Return of the Spirit

by Tawfiq al-Hakim

  But was this moribund heart in any condition to be moved by these words?

  CHAPTER 15

  Had it not been for Zanuba, Saniya’s attention would not have been directed to al-Hajj Shahhata’s small coffeehouse, nor would her eyes have fallen on this charming young man with the small blond mustache as he sat quietly in his solitary corner, oblivious to everything except the ridiculous antics of Captain Salim in front of him.

  The same day she observed him, Muhsin came to her and revealed the story of the silk handkerchief. He was overly cautious, suggesting to her at first that the wind might have carried the handkerchief to one of the neighbors. She went immediately to the window and observed that the downstairs apartment, where Mustafa lived, had a small, open balcony that was almost next to the window of her room. She suspected the handkerchief might be with Mustafa and that he had kept the matter to himself.

  This notion was quickly dispelled when Muhsin later confessed the truth to her. Even so, she watched Mustafa whenever he sat at the coffeehouse, just because she felt an urge to watch him—she didn’t know why.

  The day Muhsin said good-bye, she was sincere and truthful in all her indications of affection and emotion. Muhsin went off to the country. What happened? Nothing, except that she continued to amuse herself by looking at the coffeehouse through the window of the wooden balcony. She saw Mustafa in his customary place. He was even more withdrawn and solitary now that Salim had stopped coming to the coffeehouse. His face looked dejected and thoughtful. His gloomy look was no longer lightened by those suppressed laughs and smiles provoked by Salim, his twisted mustache, wide shoulders, commanding and forbidding, false pompous commotion, and looks directed toward the wooden balcony.

  Saniya was uneasy though, because Mustafa never looked at the wooden balcony, not even in the days of Salim. Although he had grasped the reason for the gestures and glances, he had never looked up at the balcony, or only infrequently and then politely and modestly, like someone whose only goal was to keep up with Salim’s news.

  Salim deserted the coffeehouse, while Mustafa remained. He kept coming, driven by habit and because it was better than his empty house. He could at least drink a cup of tea there with a minimum of effort. Moreover, it was a good place for him to think over his worries about his future. Yet he had not looked at the wooden balcony, nor was he looking, for who would remind him of it now that Salim had vanished? For this reason, Saniya, after Muhsin left, began to spend most of her time watching Mustafa but didn’t win a single look at her balcony from him. She asked herself in amazement what a person like him was doing in a coffeehouse like that. What was he thinking about? Why wasn’t he looking at the balcony? This questioning and wonder reached the point of concern. She began to wear dresses of the most dazzling colors. She would play a well-known piece on the piano, one with a popular tune, after she had opened all the windows on the balcony, so the sound might reach the street. When she finished, she stood by the window. She made a show of busily opening or closing it, forcefully and noisily. Indeed it got so the only place she found suitable for calling her maid in a loud voice or for speaking and laughing vociferously was beside the window. It was because of all this that the battle erupted between her and Zanuba, who would visit her and see her do these things. When it became clear to Zanuba that Saniya was attempting to attract Mustafa’s attention, she was unable to remain quiet. She scolded her and forbade her, but in a concerned tone that immediately aroused Saniya’s suspicions. When she grasped what Zanuba felt, she burst into sarcastic laughter and asked, “Even you who are old enough to be my mother?”

  This was a terrible thing to say. The moment she uttered it, Zanuba screamed and brayed like a camel in heat. She cursed and swore, using the vilest and most obscene words. Then she put on her black wrap, which she had been wearing, and departed in a way that ruled out a return. Saniya watched quietly and grimly, unable to respond or move. The maid came when she heard the shouting and caught some of Zanuba’s words. Saniya turned to her and asked calmly, “Did you see, Nurse Bakhita?”

  The maid answered her in disbelief, “Shame! What an absolutely dreadful woman!”

