Return of the Spirit

by Tawfiq al-Hakim

  She started passing her hand over the piano keys while Muhsin watched her in silence. Finally he mumbled, “This is the last lesson.”

  She raised her head without understanding. Then Muhsin calmed himself and began to tell her why he had come today; his aunt Zanuba was busy preparing what he needed for his trip. She had said she was going to visit Saniya Hanim the next day, but he could not bear to wait till tomorrow. So as soon as he got out of school, he had come straight to her. Then he was silent for a time and looked at Saniya. She was silent too, looking at him. He was out of breath from talking.

  He spoke again, saying he was sad. He fell silent, unable to continue with the speech he had rehearsed.

  Saniya asked with warm tenderness, “Sad? Why are you sad?”

  The youth answered hesitantly, “Because.”

  Saniya suggested, “Because you’re traveling?”

  Muhsin responded in a faint, stammering, unconvincing way, “Yeah.” She seemed to perceive or suspect what he felt from the way he looked. She softened a little, and her voice became more tender and feminine without her realizing it, as though something deep inside had prompted her to encourage him or at least to grant a hearing of what he had to say on this subject.

  She pretended to be surprised that he would grieve over a brief trip like this and told him with an enticing smile that she couldn’t believe he was sad just for something like this. But Muhsin did not answer. Whenever he attempted to speak, all that happened was an intense pounding of his heart. Saniya continued gently, “So why, really, are you sad? Shame on you! Don’t you want to tell me?”

  Muhsin mumbled some barely audible words and then said, looking at the floor, “Because . . . I’m traveling.”

  Saniya was a little vexed by this answer. She too was silent for a moment. Then in an ordinary voice with a ring of earnestness to it she asked, “Won’t you greet Mama before you leave?”

  Raising his head, the boy replied, “Sure!”

  Saniya rose and clapped her hands to call the maid. When she appeared, Saniya asked whether her senior mistress had returned from outside. The maid replied in the negative.

  Saniya glanced at Muhsin and said, “I don’t know where she’s gone! She went out early today without telling me—it’s not at all like her.”

  She went with a bound to the balcony and stood there, looking out.

  Muhsin raised his head and stealthily peeked at her. He felt dispirited, and an obscure doubt was troubling him. But she returned to him with a smile and suggested they play a farewell song at the piano. She did not give him time to reply. Instead, she went from talking about the piano to talking about Salim—how extremely kind he had been when he had taken responsibility for having the piano tuned in such an excellent way. Muhsin looked at her in surprise, remembering Salim’s letter. He attempted to see through her or sniff out some scent of sarcasm but didn’t find any. To the contrary!

  When Saniya continued expressing her gratitude for Salim with beautiful phrases, Muhsin’s heart trembled. It passed through his mind that Abduh had similarly repaired the electric wiring. Why didn’t she remember him with a single word of thanks? Muhsin recollected that when he had arrived today Saniya had been at the balcony looking down at the coffeehouse. He asked himself: Was that for Salim? The boy felt deeply stung, although he quickly realized it could not have been, because Salim had stopped going to the coffeehouse some time ago. He was never seen sitting there anymore, not since the day he was asked to repair the piano. It seemed the coffeehouse route no longer had anything to offer him.

  Then why and at whom was she looking and gazing in that fashion from the balcony now?

  Muhsin felt almost resentful toward Saniya, as though he did not want to see her stoop to something like this. His heart was filled with a feeling he had nourished for her the day he noticed her conduct with Abduh when he was repairing the electricity and when Salim came to inspect the piano. In the depths of his soul, he had held this behavior against her, thinking it wanton and deliberately seductive.

  This sensation overwhelmed Muhsin, and he was silent. Suddenly he saw Saniya rise from her place near him, as though she was uneasy or bored. She walked toward the balcony. As soon as she reached it, a rosy flush and a lively glow graced her face. Muhsin watched her out of the corner of his eye, observing all that in her. Was he imagining it or was she really sighing and smiling at a man outside? Muhsin felt miserable. A terrifying despair pervaded him. He realized in a moment that all his dreams were in vain. All his hopes concerning her were a mirage. He became certain that he had been a fool to romanticize what was actually happening and that he had hoped for more than someone like him deserved from a person like her. What was he? A young, competency-level student. What had his relationship to her been up to now? Wasn’t it just a simple family friendship? If Saniya was sweet to him, wasn’t that because he was a young boy? At least, she treated him like one. In her eyes, he would always be that young boy, one to whom she could be tender in her mother’s presence without feeling any embarrassment. She could offer him drinks or fill his pockets with bonbons and sweets if she wanted.

