Here his father cleared his throat and said, “Nor like me!”
The wife turned to her husband and said sarcastically, “Since when, Mr. Peasant Mayor? Do you deny I’m the one who civilized you and taught you to be proud?”
Her husband backed down and replied, “God, did I say something? Of course, madam, you are a Turkish lady and a descendant of Turks.” He was silent for a bit.
She left him and started on Muhsin again, saying, “Truly it’s strange—Muhsin hasn’t turned out like me. Even when he was a child he cried and screamed the day we sent our private carriage to wait for him at the school gate. Remember?”
His father, pulling up his expensive silk socks, said, “Peasant! What can you say to him?”
Muhsin bowed his head on hearing this word. He felt an emotion like contempt but did not know whether it was for himself or someone else.
* * *
• • •
The supper table was spread, and Muhsin sat down with his mother and father. Bilal and Ali, the Nubians, each of them in a white uniform with a red sash like the Nubians at the Shepheard’s Hotel, carried in plates and bowls filled with a wide variety of delicious foods. Muhsin, nonetheless, didn’t have much appetite. He took a taste from each dish as though fulfilling a duty. His mother noticed how little he was eating and asked, “What’s the matter, Muhsin? Don’t you like the food? Is the food better at your uncles’?”
The boy almost laughed, remembering the trencher of fuul nabit and the goose leg that Abduh had tossed out the window. But all the same, those sprouted beans had been delicious when he devoured them with the servant Mabruk slurping his serving beside him, his gleaming eyes watching the steam rise, his nostrils sniffing around with great appetite. Hanafi Effendi, the honorary president, and the rest of the group had gathered around this trencher as though it were a shrine.
What a happy group! How fine that life was with the folks! Yes, that was why he ate. That was why he put on weight, even though the food was poor and monotonous.
* * *
• • •
Time for bed came, and they led Muhsin to his private room, a beautiful room with expensive furniture. Then they shut the door on him, each parent retiring to a separate bedroom. Muhsin looked around him. There was only one bed, and he was all alone. Quiet reigned supreme. It was as still as death. He was depressed by this solitude. The place distressed him. He longed for his bed beside those of his uncles in that communal room with five beds, a room into which all the folks squeezed. He felt even more homesick. It took him only a night to perceive how comfortable he had been. That was where life was. What a happy life! That communal life! Even during their troubles and hard times!
CHAPTER 3
Muhsin awoke the next day feeling depressed and out of sorts. He began to prowl through the reaches of the spacious house, gazing without much interest at the elegant furnishings and magnificent curios he encountered. Suddenly he remembered Saniya and that changed his perspective. Pride swelled within him. He proceeded to look at his surroundings with new interest. His mother flowed toward him in a beautiful, trailing gown. Muhsin looked at her with admiration. He wished Saniya could see his mother looking like this. His father passed by in a different suit from yesterday. In his hand was an expensive, heavy walking stick with extraordinary gold designs on it. The youth remembered at once what his father had said the day before: “Peasant! What can you say to him?”
He felt a little ashamed of himself and found it odd that he was the son of parents like these, whom he did not resemble. He resolved to resemble them from now on. He was still young. It behooved him to grasp the significance of his status. This idea satisfied him. He approached his mother and patted her as though asking her to reveal the secrets of this life of splendor or to help him understand or savor this life.
But all this was wishful thinking. No sooner had the first day elapsed than boredom was killing Muhsin again. That enthusiasm and intoxication left him, along with his pride.
He sensed this truth in the depths of his soul: that he was a stranger in his family. Something he could not fathom separated him from his parents. Whatever he did, there was an inevitable reserve or awkwardness. So let them call him peasant as much as they wished. He would not be able to live the way they wanted. He needed the freedom and fresh air he could inhale when he was with his uncomplicated and unpretentious uncles. Despite all the servants and comforts of this house, he felt himself weighed down by heavy chains that were intolerable.
