Return of the Spirit

by Tawfiq al-Hakim

  The French archaeologist fell silent for a time and glanced at Mr. Black’s face to gauge his reaction. He found his features rigid and his lips open in uncertainty and doubt.

  The Frenchman resumed his comments: “Yes, Mr. Black. These fellahin have taste . . . good taste! If you asked them about the word ‘taste,’ they wouldn’t know what it means. We know very well the meaning of the word ‘taste,’ but rest assured that there are a great number of us who have wretched taste. Yes, this is the one difference between us and them: They don’t know the treasures they possess.”

  At that, the Englishman rose and said sarcastically, “You Frenchmen think nothing of sacrificing facts to eloquence.”

  Monsieur Fouquet motioned for him to sit down and responded sharply, “Facts? The facts are on my side, Mr. Black. You are hinting at the current weakness of this people, isn’t that so?”

  “I don’t like their manners either.”

  “Their manners?”

  “Yes!”

  “Rest assured, Mr. Black, that any corruption of their manners is not native to Egypt but introduced here by other peoples, like the Bedouins or the Turks, for example. Even so, none of that has affected the eternally existing substance.”

  “Tell me what this substance is.”

  “You doubt what I’m saying. I’ll limit myself to telling you to beware. You should all be on guard against this people, because it conceals tremendous spiritual power.”

  Mr. Black looked at him gravely for a moment. Then he resumed his sarcastic smile and said, “Where are they concealing it, Monsieur Fouquet?”

  The French archaeologist answered with calm conviction, “In the deep well from which those three pyramids emerged.”

  The Britisher asked languidly, “The pyramids?”

  The French scholar replied at once, “Yes, the pyramids! Champollion said of them, ‘I cannot describe them. So it must be one of two things. Either my words can never express a thousandth part of what I must say or even if I wanted to paint the palest picture of the reality, people would surely consider me wildly partisan or crazy, but I will say one thing, those people built as though they were giants sixty meters tall.’

  “Philo of Byzantium in his book The Seven Wonders of the World said of them, ‘Those people ascended to the gods and the gods descended to them.’

  “Even the experts say it’s incredible a project like this could be carried out. As our archaeologist Moret observed, ‘It is a dream that surpasses the human level that was realized on this earth once but will never return.’ Such are the pyramids!”

  The Englishman looked at him with a smile and asked, “All this emerged from a well. . . . Which well?”

  Monsieur Fouquet answered calmly, “This one!” He pointed to the left side of his chest.

  “The heart?”

  The Frenchman did not respond, nor did the Englishman say anything after that. Both men were silent for a time, and the room was quite still.

  That was when the bey appeared at the door with Muhsin in hand. During all that time he had been putting on his suit and combing his hair. As soon as the bey cast a glance at that still room he disappeared at once with Muhsin. They retreated, treading softly, and neither of the guests noticed them.

  The French scholar eventually sat up in his chair and lit another cigarette. He puffed smoke into the air and then said, “I see my words have left you with little to say, Mr. Black?”

  The English inspector turned toward him and said politely, “I acknowledge that.”

  The Frenchman was silent for a while. Then he said, “Yes! We may be excused if we don’t understand this, because language for us Europeans is a language of sensibilia. We cannot conceptualize the emotions that transform this people into a single individual able to bear on his shoulders tremendous stone slabs for twenty years with a smiling face and a happy heart. He accepted the pain for the sake of his Beloved. I am convinced that those creative thousands who built the pyramids were not herded in against their will the way the Greek Herodotus stupidly and ignorantly asserted. They rather came to work in droves, singing a hymn to the Beloved—in the same way their descendants go to gather in the harvest. Yes, their bodies suffered, but even that gave them a secret pleasure, the pleasure in sharing pain for a common cause.

  “They contemplated the blood their bodies shed with a pleasure comparable to their pleasure in seeing the blood-red wine presented in vessels to the Beloved. This pleasurable sense of communal pain, the emotion of gentle patience, and the smiling endurance of torments had a single reason that all shared: The emotion of belief in the Beloved and of sacrifice, sharing pain without complaint or a groan—this was their power.”

  The English inspector straightened up in his chair at that. His features had assumed a look of serious interest, as though he had been brought up short by some of what he heard. At that moment a breeze blew in, carrying into that total stillness the sound of the farm laborers singing beautifully in the distance. The Frenchman craned his head. Then he pointed to them and said, “Have you seen people more wretched than these poor fellows in any other country? You’re an irrigation inspector and know full well, Mr. Black, whether you can find anyone poorer than this Egyptian peasant or with a more dreadful workload. I know that too. I’ve conducted excavations in the villages of Upper Egypt and have gotten to know some of the peasants. I’ve learned a great deal. They work day and night in burning heat or stinging cold. A chunk of corn bread and a piece of cheese with a few chicory leaves and whatever else is sprouting—that’s all. It is constant sacrifice and endless forbearance. In spite of that, they are singing. Listen, for a moment, Mr. Black.”

