Return of the Spirit

by Tawfiq al-Hakim

  When Mabruk gave him the news, he cleared his throat and looked at Salim. “Congratulations!” he said.

  Salim responded coldly, “Yes, Mr. Hanafi?”

  “Nothing! Just, won’t you need a boy? This is a piano, not a piece of wire.”

  Salim smiled a bit but grew serious and cool again. “By God, we’re a pretty strange lot. The neighbors seek our assistance, and we make a big story out of it? The question couldn’t be simpler. I’m going there to check the piano to discover what it needs and to see—”

  Looking at Salim through thick spectacles and smiling slyly, Hanafi interrupted him: “You mean, in brief, you’re going to investigate!”

  “So, what’s it to you?”

  “Did I say something? I take refuge in God!” Hanafi moved off, heading for his bed. He was going to change from his street clothes to his jilbab and skullcap, so he could stretch out as usual.

  Fortunately for Salim, Abduh wasn’t home when Zanuba returned with the news about the piano. When he came, he found Salim in a state of preparedness. He had brought out his police uniform from the large armoire, planning to wear it despite his official suspension and everyone’s opposition. Abduh asked what was happening. When he learned about it, his face grew dark and gloomy. Then he brought himself under control. A cold smile of rage appeared on his trembling lips. He began to look at Salim, whose mustache was expertly twisted with wax. He was combing his hair with extraordinary care. Pointing to the uniform’s brass shoulder stars, which had grown tarnished from long neglect since he left the service, he ordered Mabruk, “Shine the stars quickly, boy.”

  “Right away, Your Excellency the Commandant.”

  He went to fetch a rag and began cleaning the stars. He looked at Abduh and Muhsin, who seemed frozen by an unseen force. He winked and smiled at them.

  Salim finished pulling on the trousers with the red stripe and came for the jacket, saying in a bogus tone of command, “Enough on the stars!”

  Mabruk replied quietly, “The stars and tars, all finished.”

  Then he held the jacket for him and helped him into it, while telling him, as though giving him earnest advice, “I mean, Mr. Salim, if they catch you in this uniform, will it be all right?”

  “Who’s going to catch me?”

  “The government—no kidding.”

  Then Abduh’s patience evaporated and he interjected, “Leave him! He doesn’t know he’s been discharged from the service.”

  Salim turned on him and said coldly, “Will you be so kind as to take back your words? I’m not discharged—just suspended.”

  “What’s the difference?”

  “I think anyone with an education knows the difference between a person who’s discharged and one who’s suspended, Mr. Engineer!” Salim continued primping.

  At this moment Hanafi rose from his bed sluggishly. As soon as he saw Salim, he shouted in astonishment, “What! You’ve put on your dress uniform?”

  Salim answered nonchalantly without looking at him, staring instead full face at the mirror. “So . . .”

  Hanafi Effendi cheered, “Super! Go, uncle! Congratulations to you! May the same thing happen to us too! Let them ask us to correct . . . what?”

  Salim speedily supplied the missing word: “Correct copybooks!” He grasped his officer’s leather whip and slashed it through the air to announce his departure.

  * * *

  • • •

  By afternoon Salim was at the neighbors’ house. Zanuba and the maid led him to the piano room, which he scouted thoroughly but found empty. So he went to the piano, raised the lid, and ran his fingers over the keys. Then with one hand he picked out a lively melody from a popular song. He turned to Zanuba and asked, “What’s wrong with the piano? It works great.”

  “Sister, so why would Saniya say it’s busted?”

  “Possibly there’s something in it that needs repair. I think the best thing would be for you to ask Miss Saniya to show us herself what it needs.”

  Zanuba went off with that request, followed by the maid. Shortly thereafter he heard footsteps approaching. Salim got ready and gave a quick twist to his mustache. He straightened his jacket and checked his appearance. He turned to the door and saw Muhsin. Salim frowned and said with cold displeasure, “God! What brings you?”

  The boy answered anxiously and angrily, “I come here all the time.”