Thinking about it this way brought him some peace of mind. He detected a rebellious spirit he had not been conscious of before. The word “peasant” his father had used the day before still rankled within him. Secretly he rebelled against his father. He began a mental review of his father’s personality and upbringing. Wasn’t he a peasant too, first and foremost? Wasn’t he a fellah, a man of the earth? Wasn’t he still? How had he changed? Did his clothes, his expensive walking stick, his shoes and socks, and his diamond rings alter him?
Wasn’t it just a set of conventions? Wasn’t it his Turkish mother who had influenced his father in the name of civilization? Yes, what right did he have now to look down on the peasant? Because the fellah was poor? Was poverty a fault?
Thus Muhsin continued turning over in his mind thoughts of this type while he felt uncomfortable being there, conscious of being estranged from this life. He couldn’t imagine how he would survive ten more days when he was grumpy after one day. He longed for his home with his uncles like a fish longing for water. It occurred to him he should think of a pretext to go back. But he remembered Saniya’s letter, which he was expecting. So he kept quiet and gave in. That reminded him he had to write his uncles to inform them he had arrived. So he went at once to the desk to write them a letter about his sincere longing to return. Then he wrote a separate, personal letter to his aunt Zanuba, giving her his greetings and asking her to pass on his respects to Saniya Hanim. He used expressions of the utmost delicacy, since he expected Saniya to read the letter. He wrote it as though writing to her.
* * *
• • •
His mother noticed his low spirits and suggested an expedition for a few days to their country place, where the earth was now covered with clover like a green carpet. When Muhsin agreed happily, his mother ordered the carriage.
It was prepared and supplies were gathered for a stay at the estate house.
By afternoon Muhsin and his father and mother, accompanied by some of the servants, were on their way to ___, which was at a distance of ___ from the city of Damanhur. As soon as the carriage reached the bridge and passed the massive sycamore standing at the entrance to the threshing area, the farm dog began to bark. Behind him appeared the overseer, the headman of the farm community, and some of the farm workers. The dog fell silent once it recognized them. The overseer, the headman, and the others with them gathered around the carriage, welcoming them. They greeted Muhsin especially warmly as they helped him dismount, saying, “Three hundred thousand welcomes to the young bey! The farm shines brightly with the presence of the young bey.”
The farm headman, whose stately white beard shook as he spoke, said, “Salutations, Mr. Bey! Salutations, Mr. Young Bey! Salutations, Mrs. Lady! Salutations! And more salutations!”
One of the men approached Muhsin and asked, “Don’t you remember me, Mr. Bey? I’m Abd al-Maqsud. You used to favor me, back when you were in school in Damanhur, by letting me take you for a ride on Fridays so we could go fishing in the Abu Diyab canal. Don’t you remember? You would grandly ride the young jenny halfway there. Then you would climb down and tell me, ‘You ride, Abd al-Maqsud, you too.’ I would tell you, ‘Bey, I’m not tired. We farmers are used to walking.’ You would get angry and say, ‘You’ve got to ride, you too.’ Don’t you remember, bey?”
Muhsin smiled and did not say anything.
Meanwhile Muhsin’s father and mother had be
en talking with the overseer and headman about agricultural matters, ordering and forbidding. The farm overseer answered politely, “Everything is just fine, Mr. Bey. We’ve cleaned out the drainage canals. The southern area we’ve devoted to corn. This year’s clover, as Your Honor sees, will be as God wills . . . a fertile year in honor of the visit of the young bey.”
The senior bey turned to the farm headman and asked, “And you, Shaykh Hasan—what about the story of Arjawi and the Bedouin watchman?”
“It all ended for the best, Mr. Bey.”
“There are no problems, bey. We reconciled them in the presence of the mayor’s deputy and the chief watchmen. The estate is calm, Bedouins and peasants, milk and honey.”
The lady walked toward the villa. Her husband and Muhsin followed along with all the others. Shaykh Hasan began to say as they went, “You have honored the farm! By God, salutations! Salutations, respected bey! Salutations, respected lady! Salutations, young bey! So many salutations.”
