Return of the Spirit

by Tawfiq al-Hakim

  “Don’t worry. Am I crazy?”

  Abduh immediately started opening the envelope with care and circumspection—so he could seal it again and return it to its original condition. He took the letter out, unfolded it, and began to read with eager anticipation. Muhsin crowded up to him to read along with him avidly. At first they didn’t understand anything. When they saw the signature at the bottom of the letter, however, everything became clear. They started laughing, their mouths agape, feeling malicious revenge.

  The letter had originally been sent by Salim to his sweetheart, but she, instead of answering him, had returned it forthwith, not adding the least comment.

  As soon as Abduh and Muhsin grasped this, they amused themselves by reading this love letter. They sarcastically declaimed aloud some of its phrases, calling into question the veracity of the emotions expressed in it. The letter’s text was as follows:

  Darling of my heart, Miss Saniya,

  I have loved you with a love such as no one before has ever loved. I have been true to you with sincerity that not even a brother nurses for his brothers, nor a parent for his child. I have revered you the way a worshipper reveres his Beloved.

  I have filled the entire emptiness of my life with you. I look only to you. I feel only for you. I dream only of your image. I respond to the sight of the sun at its rising only because I see your form in it. I am moved by listening to the warbling of birds in their variety only because I hear in them the melody of your conversation. I am touched by the sight of flowers laughing within their calyxes only because they represent the diverse perfections of your beauty. I have not wished for happiness for myself except for the sake of yours. I have not preferred life to death except so I may live beside you and rejoice in seeing you.

  If you think I do not deserve to be with you, then tell me to expend my life for you in tears, pains, sorrows and grieving.

  Peace in conclusion,

  The Passionate Lover,

  Captain Salim al-Atifi

  They finished reading it, and Abduh turned to Muhsin to ask sarcastically, “On your honor, is it conceivable that Salim would know to write a single one of those words?”

  Muhsin was silent for a time, as though trying to remember. Then he shouted suddenly, “Good grief! Do you know the novel Magdeleine? He copied page 173 word for word.”*

  Abduh said with vengeful delight, “Bravo to him!”

  Muhsin added in happy confirmation, “I think I know what happened. I was just reading that page the day before yesterday. Oh! I understand. Didn’t I tell you that the novel wasn’t in its right place?”

  At that Abduh took the letter quickly and put it back inside the envelope the way it had been, with deliberate care and caution. He sealed it again, so it was just as though it had never been opened.

  Salim returned home not long after that, humming cheerfully. Mabruk, the servant, informed him at the door that he had a letter. He quivered as soon as he heard that word and asked, “Where? Where is it?”

  Mabruk, who was smiling at his agitation, told him that the letter was upstairs in Abduh’s custody. Salim didn’t allow him to finish; he had already left and charged up the stairs three at a time. He accosted Abduh and before Abduh could say anything asked, “Where’s the letter?”

  Abduh raised his head somewhat scornfully as if to say: No way—say hello first. But Salim paid no attention to him. Instead, he repeated his question forcefully, losing his patience: “Where’s the letter?”

  Abduh couldn’t see any way around directing him to the letter on the table near him. Salim pounced on it, grasped it, and made off with it to be alone when he read it. He left behind him Abduh, who was sharing sarcastic, vengeful looks with Muhsin, who was crouched in his corner.

  In no time at all Salim came back with the letter in his hand. His face looked terrifying. He approached Abduh and showed him the letter. Then he screamed, “The letter’s been opened!”

  Abduh pretended to be astonished and to know nothing of the affair: “Opened how?”

  “Opened and stuck back down again! The envelope is still damp. Am I a fool? You can’t use my head for a skillet.” He said this in a menacing tone no one had ever heard him use before.

  Abduh trembled a little but steeled himself, and said rather curtly, “What need is there for talk like this?”

  Salim shouted back with frightening anger, “It’s this letter that makes it necessary. I wasn’t the one who received it. By God, I didn’t receive this letter! By God, I did not receive this letter!”