  Salim didn’t respond, turned his back, and began to pace back and forth in the room.

  It was an awkward, chilly situation, Muhsin felt. He wanted to depart, but the door opened. Zanuba came in to ask Salim to leave the room so Saniya could demonstrate what was wrong with the piano. She opened a door to a small foyer and motioned for Salim to follow her. She stationed him behind the door. Then Saniya arrived. She paused at the salon door, asking in a voice modulated by captivating coquetry, “Shall I enter, abla? No one’s in the salon?”

  Salim heard this voice and forgot his situation. He stretched out his head to have a look with roving, wandering eyes, to investigate that beautiful gazelle. In a mellifluous voice, which he tried to make gentle, he said, “There’s nobody here, miss. Come in!”

  Zanuba immediately went to escort her to the piano and asked her to tell Salim Effendi herself what she thought. Salim added quickly, “If you would be so kind, Miss Saniya, as to play a song so I can hear the sound of the piano.”

  Saniya pretended, modestly, to laugh. She was clinging to Zanuba and said, pointing to one of the piano keys, “It’s the ‘do’ only, sister, which is out of whack. See!”

  She played the “do” several times, but Salim, who was peeking at her from behind the door, objected, “That’s not enough, Miss Saniya. You ought to play a tune. Play ‘Star of Happiness,’ for example. It’s a very pretty tune. Before my transfer from Port Said, I had a police band that included mounted and foot police. Every morning after the lineup, I would give them the command to play that tune. All the same, I used to play the tune better on my accordion than the police band could. Now it’s been some time since I gave up the accordion. That’s why I would love to hear the tune played on the piano by the hand of Miss Saniya.”

  Saniya smiled, pretending to be embarrassed, and looked at Zanuba and Muhsin, who was beside her, quickly and unconsciously. She was blushing. She whispered to Zanuba, “What will Mama say?”

  But she didn’t wait for an answer. She sat on the piano stool at once. From behind the door Salim was following her motions and almost went berserk when he saw her svelte body bend and her breasts tremble as she sat down.

  She began to perform the tune “Star of Happiness,” playing forcefully at times and delicately at others. All that Salim noticed of this from behind the door was that her rounded breasts quivered with each crescendo. They seemed to be dancing to the melody of the song.

  Salim, deep inside himself, was shouting, “O my life! O my life! What boobs! An Egyptian orange still on the tree! O my soul!”

  Saniya finally finished and rose from the piano, saying with such embarrassment that her voice sounded even more coquettish, “Did you hear, Salim Bey, how the sound of the piano is off? I don’t know if this was because of the ‘do’ or whether the whole mechanism needs cleaning.”

  Salim answered at once, “By God, Miss Saniya, I . . . I didn’t notice because your rendition of ‘Star of Happiness’—there was no way it could have been better. Allow me to tell you that I’ve never in my life heard better than that.”

  Saniya looked at Zanuba. She was blushing in a way that made Muhsin flinch. Then she said in a faint voice that Salim could hear, “Merci!”

  The conversation progressed next to the question of cleaning the piano. Salim advised it and promised to return in a day or two with an expert repairman. Salim would be responsible personally for this repair and for this piano from now on. Whatever Miss Saniya commanded would be obeyed and att
ended to immediately with pleasure and delight.

  Saniya thanked him decorously and modestly for that offer with delicate and polite expressions. Then the maid brought coffee, which Salim drank before he departed, affirming in a proud and masterly tone, “God willing, today I’ll send a patrolman or an officer to the finest repair shop.”

  He made his way to the hall grandly and pretentiously, moving his shoulders with the gleaming stars. He created a clamor, commotion, and racket in the house with his government-issue boots and their spurs.

  * * *

  • • •

  Salim went straight home to remove his uniform at once before anyone caught him. He entered like a triumphal conqueror among the folks. The ends of his mustache stood erect as he swelled with pride, like someone who has just achieved something major. His happiness and joviality were clearly evident in his expression. President Hanafi got the first word in: “What did you do, hero?”