  Saniya’s mother, who was in her room performing the afternoon prayer, brought her devotions to a swift conclusion when she heard the row. She hastened to see what it was about and caught up with Zanuba as she descended the stairs. She worriedly sought to detain her, but Zanuba wouldn’t stop, continuing down the steps. She shouted up in a piercing voice from the bottom step, “Go mind your daughter, the whore.”

  Saniya’s mother was dumbfounded and somewhat alarmed but quickly roused herself. Her blood boiled, and she answered, peering down from the top of the stairs, “Anyone who says that about Saniya should have her tongue chopped off!”

  Zanuba, however, departed. She vanished, muttering over and over, “Disgrace on your house! Disgrace on your house forever!”

  The mother remained frozen there for a moment. Then she remembered her daughter and ran to her. She found her pale and with cold hands. When she calmed down and collected herself, she asked what had happened. Saniya told her everything: how Zanuba had come and looked at the coffeehouse as usual when she came, because she had a crush on a neighbor named Mustafa, who always sat in the coffeehouse. Zanuba had seen him alone there earlier that month, taken her wrap, and hastened down, without Saniya being at all suspicious of her then. But today, and even before today, Zanuba had remarked that she couldn’t bear to see Saniya near the window. And today, all that had happened was that she had wanted to look out from the balcony. That had not pleased Zanuba, who had gotten angry. She had ended up cursing and swearing and had departed in this manner.

  The mother bowed her head for a little. Then she said as though to herself, “How sad . . . that she should be so petty over a matter like this!”

  Saniya raised her head and added immediately, “I told her that, Mother, but she just flared up with anger and rage.”

  The maid, Bakhita, appeared. Saniya rushed to her mother and said, pointing to Bakhita, “Nurse Bakhita witnessed it. Ask her too, Mother.”

  The maid said at once, “For shame! She’s a woman with no manners at all. An absolutely dreadful person!”

  Thus the matter of the quarrel was ended. The mother took her daughter’s head in her arms and cradled it against her breast. She tried to put her mind at ease and implored her not to upset herself on account of a woman like Zanuba, nor for anything in the world. Saniya put her handkerchief to her eyes as though holding back her tears in response to her mother’s pleas. Then she gently escaped from her arms and headed for the balcony, holding her handkerchief like a fan to cool her flushed face. She emitted a little moan. She made it seem she was going to the window for no reason other than to get some invigorating fresh air. But the moment Saniya’s eye fell on the coffeehouse, she saw Mustafa looking at the balcony as though waiting for someone to appear there. She withdrew at once and vanished from his sight. She was filled with amazement and throbbed with a kind of secret pleasure. In reality there was no reason for her to be astonished. She must have known that the sound of the quarrel between her and Zanuba had reached the coffeehouse, followed shortly thereafter by the exit of Zanuba, who was frothing, foaming, and gesticulating wildly all the way to her residence, which was number 35, the building in which Mustafa occupied the second floor. Mustafa, who was seated in his place at the coffeehouse, had seen all of that and wondered about this noise coming from the balcony and about this emotional woman exiting from the house to enter the building where he lived. Curiosity drove him to listen carefully and to try to observe what was happening beyond the balcony. Suddenly his inquiring eyes met, with no premeditation, two beautiful black ones. He immediately began to tremble. He saw a dazzlingly beautiful maiden, who no sooner revealed herself than she recoiled and vanished.

  That was a simple vision that did not last more than five seconds, but all the same, Mustafa felt afterward
as though a complete new world had suddenly been revealed to him. An unconscious feeling was born in him that the world now had a different flavor and that his life had taken a new direction in the twinkling of an eye. Yes, five seconds in the life of an individual is nothing. All the same, it can at times be everything. A person’s whole life may pass without it budging an inch from its foundation until a mere five seconds arrives that may totally alter that foundation, turning it head over heels.

  What had Mustafa seen? A girl who appeared and then vanished like a flash of lightning, like a flash of lightning that illuminated all the corners of his gloomy heart. . . . In five seconds Mustafa had glimpsed for the first time beauty that shook his heart. He had not known that this house contained all that. When he finally recovered from the intoxication of the surprise, he began to say to himself, “The tragedy is that I’ve been here since the beginning of the year without having any idea!”

