice, as she removed her wrap and put it on a chair, “Is the piano lesson over?”

  Saniya answered as she returned from the balcony and took a seat, “We were too lazy to study today. The time was all consumed by talk. How about you, abla? Where did you go?”

  Zanuba was somewhat rattled but replied at once, tersely, as though trying to avoid the topic, “The dressmaker.”

  “All this time?”

  “Aye.” Zanuba remembered immediately, however, the half hour that she had omitted from this reckoning—the cursed half hour she had spent on Salama Street walking back and forth in front of the coffeehouse while that blind fool gave no sign at all of noticing her.

  They were all silent for a moment but finally Saniya turned to Muhsin and asked softly, “Why are you standing so far away, Muhsin Bey?”

  Muhsin was leaning against the piano. He hadn’t moved since his conversation with Saniya and was brooding about what she might have understood from this whole story of the handkerchief. What had he secured or gained from telling her? What was the effect or result of all that on her? Why had she gotten up and gone to the balcony? What did that mean? There were things that escaped his ken, and he had begun to feel fearful about this mystery.

  At that point the black maid came to inform them that Mabruk had arrived. She had scarcely announced him when he appeared in the salon in his best caftan. Zanuba stared scornfully at him and asked, “And you, sir. What brings you here?”

  Mabruk was a little deflated after his grand entrance and cleared his throat. Then he replied gravely, “I have come to tell you . . .”

  Zanuba asked with biting sarcasm, “To tell us what, fellow?”

  Mabruk was silent for a bit, feeling embarrassed. He looked at Saniya humbly and then glanced at the floor. Finally he started peering around anxiously, like a simpleton.

  Zanuba watched his antics for a while and then suddenly asked, “What is it? Sister, what’s wrong with him that he’s acting like the village fool at the wedding? Won’t you speak?”

  Mabruk straightened up at once and turned toward her. He cleared his throat and said, “I’ve come to tell you . . .”

  Zanuba could not control herself; she shouted, “Sister! We’ve heard that a thousand times.”

  Mabruk steeled himself and protested, “Won’t you wait for me to speak?”

  Zanuba said scornfully, “Fine, tell us, fellow, the important news. Speak.”

  Mabruk was silent for a moment. He looked at Saniya, then at Zanuba. He cleared his throat and said weightily, “Dinner.”

  At that point, Zanuba’s sarcastic laughter rang out, producing a cold sweat on the servant’s body. She asked frigidly, “Is this the news? You make a calamity for me because of this? So, you, sir, came, wearing your dress caftan, decked out twenty-four carat, in order to tell us something that is neither here nor there?”

  Saniya felt like laughing but saw that Mabruk was upset and in an awkward situation. She didn’t want to make him any more uncomfortable or embarrassed. Indeed she wished at that point to relieve him and get him out of his fix. She said flatteringly, “By God, Mabruk in his caftan looks exactly like a village headman.”

  Mabruk, the servant, advanced a step toward Saniya and cleared his throat, holding his wide sleeve over his mouth. Then he said earnestly, “You’re right, by God, Miss Saniya. I used to be an umda.”

  Muhsin couldn’t keep himself from laughing, in spite of his agitated condition. Zanuba raised her head and threw Mabruk a sarcastic glance. She asked, “Just when was that, Light of my Eye?”

  Mabruk winked at her from the corner of his eye, imploring her to be still. But she would not. Perhaps out of revenge she declared, “You were a peasant in the village hostel, sleeping and living with the donkey colts, the calves, and the water buffalo. We brought you to the capital, fixed you up, and provided for you. We taught you how to live in a house, and you became a human being.”

  Mabruk looked so defeated that everyone laughed. Saniya, however, after she laughed, at once felt sorry for him. She said with enchanting sweetness, “No, abla. Don’t say that. By God, Mabruk is the spitting image of the headman in Papa’s community, except that ours wears glasses.”