The lady, who had had enough, shouted at the poor headman, “That’s enough racket for us. It’s a whole lifetime of salutations. Why are you such chatterboxes, you fellahin?”
The headman was a little dismayed and embarrassed but said with a smile, “God grant us a long life for you. It’s just that we’re happy, respected lady, to have you here.”
Muhsin was touched but continued walking silently behind his mother, his head bowed.
When the farm women learned that the owners of the estate had arrived, they emerged trilling. The boldest of them stepped forward, wanting to take the lady’s hand to kiss it, but the lady scolded her and said dismissively, “Get back! Away! Take care not to soil my dress.”
The beaming woman answered with docile good humor, a smile on her face, “Oh! Can’t we kiss our lady’s hand? Whose hand shall we kiss then?”
The lady gestured to her to move back. The overseer intervened to carry out the lady’s wishes. He raised his arm in the air in a threatening way as though dealing with geese or chickens. He said, “Let’s go, woman, you, and her . . . to your houses . . . back to your house!”
The women retreated, falling back toward their houses while they continued trilling. Muhsin approached his mother and asked passionately, “Mother, why do you drive them away? That’s not right.”
As she went through the door of the house, she replied sternly and with little interest, “Not right? Those are peasants!”
CHAPTER 4
Muhsin had not been in his room in the villa at the estate an hour when it was time to eat. The table was spread. The two Nubian butlers stood at the head of the table as usual. The lady came, followed by her husband and Muhsin. As soon as she saw the plate of whole wheat pita bread on the table she shouted, “My God! Where’s the fino? Where’s the good bread?”
One of the servants mumbled, “There isn’t any.”
The lady raged, “You forgot to bring fino bread from Damanhur? Isn’t that great! What am I to eat now?”
“I’ll go, lady, and get some from Damanhur. I’ll be back right away.”
The lady was quiet for a moment. Then after casting a glance at the blazing sunlight outdoors, she reconsidered. “It’s too hot for you, Bilal. Send one of the peasants.” Bilal started to leave, but she stopped him. “Listen, Bilal. Get me that dog of an overseer.”
The servant went out and soon returned with the overseer. The lady asked him, “How do you expect us to eat peasant bread, man, you fool?”
The overseer replied with surprise and astonishment, “It’s fresh, lady. Bread made this morning! My wife baked it herself, especially for you.”
She shouted at him, “Don’t disgust me. Do I eat bread like that? Go and send one of the peasants at once to bring me French bread from Damanhur.”
“Now, lady, when it’s so hot outside?”
“Yes! Now, while it’s hot.”
“Yes, lady. . . . It’s just . . .”
“Just what?”
“It’s just, Your Ladyship knows, those peasants suffer in the field from five in the morning and can scarcely wait for noon to come so they can stretch out under a tree to get a little rest.”
“God’s will be done! To get a little rest? Does a peasant rest? Since when has he had it so good?”
“Aren’t they human beings, Your Ladyship?”
“Scram. No more coddling! Go get a fellah right away to bring bread from Damanhur. Otherwise, by the life of my father, the whip will fall on that turban of yours. Species of peasant!”
The overseer looked at the floor for a moment while the lady turned to her husband, the bey, as though to scold him for remaining silent and merely watching. The bey quickly agreed. In haste and confusion he said, “Right. So what? Send one of those peasants who are sleeping like water buffaloes in their houses.”
The overseer raised his head and said, “Fine.”
The lady added, “Or, you go yourself if you want to spoil them. You’re just like them! I mean, do you have any Turkish blood?”
The overseer replied politely, “Fine.” Then he went out to obey this grim command. Muhsin cast a sympathetic look after him. The youth lowered his eyes and began to toy with the buttons on his jacket, taking care not to look at his parents, as though ashamed of their conduct.