  Abduh got riled up and answered nervously, “Whether you received it or not, why say such things to me, sir?”

  Salim, frothing and foaming, said, “Whoever opened this letter is base, low, and vile. For sure, he’s despicable, base, low, and badly brought up.”

  Abduh answered coldly, lowering his head and pretending to look at the drafting board, “Whoever opened it . . .”

  Salim stared at him and asked aggressively, “You, sir, don’t know who opened it? The wretch who opened it?”

  Abduh flushed and shouted, “I’ve told you a thousand times: no! Are you going to drive us crazy with your letter?”

  Salim said, “By God Almighty, I won’t be quiet till this has been investigated. I won’t let it rest this evening. Everything but opening personal letters!”

  Abduh said coldly, “Go do whatever you want. Just let me work. I don’t have time. I’ve got an exam!”

  After putting the letter in his pocket, Salim left him and made for the door, saying, “You have an elder to whom you’re accountable. The house is not a free-for-all. It’s not anarchy!” He said this and slammed the door behind him. He was gone.

  At that, Abduh looked at Muhsin, who was frowning slightly, and said to reassure him, “Forget about him. Let him go. The reason he’s so hot and bothered is the rebuff he’s received. His letter was sent back to him.”

  Muhsin expressed his agreement with a pallid smile but remained silent. He was wrestling with his conscience.

  * * *

  • • •

  When Salim left the house, he headed straight for Khalil Agha Elementary School in order to confront Hanafi Effendi, who by virtue of being the eldest was head of the household. He was going to lay out before him what had happened to see whether he was pleased about this and whether he would let something like this slide by without intervening. This time would he display some of the authority, dignity, and gallantry that were rightfully his?

  All the way Salim was thinking and saying to himself that Hanafi Effendi, regardless of his character, was the master of the house, the last recourse, and someone who would no doubt act resolutely about this incident. That was why he could depend on him. He considered this the wisest and most reasonable plan.

  Hanafi was still at school that day, since it was his turn to supervise the athletic games along with a gymnastics coach. He had to stay at school until six thirty that evening and had alerted his comrades before leaving home in the morning. Salim therefore thought he would meet him at the school to tell him about the matter before he returned home. Otherwise Abduh would muddle his thinking with disruptive interruptions and spoil the matter for Salim.

  When Salim reached the school at last, he looked for the doorman or janitor in his cubbyhole but did not find him. He walked into the school courtyard, looking right and left. Perhaps he would run into someone. Finally he encountered a young pupil who was going to get some water, kicking stones and pebbles. He motioned to him to come, which he did, and asked, “Hey, smarty, where’s Hanafi Effendi?”

  The pupil looked at him and immediately shot back, “Spindle-shanks Hanafi Effendi?”

  Salim was somewhat startled. As though to himself, he repeated, “Spindle-shanks?”

  The pupil straightaway pointed to a portion of the courtyard concealed behind the school building and aske
d, “Sir, do you want him? He’s there with the first year, third section.”

  At that moment the sound of small boys laughing wafted through the air. When the pupil heard it, he left Salim suddenly. He ran toward his pals, laughing and calling out in a low, cautionary tone, “Spindle-shanks Hanafi Effendi! Spindle-shanks Hanafi Effendi!”

  Salim shouted for him to stop. He followed him and asked him to summon Hanafi Effendi at once.

  The pupil obeyed and left Salim to wait. Doubt over the success of his initiative with Hanafi filled his heart, and he wondered: What benefit do you suppose can be hoped for from someone like this Hanafi when even little kids call him “spindle-shanks”?

  Salim did not have long to wait; Hanafi Effendi soon appeared, wondering why Salim had come and suspecting that something serious had happened at home. His suspicions did not seem to be unfounded, because Salim launched into an exaggerated and hyperbolic account of what had occurred. He portrayed the deed to him in the most extraordinary way and in the harshest possible light.

  The master of the house remained silent throughout all of this, his head bowed. He listened with deliberation that an onlooker could have mistaken for serious resolve. Finally Salim stared at him, shaking his shoulder violently, and asked, “Why are you silent? Won’t you give your opinion, brother?”