  He was overcome by a delirious happiness at his discovery. He attacked and scolded himself: I’m a fool! An ass! Blind!

  His heart was pounding. He looked politely and contentedly at the balcony. He did not see anyone. He rose without regret and wandered happily through the streets, wishing he could traverse all of Cairo, up and down, with his long, happy strides. He remembered suddenly the hour he had arrived at the coffeehouse. He compared his state then to that on leaving it now. Not many minutes had passed between the two times. Yet he disavowed his old personality. He seemed to have become a new man.

  * * *

  • • •

  At that moment Saniya was at the center of the room using her imagination to recall the same event. She too had trembled—and not just from surprise—when their eyes met. She had withdrawn immediately. She had not anticipated that their eyes would meet suddenly, nor that she would see that solitary, serious young man looking at the balcony.

  At first she was happily going over it with herself. But all at once it seemed she was gripped by embarrassment. Affecting a frown and pretending to be cross and angry, she started asking: Why should this man look at the balcony? By what right? The daring and nerve of this young fellow to permit himself to look at it!

  She imagined that if only she could, she would scold and chide him for that. She would speak roughly to him. All the same, only a moment after her peevish rage, she headed to the balcony, for no other reason than to know if this daring young man was still looking at her or the balcony. Saniya neared the window, after she had quickly and carefully arranged her magnificent hair in front of the mirror. How astonished she was when she saw that the person she accused of daring and insolence, who, she supposed, would be sitting staring at her balcony, hadn’t left a trace at the coffeehouse. His place was empty. He had not only forsworn looking back at her, he had indeed left the coffeehouse with everyone and everything in it. This was how it seemed to her. What a disappointment!

  The girl felt pain and then anger. She shut the window with a nervous, powerful motion, as though vowing never to look out it again. Her feminine pride had taken a beating. She felt as though tears would steal from the corners of her eyes. But she pulled herself together, remembering that there was nothing between her and this person to give her anything to be hopeful or despondent about. Who was he? What was he worth? What was he to her that she should accuse him this way? She went to the piano and began to play, attempting to forget everything.

  At that moment the pale ghost of Muhsin passed through her consciousness. What a fine opportunity Muhsin would have had if he had returned to her at that moment. That would have been the ideal hour to win her favor. But, unfortunately, Muhsin was at the farm, out in the fields of green clover, waiting for a letter from her that she would never write.

  CHAPTER 16

  The following day Mustafa came to the coffeehouse as usual, but if the owner or one of those accustomed to seeing him every day had looked at him he would have been certain that Mustafa had paid special attention to what he wore. He had doubtless stood before the mirror for a long time prior to coming.

  Mustafa took his place but felt he was coming to the coffeehouse for the first time. He cast his eyes about somewhat shyly. He felt that the men there, even al-Hajj Shahhata and the waiters, were looking at him and knew why he had come today. Or they realized at least why he was concerned about his appearance. But he found himself alone as usual, on the pavement in front of the coffeehouse. No one was looking at him. He regained his composure and waited for a moment as though struggling with himself. Finally he raised his eyes to Dr. Hilmi’s balcony, cautiously and politely. He trembled. He lowered his eyes immediately on hearing one of the waiters ask for his order. He requested a glass of tea in a quick, mechanical way. Then he changed his mind and called the waiter to cancel what he had said. Instead he ordered a glass of the carbonated drink Spathis. He did not know why he was changing from tea today. Why did he change to a carbonated drink . . . unless the idea of change, which was floating in his unconscious reaches, inspired him.

  The waiter was just as surprised as he was. Not merely because a regular customer suddenly changed his order but also because the name Spathis at this rather traditional coffee shop was not much in use by the establishment’s patrons. This waiter wasn’t accustomed to it the way he was to “a pipe” or “one coffee straight” or “one tea,” or even “one Turkish delight” or “one pastry.” For that reason he turned away and just called out, “One carbonated.”