  The French archaeologist was silent for a bit as though trying to deduce the spirit of this song, which was carried by the breeze. Then he spoke up again. “Do you hear these voices issuing in unison from numerous hearts? Wouldn’t you think they all flow from a single heart? I’m certain that these people take pleasure in this communal toil. This again is a difference between us and them. If our workers suffer pain together, they catch the germs for revolution and rebellion and are malcontents. When Egyptian fellahin suffer pain together they feel a secret pleasure and happiness about being united in pain. What an amazing industrial people they will be tomorrow.”

  The English inspector put his hand to his forehead for a moment as though reflecting. Then he said, “I didn’t think you were serious when you claimed there’s a link between Egypt today and Egypt yesterday.”

  The French scholar answered, “And what a link! I said and say again that the essence is eternal. These fellahin who are singing from a single heart are many different individuals joined into a single person by emotion and belief. They still retain in their hearts, even though they do not know it, that phrase with which their ancestors mourned their dead at funerals: ‘When time passes over into eternity, we shall see you again; because you are going there, where all will be one.’

  “Here today these grandchildren, the fellahin, once again, sense in the depths of their hearts the all that is one.”

  The French scholar lapsed briefly into silence, which the English inspector broke, saying, as though still under the influence of what he had heard, “How amazing!”

  The French archaeologist replied, “Yes, but even so, if you remember that it was these emotions that built the pyramids, it won’t seem so strange. Otherwise, how do you suppose this people built an edifice like this if all the people did not at a certain time turn into a single human mass relishing pain for a single goal: Khufu, the representative of the Beloved and a symbol of the ultimate.”

  The Englishman’s eyes gleamed with admiration or perhaps anxiety. Lost in thought, he whispered, “You’re right.”

  The French archaeologist added, as if to conclude his previous reasoning, “This present-day Egyptian people still preserves that spirit.”

  The Englishman asked h
im immediately, “What spirit?”

  He answered, confidently and deliberately, “The spirit of the temple.”

  The Englishman took the pipe from his mouth and fixed his eyes gravely on the window. The Frenchman looked at him as though perceiving the anxiety in the Englishman’s soul. He smiled imperceptibly. Then he placed his hand on his companion’s shoulder and said suddenly, “Yes, Mr. Black, don’t disdain those people, who are poor today. The force lies buried within them. They lack only one thing.”

  “What?”

  “The Beloved.”

  The Englishman gave him a look, but he could not tell whether it was skeptical or approving.

  The Frenchman answered him after a bit. “Yes, what they lack is a man from among them who will manifest all their emotions and beliefs and be for them a symbol of the ultimate. When that occurs, don’t be surprised if these people, who stand together as one and who relish sacrifice, bring forth another miracle besides the pyramids.”

  At that moment the voice of the bey was heard at the door, greeting them. He said he had thought they were having a nap and hadn’t wanted to disturb them.

  Then he called Muhsin and presented him to them. They rose to greet him graciously, affectionately, and cheerfully. Muhsin blushed with embarrassment and modesty. His father invited him to speak, saying proudly, “Say something to His Honor the Inspector in English, Muhsin.”

  CHAPTER 7

  Only two days were left of the week, but Saniya’s letter hadn’t arrived yet. Muhsin was almost insane with despair. The only reason he had been willing to be separated from her for this period had been a desire for a letter written by her. Doubt pervaded him again. He fell prey to the most distressing images and phantoms. But hope came to his rescue in time. He began finding excuses for her. He put all the blame on his aunt Zanuba, who might have forgotten. She might have neglected to carry out her promise to ask Saniya to draft the expected letter. This explanation satisfied him, and his anxiety was somewhat allayed. This did not prevent him, however, from losing hope of receiving the letter. He was forced to stop thinking about it and went dejectedly to the field to divert himself with the sights. When the time for the mail delivery came he did not pay attention to it the way he had.

  Then he heard a voice calling him. He turned that way and saw Abd al-Maqsud summoning him to the house at once because the lady wanted him. Muhsin hurried back to the house, his heart pounding. He went inside, and his mother met him with a letter in her hand. She told him it had his name on it. She did not finish her words, for Muhsin’s hand stretched out and snatched the letter with a mechanical, nervous motion. As soon as he got his hands on it, he stammered while looking at the envelope, “Oh! . . . Right! . . . For me . . . for me!”

  Then, carrying it off without opening it, he headed for the door and disappeared faster than lightning, leaving his mother behind him, staring in astonishment.

  As soon as Muhsin was out of the house, he put the letter in his pocket and ran here and there as though crazed. The world seemed to be too small to hold his happiness. Then he started searching around for an isolated place, far away, where he could read the letter. It occurred to him to go to the end of the field by the watercourse: verdure, water, and Saniya’s letter. At once he started to run. He pressed his hand to his pocket as though he was carrying a treasure he was afraid would fall. When he got to the place he had selected, he sat for a time on the bank of the stream. Then he rose, for the spot didn’t satisfy him. He sat down in another location. Then he gazed at the sights surrounding him. He was deliberately taking his time, seeking calm, and proceeding slowly, but his heart was pounding. He felt something compelling him to put his hand in his pocket and withdraw the letter.