  The honorary president raised his head and answered immediately, “In my opinion, the right’s on your side.”

  “Isn’t that so? It’s Abduh. No one but the lad Abduh did it. I’m sure. I’ll shave my mustache if I’m wrong!”

  “As for me, I’m so sure, I’ll shave my beard. It’s no one but that kid Abduh.”

  “What happens now?”

  “You’ve been wronged.”

  “Me being right isn’t enough. You, Mr. Hanafi, as head of the household, senior member of the family, and president of us all, will you keep silent about this too? You need to exert your authority.”

  Hanafi puffed himself up and turned toward him forcefully and proudly. “I’ve got to exert my authority!” He put out his hand and pulled Salim along with him. “Come with me. Have no fear! We’ll destroy their house!” He said this so enthusiastically and vigorously that Salim believed him and, thinking all would be well, felt reassured.

  * * *

  • • •

  When Hanafi and Salim reached home and entered the apartment, Salim stood back and pushed Hanafi in front of him, prompting him in a whisper, “Be firm!”

  “Have no fear!”

  On entering, Hanafi saw Abduh bent over the drafting board. He affected a frown and a scowl. Feigning anger, he asked, “What’s the story of this letter? How does it happen that a letter is opened in a house like this?”

  Abduh raised his head without speaking. He cast Hanafi a frightening look and suddenly shouted nervously that he wasn’t responsible for anyone’s letters and that he would not allow anyone to accuse him of anything. He left the drafting board and approached Hanafi Effendi. Then he shouted, “And you! There’s no need for you to get mixed up with an inane matter like this!”

  The honorary president fell silent at once and bowed his head.

  Abduh asked, “Why are you silent? Won’t you talk?”

  Hanafi Effendi raised his head, cleared his throat, and then hesitated. Finally he stammered, “You’re right!”

  When Salim heard this, he became frantic. He grabbed Hanafi Effendi’s arm and pinched him. He shook him, reminding him of his promise to devastate them. Then he reminded him of the accusation directed against Abduh and asked him once again, in front of everyone, to express his opinion frankly.

  The honorary head of the family looked at him and said, “You’re right.”

  At that point Abduh shouted at him, trying to force him to understand that whatever Salim said did not pertain to him, did not relate to him, and did not pin anything on him. And that . . . and that . . . But Hanafi, who had heard enough, turned to him and said, “You’re right.”

  Observing this, the servant Mabruk laughed, as did Muhsin, who, however, felt anxious and had a guilty conscience. Everyone knew that Hanafi was a joker from whom nothing could be hoped. He had twisted the incident and turned it into a joke.

  Salim had wanted him to join the dispute and get angry. He went to the large armoire to gather his possessions and clothes, intending to leave the house. He declared, “This house is a bad joke! A house with no leader! A house of anarchy! But it’s my fault for relying on Mr. Spindle-shanks.”

  Hanafi Effendi, however, did not allow him to leave and tried to calm him, flattering him and joking and laughing with him. In an attempt, so it seemed, to flatter and make him feel good, he said, “Why are you angry, Mr. Salim? You ought, rather, to be delighted, because the question is one of two sorts. Either the letter was an ordinary one that was opened, in which case there is no harm done. Or, it was a letter full of love, desire, passion, and romance. In this case, it’s really great!”

  Through his teeth Salim asked, “Really great, how?”

  Hanafi answered with equally good intentions, thinking he was cheering Salim up, “Well! By God, it’s your good luck it was opened. The critic will be nonplussed and silenced. This is in your best interest, dummy! Has anyone during these days had even a quarter of a love letter? My goodness! How lucky you are, Salim! You really should have opened it and read it aloud to us so we could rejoice with you and celebrate the happy event.”

  Muhsin, on hearing this, could imagine the impact that words like these would have on Salim in view of his disappointment with the letter. Almost overcome by laughter, he ran to the toilet so he could laugh freely. Passing through the hall he saw Abduh, who was covering his face with a hand to hide his laughter.