  Mustafa returned to his internal debate. His glance at the balcony had informed him that there was no one there and that the windows were closed.

  Could he hope to see her again or was yesterday a chance occurrence that would not be repeated? What guarantee did he have that she would show herself again? How was he to know? He could wait for months without seeing her on the balcony. Hadn’t he already sat in this coffeehouse for months and yesterday was the first time he caught sight of her? Where had she been all that time? Where had he been? The past was over. There was no need to stir up regret for it, but could he hope for the future?

  He was disturbed by use of the word future, since he suddenly perceived a tangible reality for this word. But doubt and anxiety plagued him. It occurred to him that she might be a visitor who had come to this house yesterday and left never to return. If she did return, who would tip him off? He didn’t know yet who she was. This reflection brought a gloomy look to his face. Sitting in the coffeehouse now was pointless. He was waiting in vain.

  He fidgeted in his seat. He took out his breast-pocket handkerchief, which was the same color as his suit, and wiped his forehead with it. Then he bared his left wrist to look at his gold watch. It seemed to him that he had been sitting there a century. The idea became firmly established in his head that he would not see her today. He moved in his chair, saying to himself that so long as he knew that, why should he sit in the coffeehouse now?

  Mustafa forgot that he had always sat in the coffeehouse for no reason at all, that he had spent long hours there. He had never grown restless the way he had today, even though he had been sitting there less than an hour.

  He felt increasingly uneasy and desperate as time passed. The waiting got on his nerves. He swore he would leave in five minutes if she did not appear. The five minutes elapsed but hope tempted him to renew the period and extend the deadline. She did not appear. Desperate, he started to rise. Then he relented and renewed the period, extending the deadline a third, fourth, and fifth time.

  He distracted himself for a while with the carbonated drink, which he deliberately drank slowly, and then by reflecting there was ample time. The clock at the coffeehouse had not yet struck the half hour. When it struck half past he would rise to go . . . where? At this hour he was always in the coffeehouse and didn’t go anywhere else. He did not know where to go. The important thing was his need to leave, for he had waited more than long enough. There was a limit to the suffering occasioned by waiting. Never before had he thought about
leaving this soon, for he had never been waiting for anything. A person who isn’t waiting for something can sit for a whole lifetime in one place until he rots and the worms eat him. But desire can cause him to rise. It can make him energetic so that a feeling of time and life pervades him.

  A person who waits for nothing, who desires nothing is dead. Mustafa for that reason did not hesitate. He thrust his hand into his pocket to take out the money for the waiter. He was coming to the rescue of his volition, which had lost patience. At that moment the sound of a window being vigorously opened reached his ears. Mustafa’s ears had become like those of a cat. They were on alert to pounce on every sound, no matter how minute, especially sounds from windows and balconies.

  He raised his eyes to Dr. Hilmi’s balcony in a reflex motion. Then he saw her. It happened suddenly; it came in his hour of despair and anxiety. He could not keep his heart from pounding. He smiled at her without meaning to. Perhaps a surge of happiness caused by the relief of his doubt made him smile. It was in fact a sincere and truthful smile. It spoke of honorable pleasure, not vulgar flirtation. The proof for that was that it occurred spontaneously. It seemed to have burst out to express a powerful inner feeling. He wasn’t aware of it or of himself until the moment he saw the window closed in his face in response to it.

  What bad luck! Was he crazy? By smiling he would lose everything. What a fool he was! But he hadn’t done it on purpose. It wasn’t his fault. It was bad luck, nothing more or less.

  Mustafa was very sorry and chided himself a lot. He was afraid he had alienated her. He wished she had not appeared today. All the same, Mustafa felt relieved in the depths of his heart. A decisive end had been put to his doubt. He was certain she wasn’t a visitor or a stranger. She was a permanent resident of this house, of the house he saw before him, the one next door to his. He had a small, uncovered balcony adjoining one of its windows. This was happiness enough for him today. If he had angered her with the smile, perhaps she would forgive it one day.