  Salim looked down his nose at him and barked, “Shut up! Be quiet!”

  Hanafi persisted, “What? What happened, honestly?”

  Salim replied quickly while entering the communal bedroom and unbuttoning his jacket, “The girl’s smitten with me.”

  Hanafi tried to obtain some clarification, but His Honor the officer wouldn’t volunteer any further information. He was, rather, looking at the bedroom and the four beds lined up there, one next to the other. His disdain was visible on his lips. For the first time he felt the strangeness of this way of living. He was astonished that he had been able, till now, to live four or five to a room. This sensation sprang from his feeling of superiority and exaltation over his comrades. For that reason he tossed his jacket far away, on one of the beds. He emerged to say, “Are we dogs, or what? I need to move my bed to another room so I can have some privacy. Half a dozen in a room like a burrow? Are we not dogs?”

  Abduh had tried in vain to control his feelings, but his flushed face revealed his suppressed anger. He replied, “All our lives we’ve lived like this. Is it only today, sir, you’ve learned you’re a dog?”

  Thinking it a joke, Hanafi laughed. Mabruk likewise laughed from a pure heart, but Captain Salim’s face grew dark. He said, “Are you trying to disparage me?”

  Abduh responded nervously, “What I mean to say is that we don’t have another room. Anyone who likes it the way it is—fine. Anyone who doesn’t . . .”

  Salim asked him coldly, “What’s it to you? I’m going to move upstairs . . . to the room on the roof, the laundry room, without a roommate!”

  The quarrel ceased when Zanuba and Muhsin returned. Quiet prevailed. Salim went to finish changing, humming the melody of “Star of Happiness.”

  Then Hanafi called to him, asking him with hope and delight, “Tell us, then, Salim, how the girl fell for you.”

  Muhsin heard this expression and trembled. He choked. The blood drained from his face all at once, but he kept quiet. When Salim emerged again, he said with admiration and pride, “Boys, does she have boobs! Bless the Prophet! Small, sweet oranges hanging on the tree!”

  The boy Muhsin reacted like a devout and ascetic worshipper who catches someone profaning his beloved with obscene language. Zanuba, however, began to boast about her friend. She asked, “Did you see, Mr. Salim, the dress she was wearing?”

  The captain tried to remember and answered, “Dress? By God, I wasn’t paying attention.”

  At that moment a shade of green passed before the mind of the silent Abduh, who was suppressing his feelings. This color expanded until green filled his eyes and thoughts; green silk rustled by him like the breeze on spring leaves. He felt his heart almost burst into flame in revolt. He wanted to rise and slap Salim or box him and turn the house into a free-fire zone but steeled himself.

  Hanafi, the honorary president, at once replied to Zanuba’s question with some of his typical, innocent sarcasm—the sarcasm of a person whose heart is empty and at rest and whose mind is free of troubles. “You ask him about the color of her dress? Did Salim see anything except her breasts, belly, and calves?”

  Young Muhsin heard these words and visualized Saniya’s angelic form. His soul revolted as he tried to banish those obscene, brutish words from his thoughts. He harbored for Salim something he could not limn. He felt that obscure sensation once again in a clearer way: a feeling of deficiency and humiliating weakness when compared to Salim. He imagined Salim to be so virile he would easily conquer a woman; she would be unable to resist him. Salim was a man who knew things he did not . . . or . . . or . . . Young Muhsin could not say. These were just vague feelings he could not analyze. All he understood from them was that he was learning to hate Salim and to fear him. Salim made him feel inadequate. Muhsin began to incline instead toward Abduh, to see him as a comrade or at least a human being who resembled him a little, a person who did not see a woman as breasts and belly but as something more, someone who was dismayed and hurt to hear such revolting and demeaning language.

  The young man’s feelings about Abduh were justified. Abduh had risen in disbelief and rebellion when he heard that talk. He went to Zanuba and demanded, “What’s this foolishness and bad manners? Are you happy when you take men into people’s homes so they can come back and say this kind of thing?”