  Finally he did, but he didn’t open it. Instead he kept turning it over in his hand, looking for a time at the postmark and then at the address. He scrutinized the handwriting. All the time his hand was trembling from joy while he was torn between two impulses: the desire to open the envelope at once and the desire to delay and proceed slowly, as though wishing to prolong his delight at receiving it or as though he feared if he read it now his pleasure would dissipate as soon as he finished reading it. Thus he lingered while the two desires struggled within him for a time. In the end curiosity triumphed. He started to open the envelope slowly and cautiously for fear of tearing it any more than necessary. He seemed to begrudge even a scrap of this precious letter that might be carried off by the wind. At last he got the letter out, spread it open, and read:

  The Very Respected Mr. Muhsin Bey,

  To begin:

  Many greetings and inquiries about you and your health and your well-being, which is the very thing we request from the Lord of creation. We received the precious gift of your letter and learned that in it you had asked after us and about our health and well-being. May God multiply your blessings and never deprive us of you. We, by God, are very eager to see you. If you love your aunt, Muhsin, do not delay your return to Cairo any longer. Make it soon, God willing, because Cairo without you is depressing. In conclusion, your uncles and everyone on our end convey to you, the senior bey, and the lady, your mother, the best greetings. May you all be well.

  —Your Aunt Zanuba

  Muhsin was stunned and felt glum. He felt a little disappointed. What most astonished and perplexed him was the absence of any mention of Saniya in the letter. But he reconsidered and found an apology for her. He told himself: She’s the one who wrote the letter. She knew Muhsin knew that, so it wasn’t necessary to mention her name. Or perhaps shyness prevented her. Or perhaps she wished to remain behind the cover provided by his aunt Zanuba.

  Muhsin reread the letter, assuming now that Saniya had written it and that she was really the one addressing him from behind a veil. But what a veil! And why this trite language that followed the pattern used by scribes in the market and that would only come from the pen of a public secretary or a petition drafter?

  Did she mean it as a joke? Saniya indeed liked a joke and was playful but was also cultured and educated. She read stories and books. He could not imagine that this would be her style. . . . She must be teasing him. Yes, it was a charming jest from her! Right away Muhsin smiled. He read the letter again from the beginning. He paused over each word to laugh in happy admiration at the wit of his beloved. An idea that flashed into his head doubled his admiration. His eyes had fallen on the signature. He told himself: Yes, out of good taste, since the letter was from Zanuba, she had chosen a style that matched the signature of an uneducated person like Zanuba. No doubt Saniya was both jesting to amuse him and make him laugh and being sarcastic in a sub-rosa parody of Zanuba. What a brilliant mind she had! Without doubt he had never encountered such stunning brilliance as Saniya’s.

  Notwithstanding everything Muhsin had inferred from the letter, his heart continued to be anxious. He wished she had revealed some of her feelings toward him. She forgot he was living here solely on her memory and the remembrance of that kiss planted on his cheek. She forgot that no matter what she did for his sake, she couldn’t dispel his anxiety. She could never grant him total rest and reassurance. He needed an expression that would convince him a little, bring him some comfort, and grant him peace of mind.

  He started rereading it to try to discern something more than this jest, which he did not particularly require. When he got to the expression: “If you love your aunt, Muhsin . . .” and so on and so forth, his eye stopped and his face blushed. For it seemed to him that this expressed Saniya’s feeling for him from behind the veil of Zanuba. Yes, that was it. Were it not for her bashfulness, she would have said: “If you love Saniya, Muhsin . . .” and so forth and so on.

  Muhsin’s heart pounded rapidly at this thought. He paused for a little while and sent dreamy looks at the canal water flowing beneath his feet. He felt pleased and happy. Then he went back to the letter after a moment. He started to scrutinize that enchanting sentence to d
raw new meanings from it, to get to the very bottom of it, to squeeze from it the veiled emotions. “If you . . . love . . . Muhsin, don’t delay your return any longer, because Cairo without you is depressing!”

  True? . . . Is Cairo without me depressing in Saniya’s opinion? This was what Muhsin started whispering to himself. He was almost out of his mind with happiness and excitement.

  He folded the letter with great care after bringing it to his lips to kiss it fervently. He put it into his pocket avidly, rose, and returned to the house. He felt he wasn’t walking on the ground but in the air.

  * * *

  • • •

  When Muhsin entered the house his mother met him. She asked about the letter he had just received and gone off with. He told her it was from his aunt. He put his hand hesitantly into his pocket. His mother noticed that and put her hand out for the letter. The way Muhsin was acting may have appeared a little suspicious to her. The youth did not hesitate long. He was obliged to bring out the letter for his mother. He smiled, blushed, and said with a bit of a stammer, “My aunt asks after your health and Papa’s. That’s all!”

  Then he carefully opened the letter and handed it to his mother. She was watching his mercurial expression. When she took the letter and read it, she was surprised to find nothing in it. As she returned it to Muhsin, she smiled. She understood Muhsin’s behavior to be the result of nothing more than childish interest in a letter addressed to him . . . no matter how empty and silly it was.

  She also observed Muhsin’s care in putting the letter back into the envelope and his concern, deliberation, and avidity as he put it back in his pocket, as though he was holding something of great value. She smiled again.