  Mabruk felt his self-respect return with these words. He turned to Saniya and said, “Okay, by our lord Husayn, I have—no kidding—a pair of glasses.”

  They all laughed.

  Zanuba said at once in a stinging tone, “Glasses! Name of God! What do you do with them? If you knew how to read and write, we could say you read the papers with them. You have eyes strong enough to repel a bullet.”

  Mabruk did not answer her but looked instead at Saniya. He said, “Miss Saniya, believe me, by the life of the Prophet’s beard, I was a headman with glasses.”

  This time not even Saniya could suppress her laughter, which trilled out. Muhsin approached Mabruk and told him, “Ninny, it’s better to be a headman without glasses, if your eyesight is good.”

  But it was pointless to try to get that idea into Mabruk’s head. He did not want to hear talk like this at all. He turned to Saniya and gestured to her, as if to say, “Don’t believe anyone but me.”

  CHAPTER 11

  The next day was Friday, a day of rest and relaxation. Hanafi Effendi and his comrades—the folks—spent the whole day at home, waiting for a substantial meal, as was their custom on that free day. So, once President Hanafi heard the voice of the muezzin calling the Friday prayer from the minaret of al-Sayyida Zaynab Mosque—“Come to prosperity”—he put his hand on his stomach and shouted to announce his hunger. It wasn’t long before Captain Salim and then Muhsin followed his example.

  Abduh alone, out of stubbornness, did not want to acknowledge he was hungry. Instead, he began to take issue with his comrades, advising them to be forbearing and encouraging them to be a little patient. He addressed them as though delivering the Friday sermon, telling them they should learn moderation if they wanted to stay alive and have anything to eat till the end of the month.

  The folks were quiet then for a time as Hanafi Effendi rambled around the apartment, going in and out of the rooms in order to keep his mind off his hunger. At last he said all of a sudden, “Where’s Mabruk, gang?”

  Abduh answered confidently and reassuringly, “In the kitchen!” Then he added, “Perhaps we’re going to eat lentils in a cloak today.”

  Hanafi, who was rubbing his belly and moaning, asked, “In a cloak and caftan?”

  Abduh replied immediately and somewhat sharply, “Right! In a caftan, cloak, and turban. So what do you want, sir? I suppose you’re hoping for roast turkey at a time like this?”

  Captain Salim, who was also putting his hand on his stomach, hastened to say, “Hush! It’s forbidden to utter the word ‘turkey’ now! Danger! Withdraw it. Spit ‘turkey’ from your mouth.”

  They were silent till Hanafi started again. He laughed sarcastically and said, “By God, it doesn’t look like we’re going to eat today.”

  Salim added, “True! I don’t hear the sound of a dish, cook pot, or mortar, and there’s no aroma of cooking.”

  Abduh sai
d angrily, “I told you: lentils.”

  President Hanafi replied, “By God, the kitchen doesn’t have lentils or turkey or Mabruk in it.”

  Abduh inquired anxiously, “How’s that? Mabruk’s not in the kitchen?” At once, they all rose in disorder and disarray to storm the kitchen. They were astonished to find absolutely no one there. They searched then in every room—in the large sleeping chamber, under the five beds lined up there, under the table and chairs—without finding any trace of Mabruk. They saw no one in the house, except for them and Zanuba, who was in her room. She had not intervened since the housekeeping and kitchen were removed from her control.

  Salim wondered aloud, “So where has he gone? Now, at lunchtime, when it’s time for the Friday prayer?”

  Abduh scratched his head and said thoughtfully, “Perhaps he’s gone to perform the Friday prayer.”

  Salim countered wrathfully, “God’s will be done! He performs the Friday prayer while we eat each other here. This fool prays before he cooks? Are we going to dine on his prayers?”

  Hanafi commented sarcastically, “He may have gone to implore the Master, may He be glorified and exalted, to throw us down a two-course meal.”