  Being tender and sweet did not amount to interest and affection. Had she ever been concerned about his coming or blushed the way she did when Salim or Abduh came or even acted the way she was now while gazing from the window at . . . at . . .

  The room turned black before Muhsin’s eyes while these thoughts were going through his head with the speed of a nightmare. He looked around him and saw he was sitting alone; she had turned away and wasn’t paying attention to him. He felt the awkwardness and chill of his position. Why stay here, forgotten and neglected?

  He rose, his brow dripping with sweat. Saniya didn’t notice. He stood there, anxious and hesitant for a moment. Then he put his hand in his pocket to search for his handkerchief and came upon Saniya’s silk one, which he always kept with him. His heart pounded, but despair overcame him. He became pale and stiff standing there and felt that he ought to weep or shout or die. But he did not do any of these. He could not even remind Saniya of his existence or that he had stood up. Finally Saniya turned toward him, held out her hand, and asked, “Are you going home now?”

  Muhsin observed a certain languor in her appearance and gesture and understood that she would not insist on detaining him. He imagined that he had stayed longer than he should have. So he put out his hand to her quickly and in a voice that was barely audible said, “Yes, I’m going home.”

  He left her and went to the door. She looked at him, surprised by this person who had come to say good-bye and was now leaving in this fashion. Muhsin, however, stood at the doorstep and hesitated. Saniya noticed and went to see why he was pausing there. Muhsin put a trembling hand into his pocket and brought out her silk handkerchief, which he gave to her without looking at her.

  Saniya took the handkerchief. She turned it over in her hand with astonishment when she recognized it. At first she did not understand and shouted, “My handkerchief? Where did you find it?”

  Muhsin answered in a low voice, “I had it!”

  This sentence sufficed for Saniya to understand. She looked for a moment at the face of young Muhsin and gazed at his gloomy features, his taut lips, and his drooping eyes, which cast frozen, despondent glances at the floor. His appearance then reminded her of the day she had seen him try to remember his past. His face then had suddenly taken on a manly look, but today he seemed dangerous and frightening. He appeared to be struggling with something inside him. Saniya perceived some of what the lad was suffering and felt sympathetic toward him.

  Muhsin wanted to depart, but she prevented him, asking him in a tender voice, “Have you had it for a long time, rascal?”

  Muhsin did not reply but felt his blood boil. He thought Saniya was mocking him by using this stale term. He steeled himself. Saniya continued, “Why are you returning the handkerchief to me now?”

&n
bsp; Muhsin answered in an impetuous, fierce tone, “It doesn’t belong to me!”

  Saniya was surprised but remained calm and, moving closer to Muhsin, held out her hand gently with the handkerchief. She asked sincerely, “What if I give it to you?”

  Muhsin answered at once in a dry, decisive tone, “I don’t want it.”

  Saniya’s expression changed. This answer had taken her by surprise. She discerned from the youth’s face that he was in a very angry and emotional state. She fell silent. They remained still for a moment. Finally she said to him in a changed, faint voice, “Muhsin! You’re angry about something?”

  He did not respond. When she raised her head to try to force him to answer, she saw two tears flowing from his eyes.

  Her heart was moved a little. She put out her hand gently, took his, and led him to a seat. In a voice filled with emotion she said, “Muhsin! Are you weeping? Muhsin?”

  She sat down and seated him beside her. Muhsin wasn’t able to hold back his tears. They poured out without being willed or warranted. Saniya volunteered her silk handkerchief and dried his eyes. She asked him gently, “Are you angry at me? Are you angry at me, Muhsin?”

  The youth did not reply except with nervous sobs that he tried in vain to suppress. Saniya, who was touched, continued, “Muhsin! Shame on you! Muhsin!”

  Then she embraced him and kissed him at the bottom of his cheek. Despite the heat of this kiss, it felt cool like dew to the youth, who looked at her. She was crying too from emotion.