* * *
• • •
Muhsin was patient until the meal was finished. Then he left his parents and slipped outside to find freedom, open space, and the farmers, who were straightforward, uncomplicated, and generous. The first person he met was Shaykh Hasan, who was sitting on the stone bench outside the guesthouse. He had a string of beads in his hand. Pale of face and with a wavering voice, he was pleading with Abd al-Ati the Bedouin, a private watchman for the estate. The latter was shouting in his face in a menacing tone, “By God, by God, Arjawi won’t take her. By the honor of a Bedouin, we’ll blow his head off with this rifle.”
“There’s no need to raise a ruckus, Abd al-Ati. The bey is here. Do me a favor!”
“By God, this peasant will not have her.”
“Wasn’t peace established between you by the hand of the mayor’s deputy?”
“We are Bedouin with honor. The word of a fellahin omdeh has no sway over us.”
On saying this, he left Shaykh Hasan and swaggered off with a smirk of disdain on his lips. His path led him by Muhsin, who had stopped nearby to look and listen, not wishing to interrupt their discussion. When Abd al-Ati approached, Muhsin called to him and asked about what he had just been saying to Shaykh Hasan. Why did he hate the farmer Arjawi? The Bedouin guard replied arrogantly that the young laborer Arjawi wanted to marry his Bedouin sister, who was in love with this peasant. He hadn’t succeeded in persuading her to give him up, although he had tried a heavy beating and sincere advice and had contrasted her Bedouin descent to that of the fellah.
Finally, she had reached an agreement with Arjawi to elope with him, against her brother Abd al-Ati’s will. So he had sworn to kill this Arjawi on sight. They had tried to make peace between them. The Arab girl had attempted to appeal to her brother’s feelings. She had pleaded with him to change his mind about her and her farmer husband, but none of that was of any use. Abd al-Ati insisted on carrying out his verdict. That was what Muhsin understood from the Bedouin. At this point he looked at him and asked gently, “So the Bedouin is better than the farmer, Abd al-Ati?”
The guard stared at him, surprised by his ignorance, and asked, “How, bey, could the Bedouin resemble the peasant?”
“What’s the difference between the two?”
“How’s that, bey? How’s that? The Bedouin has a long and noble line of descent.”
“And the peasant doesn’t?”
“The peasant is a slave descended from slaves. We Bedouin don’t tolerate abuse.”
* * *
• • •
Muhsin left Abd al
-Ati and walked on alone to think about what he had said. He remembered that his ancient Egyptian history teacher had said that the present-day Egyptian fellah was the very same Egyptian farmer who lived, plowed, and planted the same earth long before the Bedouin was a Bedouin. One age had followed another and one people had followed another, but because of the fellah’s isolation from the cities and city culture and because he was tucked away in villages, far from the shifting political and social storms in the capitals, where the succession of new peoples normally lived and different ethnic groups mixed together—neither the length of time nor its vicissitudes had changed anything in him. Was this fellah someone who could be accused of having no lineage when he was directly descended from the original inhabitants? His shortcoming was not knowing this origin, whereas the Bedouin passed on his lineage from father and grandfather and from tribe to tribe. Moreover, wasn’t one of the signs of a long lineage that goodness of character typical of settled life and stability? Meanwhile, this Bedouin continued to be wild and to love war, revenge, and bloodshed, which were carryovers from an earlier life that was aggressive, anxious, and unstable. It was based on raiding and pillage, with one tribe plundering another. But the farmer did not know how to defend himself. He should say that his goodness and love of peace were a consequence of his deeply rooted agricultural heritage. The farming life requires peace, tranquility, and a repudiation of raiding and plunder. When social, sedentary life is contrasted with nomadic life in desolate steppe or mountain regions, the calm and peace of the former reveal a noble origin, not slavery or debasement by slave descent.
Muhsin later went to Shaykh Hasan and sat down beside him on the stone mastaba. He looked at him and his white beard a little. Then he asked, “Uncle, Shaykh Hasan, is the Bedouin better or the fellah?”
Return of the Spirit Page 22