  But Abduh shouted suddenly as though he had discovered something. “Hush! Listen. I’ve understood at last! I know where Mabruk has gone. Perhaps he’s found that cooking food is expensive. Of course it costs something to cook, that’s obvious. For example, he buys a match for . . . and . . .”

  Hanafi asked sarcastically, “So you mean a box of matches worth a millieme has shut down the world?”

  Abduh silenced him with a violent gesture and continued, “I mean cooked food is expensive, and that’s that. That’s obvious. For this reason, Mabruk, who is a clever, perceptive person, noticed that and intends today, for example, to feed us salt-cured fish. What do you think of salty, little fish? Isn’t it an astonishing idea?”

  Hanafi, who was trying to understand, asked, “Is that your deduction in your capacity of chief engineer . . . or . . .”

  Salim started to complete his sentence. “Or are you sure he’s gone to buy—” but did not conclude his phrase, because at that moment the door opened and Mabruk appeared.

  Everyone turned quickly in his direction and leapt to welcome him as though he were a messenger from heaven.

  But it was only a moment before they all emitted a single cry, because Mabruk was empty-handed. He clearly had brought nothing—no lentils, no salt-cured fish. He had just one thing: a brand-new pair of glasses that he was wearing.

  Mabruk stood there a moment, looking at the stunned folks through his new glasses. Then he suddenly went to Abduh, spread out his hand, which held forty-five piastres, and said, “I’ve changed the pound you gave me yesterday. Here’s what’s left. So take your money. I resign from this job. It seems the money’s not going to last to the end of the month. You have a Lord who is called ‘the Generous.’”

  Abduh was aghast. He opened his mouth but did not utter so much as a syllable. He glared at Mabruk for a long time before turning to his comrades. Then he looked back at Mabruk. Finally, gazing at what was left of the pound, he asked, “What’s this talk?”

  Only Mushin understood, and he savored the situation. He looked at Mabruk’s new glasses and smiled. Then he whispered to him, “Now you’re a headman with glasses.”

  Abduh couldn’t get over his astonishment. He fixed his eyes at times on the depleted funds and then on Mabruk, until Salim got his attention with a nudge of his arm. Tapping Abduh on the shoulder, he remarked sarcastically, “The only thing worse than the lady is the gent! So here’s what is left of your government and our budget.”

  Mabruk shrugged his shoulders at them and declared dismissively, “Neither my father nor my mother was a government. I never told you to make me a government. There’s your money. Free me and release me from this charge, as a generous deed in honor of Umm Hashim.”

  CHAPTER 12

  Abduh glared at Mabruk with a mixture of exasperation and anger for a moment more. His hopes had been dashed. Finally he shouted, “Is it my mistake? I was duped. I thought he was a human being. But the truth is that once a servant, always a servant.”

  The servant, Mabruk, didn’t hear a single word Abduh said. He had removed himself to a corner, where he was busy cleaning his new glasses with a gauzy cigarette paper the way Hanafi Effendi did.

  Abduh kept on talking, without looking at Mabruk. “The proverb says: ‘A man’s fingers are not all the same.’ I ought to have understood that from the outset. If all natures and minds were of one type, the world would be a different place.”

  He wanted to continue with this line of talk, but Salim tapped his shoulder, directing his attention to Mabruk, who was oblivious, preoccupied with his glasses. He told Abduh, “Spare your brain this philosophy. Your friend is in another world, and what’s happened has happened.”

  Abduh turned toward Mabruk. Seeing him, he raged and rose fuming. He shouted, “Still polishing the glasses? Scram, get away from me! May your day be like tar!”

  Mabruk stirred himself and headed for the door. He said calmly, “You’re right—no kidding—it’s true. Today is Friday, which contains an unlucky hour.”

  Abduh shouted at him. “I’m telling you to leave. Scram! I don’t want to see your mug.”

  Mabruk put on his glasses and, looking through them at Abduh, responded, “Fine. If you’ll pardon my asking, why are you angry? Why are you so out of sorts? Anger is outlawed and quarreling is forbidden.” He then departed, escorted by the fiery gaze of Abduh.