  Silence reigned between them a moment. Saniya broke it when she asked why he was weeping. She insisted on knowing. At first he mumbled some words that were incomprehensible. Then he gained control a little and said he knew he wasn’t anything special to her, that what hurt him was her hiding this from him. It would have been worthier for her to . . .

  He couldn’t go on with these words and started again, saying he wasn’t criticizing her for anything at all. It was just he had hurt himself and was censuring himself for plunging into false and imaginary hopes and deceptive dreams.

  He began to speak like this in a trembling, feverish voice. Saniya listened, moved and pleased, until he finished. Then she drew close to him, grasped his trembling hand, and, looking at him, said in a faint voice, “You’re wrong, Muhsin! Is that the way it is? Shame on you! If you weren’t important to me, I wouldn’t have taught you piano and made Mama agree. You know it started the day I saw you on the roof?”

  The youth’s heart trembled. He smiled and turned toward her; it seemed his eyes were asking her: Is that true?

  Saniya started speaking again in a faint, warm voice, upbraiding him for what he had said. He did not know what to say or do. He had no sense of where he was. He seemed to be in an ethereal realm where he felt nothing, not even the happiness perfuming that moment. He roused himself a tad and felt an urge to pour kisses on her hands, cheek, and face but did not dare do anything like that. He stayed frozen like a statue while time passed swiftly. Finally he collected the shreds of his resolve and moved to revive his leaping heart, but the occasion had been lost, for he heard the maid’s footsteps. She came to announce the return of her elder mistress from outside. At that, Muhsin rose quickly to his feet, as did Saniya. He began to tidy himself and reached in his pocket for his handkerchief to wipe his face. Instead, Saniya quickly gave him her silk handkerchief without the maid seeing and whispered to him, “Keep it as a remembrance.”

  The lady of the house entered, clad in her black street wrap. Seeing Muhsin, she approached to greet him. Saniya told her he had come to say good-bye before his trip and that he had waited especially till she came home. The lady thanked him, wished him a happy journey, and asked him to give her greetings to his mother and to remind his mother of her if she had forgotten her. Then the youth asked permission to leave. The two women saw him to the stairs, which he descended quickly. He did not feel he was in this world. He seemed to be descending from another one.

  CHAPTER 17

  Muhsin returned home to find that Aunt Zanuba had prepared the present he was to carry the next morning. She was there alone with the servant Mabruk, who was near her, busy tying the package with twine. As soon as Zanuba saw Muhsin come in, out of breath, she told him that everything had been prepared. Nothing remained to pack but his clothes. She had wanted to get out the ones he would take, and if Saniya’s mother had not come . . . When Zanuba mentioned that visit, she quickly reconsidered and was upset as though she had been wrong to refer to it.

  But Muhsin noted this and asked her at once in disbelief, “She was here?”

  Zanuba wanted to make it seem a slip, but Muhsin went up to her sweetly, filled with doubt. He continued to flatter her and to curry her favor until she admitted, “Yes, she was here, and do you know why? Just a word to you in secret, Muhsin! Don’t tell anyone!”

  Her tone was confidential, and the youth at once answered her earnestly, “Don’t be afraid. Speak, auntie!”

  She hesitated a little before bending over him to whisper that Saniya’s mother had come today to tell her that Dr. Hilmi, her husband, had gotten hold of a letter from Salim Effendi to Saniya. He was upset and annoyed but did not wish to publicize the matter, in the interest of good neighborly relations. He had returned Salim’s letter at once and had not told his daughter about it or about what he had done. He only told his wife so she could delicately alert Zanuba to this matter, which was totally improper.

  Muhsin bowed his head in thought on hearing this. His happiness was marred a little by a troubling idea that occurred to him: Saniya did not know about Salim’s letter. So she wasn’t the one who had returned it in the manner he and Abduh saw. Who could say? Perhaps she would not have returned the letter if it had fallen into her hands. Indeed, she might have answered it in the most beautiful way.

  The youth was depressed by this idea but recalled his recent encounter with her and dismissed the thought. Hadn’t she told him just now while weeping that she, since she saw him on the roof . . . then, that kiss . . . No . . . this rotten idea should be rejected. Indeed, he had no reason to doubt his beloved Saniya from now on.