  CHAPTER 16

  Not many days later Muhsin received a letter! The word “letter” at this time was enough to turn inside out the youth’s heart or that of any other member of the household. But he soon learned that his letter was from his parents in Damanhur. They were sending him his allowance and the monthly sum for Hanafi Effendi for Muhsin to live with him. They expressed their surprise in the letter that although the midyear vacation was at hand Muhsin hadn’t expressed any desire or set any time for traveling to them as he did each year. The fact was that this year Muhsin had not happened to think at all about traveling or about the vacation. His thoughts had been wrapped up in his affairs and those of his comrades. He had also isolated himself from his friends at school. School did not interest him, aside from studying the lessons. He would complete his work there and impatiently watch for the end of the day so he could go home. Frequently he spent his free time at lunch and during other breaks on homework so that he could rush home afterward, free of any commitments.

  Now, however, he was caught off guard by this letter asking him to travel. It seemed he had opened his eyes after a delightful trance and seen the real world. There was no way to avoid the trip.

  Even though the vacation was short, only ten days, that appeared long to him. Yet he saw in his mind the image of his parents and yearned for them, so he was happy about the trip if only to see them.

  Muhsin wasn’t the only one who had forgotten about the trip this strange year; Zanuba had too. She usually kept track of its date precisely in order to prepare the present she would send with Muhsin.

  Muhsin was a little surprised that Zanuba had forgotten. When he went to remind her about his imminent departure, he found her in her room shaping dough to make a pastry called ka‘b al-ghazal. He told himself: She didn’t forget. She was just pretending. When he asked her what she was doing, without telling her about his trip, she hesitated a little. Then she blushed and said, “It’s just that the servant of our neighbor downstairs brought a tray with flour and clarified butter so we would make him some ka‘b al-ghazal.”

  Muhsin was a little surprised and asked, “Mustafa Bey?”

  Zanuba added while sh
e worked without looking at him, “The thing is that he doesn’t have anyone here who knows how to make it. We should care for him. The proverb says: The Prophet entrusted to our care even the seventh neighbor.”

  Muhsin hid a smile, remembering then that when he was coming home from school the day before he had noticed Zanuba speaking with Mustafa Bey’s servant at the entry to the stairway. He had thought she was telling him to sweep the portion of the stairway that was his responsibility, because he had heard her say that when she saw him come up. Now Muhsin grasped what that conversation with the neighbor’s servant had been about. Who could say? Perhaps she had proposed helping whenever his master needed something, since he was unmarried and had no one who could prepare for him pastries like ka‘b al-ghazal or other such delicacies.

  * * *

  • • •

  Muhsin’s thoughts turned to Saniya after that. He wanted to go tell her about his trip and to learn her reaction. He imagined she would be as annoyed as he was by this news. His heart pounded at this idea, and he began to rehearse what he would say. He thought he would be more courageous this time and use news about the trip as a pretext for disclosing to her some of what he had been keeping hidden for months.

  That afternoon when Muhsin returned from his last day of school before the vacation, he went directly to the neighbors’ residence and entered the piano room as usual. He saw no one there at first. Then, turning toward the balcony, he noticed Saniya looking out its window. She had her eyes fixed on the little coffeehouse. She was wearing a bright yellow dress of the latest cut, and her hair was very beautifully coifed. His heart pounded. For a moment he stood there without her sensing his presence.

  Finally he found the heart to walk toward her quietly till he was beside her and could see where she was looking. There was Mustafa Bey sitting at his place in the coffeehouse. His eyes were raised, smiling. Muhsin shuddered, and Saniya sensed he was there. She was a little startled but straightened up and put her hand out to greet and welcome him with pleasure and enthusiasm, calling him “my professor,” as was her habit. She greeted him in such a way that he forgot about himself and everything else. He blushed and was silent, not knowing how to reply. So she led him to the piano, saying in a sweet voice, “It’s been a long time since we’ve had a lesson.”