  The subsequent silence was finally broken by Salim, who asked, “What do we do now?”

  Abduh did not reply; he seemed not to have heard. Perhaps he didn’t know what to say or was preoccupied thinking about how to escape from that abyss.

  Abduh realized that the experiment hadn’t succeeded and that Zanuba would certainly mock them, take revenge on them, and glory in her triumph over them, but all the same, here he, Abduh, saw that there was no choice but to go back to her, to her fire instead of cursed Mabruk’s paradise. What tormented Abduh’s mind was how to return contritely to Zanuba. How could he overcome his pride and inform her of his defeated hopes and of the need to rely on her to straighten matters out as she saw fit to survive to the end of the month?

  Apparently God did not want to humiliate Abduh; at times, God prepares for each person the circumstances that are most congenial to him. Zanuba suddenly appeared at the door. She advanced hesitantly, with a serious look on her face, as though she had important information she wished to convey.

  Abduh raised his head to look at her without uttering a word but didn’t frown at her. Zanuba said at once, impetuously, “The neighbors’ electric line’s cut!”

  Abduh looked at her with curious astonishment, as though asking how that concerned him. Zanuba informed him immediately that the neighbors—that is, the household of Dr. Hilmi—had wanted to ask one of the electricity workers to come repair the wiring now, fearing that night would overtake them, but since it was Friday, they were afraid none of the company employees could be found. So Zanuba had suggested to them that Abduh, who was practically an engineer, should repair the damage with the utmost speed, sparing them any need to find an employee of the company or to cause a fuss over so trivial a matter.

  As soon as Abduh heard that, he was up on his feet as if he had touched a live wire, for he had learned he would go to the neighbors’ house. He looked at Zanuba with interest and realized that he had forgiven her every offense and shortcoming in a moment. “Should I go now, at once?”

  “Now or later in the afternoon. It’s all the same.”

  Abduh walked around looking in every direction, as though searching for something. He said, “Where’s the hammer? Where are the pincers? Where are the nails? . . . Where . . .”

  Salim, who was not very happy about this news, starte
d carefully observing Abduh and the transformation that had swept over him. Salim twisted his mustache, pretending to be calm, while his eyes showed his scorn and envy. When he saw Abduh hasten to look for the tools, he said in a stingingly sarcastic tone, “Not so fast! Slow down! Haste is from the devil!”

  Abduh looked at him askance and said, “Do us a favor and be quiet, please.”

  Twisting his mustache, Salim replied with annoyance, “You visit people at the lunch hour?”

  Abduh did not answer him. At that point, Hanafi Effendi, rubbing his eyes with one hand and preparing with the other to put his glasses on his nose, asked, “With regard to lunch . . . what have you done about the issue of our lunch?”

  Abduh turned not toward him but toward Zanuba instead and asked, “That electric wire, how was it cut?”

  She replied, “The maid, Fatima, was cleaning the hall today. The broom struck the wire on the wall and it fell down along with the nails.”

  Abduh continued to think for a moment. It occurred to him that it would be best to go later so he could prepare, not just by gathering what he needed to fix the wiring but by changing his clothes and look.

  It was naturally not difficult for Abduh then to show Zanuba the forty-five piastres on the table and to ask her, without any servility or entreaty, to manage things till the end of the month. He conveyed the information quite tersely in an abrupt and decisive tone, to prevent her from fathoming what had happened. Zanuba should not feel they were humbly coming back to her. When she saw the sum she felt like shrieking in astonishment and disbelief. “What a calamity!” she said. “Is this all that’s left of the pound?”

  Abduh at once answered tartly, “There’s no need for a lot of talk. You make it work. Spare us the headache.”

  She took the money from the table silently and went off with it to her room. She had realized that there was no call for going into particulars and trying to unravel things. She was satisfied, feeling that they had failed and been forced to return to her.