  Zanuba started whispering again with dry sarcasm, “By the Prophet, I’ve had that number for some time. Is Salim someone to treat her right?”

  * * *

  • • •

  When Salim’s letter arrived, Dr. Hilmi was sitting in the place where he usually spent the afternoon, in front of Al-Jawwali’s Pharmacy, drinking a cup of coffee brought to him from a nearby coffee shop. He was talking, in a voice like a storyteller’s, to a few people, who were seated around him and who seemed by age and appearance to be retired civil servants like himself.

  They were listening with pleasure, astonishment, and interest to his narration as he described his life in the Sudan back when he was an army doctor. This narrative was no doubt the continuation of a series of previous accounts he had delivered at yesterday’s session and before. The doctor was silent for a bit while he sipped his coffee and recollected his memories, looking absentmindedly at Al-Sayyida Zaynab Square and at the movement and commotion in it. No one present uttered a word. Instead, they continued to gaze at him, waiting for him to resume speaking. The only one who stirred was a man who took advantage of that pause to pull a package of snuff from the pocket of his old-fashioned black jacket. After offering it silently to those around him, he took a little and inhaled it. Then he sneezed violently and said, “God! God! God!”

  At that, the registered pharmacist sitting near him turned and asked, “Are you going to keep on sneezing at us, Sha’ban Effendi? We want to hear what the doctor has to say.”

  Sha’ban Effendi, a former head clerk of the Islamic legal archives office, took a large handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his nose with it. He said, “That’s it, sir. Go ahead and speak, doctor.”

  The doctor put his cup on the small tray placed on a chair in front of him and glanced at hi
s companions, as though asking them where he had gotten to in his account. One of them, a former health inspector from Markaz Ashmun, now a landlord, said quickly while fingering his string of amber beads, which he carried either for self-respect or respect for Judgment Day, “You were telling us about Bahr al-Ghazal province.”

  Dr. Hilmi said, as though to himself, “Right. Bahr al-Ghazal!” Then he was silent and gazed at the square blankly, trying to recall the past.

  After suppressing a sneeze that took him by surprise, Sha’ban Effendi asked, “Is it true, doctor, that Bahr al-Ghazal province alone equals the size of all Egypt?”

  The doctor did not answer his question. Instead he turned to his audience as if ready to resume his narration. They fell silent at once and looked at him attentively. He raised a fly whisk with an ivory handle, drove the flies away from the coffee tray, and said, “I’m telling you about Bahr al-Ghazal. . . . Oh, Bahr al-Ghazal! The Sudan!”

  He uttered “The Sudan” with something like a deep sigh, an expression of regret issuing from his entire being, or a longing that shook his whole person. The hearer would have imagined that The Sudan was everything to this man. It was the entire life of this grizzled military doctor who had lived there for such a long time.

  He began to recite for his audience in a firm, vibrant voice how he had accompanied an Egyptian expedition to explore unknown parts of Bahr al-Ghazal.

  He said that when they were camped near Ghabt Shambe, they awoke early one morning and the soldiers lined up, each with a glass in his hand. He walked down the line with a bottle of quinine, pouring in each glass a sip or two, according to the drill in those areas, as a preventive measure against malarial fever. Then they carried their gear, tents, and waterskins and went deep into the dense and far-reaching forests and thickets. A black guide, one of the local inhabitants, preceded them. Whenever they had completed a stage and night overcame them, they stopped and lit fires to keep the beasts of the jungle away. Despite that, they would see by the light of the fire blazing in the dry twigs the eyes of leopards and lions that prowled around them in the distance. These eyes gleamed and glowed with strange and beautiful colors. Those nights were hot and at times magnificently moonlit and profoundly still. The only sound was the roaring of a lion prowling about in search of a portion of the meat from the wild teetal goats and water buffalo they roasted over the fire. Dr. Hilmi would squat on the ground with the soldiers, who watched intently, some holding their rifles ready in case of an emergency. Although those moments were full of terrifying anxiety, the doctor relished that adventure. He wanted to see a lion attack and be gunned down by their rifles. When he confided this desire to a Sudanese soldier detailed to serve him, the soldier told him, “You’ll see something stranger than that when we get to Tungu. You’ll see some of the natives hunt lions with short spears!”