  Abduh left, abandoning the arena to them. He left because he couldn’t bear to hear any more than he had.

  This protest fell like cool water on Muhsin’s flaming heart. He felt a little better and found solace from this for the humiliating anxiety in his soul.

  CHAPTER 15

  Some days passed during which the piano at the neighbors’ house was tuned. Muhsin hadn’t visited there all that time. Days passed while, with burning impatience, he awaited the hour they would summon him to return for lessons with Saniya once the piano was fit to play. He tried to keep his mind off the wait by reading the novel Magdeleine in al-Manfaluti’s translation.

  One day he came home from school early and found no one there except Abduh, who was at work drafting an engineering project that he would present at the midyear examination. Muhsin changed out of his street clothes. Needing something to occupy his free time that afternoon, he looked for the novel, intending to finish the last pages. When he didn’t find it in the usual place, he asked Abduh, who didn’t know anything about it. The young boy was a little surprised but was soon distracted by thinking about Saniya, himself, Abduh, and Salim.

  Did she like one of them better than the others? Which did she prefer?

  His heart pounded when he remembered Salim’s statement: “The girl is outstanding.” His soul recoiled, and he asked himself: Is it actually possible for someone like Salim to win her heart? He consoled himself a little when he remembered Abduh and his fate. Someone like Abduh at least deserved her admiration more than Salim. But here they were, he and Abduh, ignorant of their destiny, while Salim, since that day, had been merrily going and coming. He went and came, full of energy, good cheer, joy, pride, and vanity, as though he had won and been assured something.

  While he was thinking these things, Abduh was nearby, bent over the drafting board set on the hall table, but then the servant Mabruk entered with a letter. He waved it in his hand as he smiled mischievously. “A letter for Mr. Salim! A letter addressed to Mr. Salim!”

  Muhsin was agitated, and Abduh raised his head. He looked at the letter in Mabruk’s hand, but did not break his long silence. Instead he leaned over his work again as though focusing on it to calm his heart and mind. He could not, however, prevent his thoughts from dwelling on this letter. He wondered: Who can it be from? Salim hadn’t received a letter from anyone since he started living with them. What relation might this letter have to the recent events? Doubt crept into his heart. The strange thing was that all the ideas going through his head went through young Muhsin’s at the same time.

  Muhsin rallied and asked Mabruk, “Who’s it from?” The servant shrugged to show he did no
t know. Since the letter was sealed, of course, how could he know who had sent it?

  Abduh raised his head again and looked at the letter. He stretched his hand out to Mabruk and said, “Hand it here. Let me see the postmark.” The servant gave it to him. Abduh read the postmark, which showed it had been mailed at Al-Sayyida Zaynab station. He began to turn the letter over in his hands and to scrutinize the handwriting on the address. His doubts increased, his face became pale, and he put the letter down on the table near him. He told Mabruk in a calm but somewhat altered voice, “Fine. Leave it here for him till he returns.”

  He went back to work. Muhsin also retreated into himself, brooding about that letter. Was it possible it was from . . . ? Mabruk turned from one of them to the other. When he found they were ignoring him, he went off, after saying he was going to sit by the door to wait for the others to return. As soon as the servant was out of the way, Abduh raised his head and picked up the letter a second time. He stared at it and turned it over in his fingers. He looked at Muhsin, who was peeking at him. Then Abduh observed, “The envelope isn’t tightly sealed.”

  Muhsin grasped the special meaning of this phrase. With impetuous and intense desire he agreed: “I wonder what’s in this letter.”

  Gazing at the letter with greedy curiosity, Abduh said hesitantly, “It would be possible to open it and glue it back.”

  Muhsin replied enthusiastically, “Yes, by God! There must be some amusing things in it.”

  Abduh turned the envelope over and said hesitantly in a faint voice, “Come, shall we see what’s inside?”

  Approaching him, Muhsin replied immediately with childish glee, “Right! Go ahead. By the Prophet, let’s see what’s in it.”

  Abduh raised his head and gave Muhsin a piercing look. “You won’t tell?” he asked.