Return of the Spirit

by Tawfiq al-Hakim

  There was a breath of air, and a delicate breeze playfully stirred Saniya’s magnificent hair. A strand was blown over her temple, partially blocking an eye. Mustafa looked at her and was torn apart by desire. He wanted to kiss that curl over that eye.

  Saniya surprised him while he was giving her that long look and trembled, lowering her eyes with secret delight. Then, with some confusion, she raised her head and rearranged her hair, which the breeze had disordered. She looked at the sky and said with a laugh, both coquettish and delicate, “In spring, according to novels, the sky rains not water or snow but roses and daisies.”

  Saniya had scarcely completed her sentence when cabbage leaves and cucumber peelings fell on Mustafa’s head. He looked up and shouted, “Is it raining? And not roses and daisies but cabbage leaves and cucumber peels?”

  Saniya was forced to turn her face away and burst out laughing. Mustafa wanted to have a word with the window from which the cabbage leaves had fallen but remembered Saniya’s warning and prohibition. He turned to her and gestured with his hand to ask, “Shall I keep quiet this time too?”

  Saniya answered him by putting a finger to her mouth for silence.

  Mustafa muttered, “Whatever you say.” But a sudden idea came to him. He motioned to Saniya to wait a moment where she was. Then he went inside and was gone briefly. He returned carrying an umbrella in his hand. He opened it and held it over his head to protect himself. When Saniya saw that, she burst into laughter, trying not to laugh too loud.

  At this moment too, Zanuba nudged Mabruk, who was tired and yawning from staying awake and on his feet while conducting the surveillance. She directed his attention to Mustafa’s umbrella. She whispered, “Mabruk! See, the wretch we’re bombarding keeps coming up with something new.”

  Mabruk stared at the umbrella and then said, “This, all kidding aside, acts like a parasol.”

  “What is it but an umbrella? You disaster! Otherwise, what?”

  Mabruk looked at the brilliant moon. Then he said, “He must be afraid of getting sunstroke.”

  Zanuba protested in a whisper, “Go to hell! That’s the moon!”

  Mabruk replied, “It’s all the same. If you’ll excuse my saying it, moon-stroke is even worse.”

  Zanuba, who was having heart palpitations, grasped a large colocasia peel to aim at Mustafa’s head. She asked, “A stroke from which moon, Mabruk?”

  She said this in a low, strained voice. Mabruk turned toward her at once and looked at the peel in her hand. Grasping what she meant, he said to himself, “O preserver!”

  Zanuba pressed him, threatening to strike, “A stroke from which moon?”

  Mabruk answered at once, flatteringly, “The colocasia moon.”

  Zanuba laughed, affecting delicacy. She liked what Mabruk had said and agreed with it. She said jestingly and in good humor, “Oh, liar!”

  She tossed the colocasia peel on Mustafa’s umbrella and asked, “Is this young man going to be affected by anyone’s blow?” Then she thrust her hand into the garbage pail beside her. She nudged Mabruk and whispered, “Don’t let up, Mabruk, or else. There’s still plenty in the pail!”

  The servant answered her, “Set your mind at ease, calm your soul, and go to bed. Why don’t you, all kidding aside, go to bed?”

  Zanuba looked at him skeptically and anxiously and asked, “I should put my faith in God and in you and go to sleep?”

  Mabruk replied immediately, “Absolutely! Totally! A piece of cake! Lady, I won’t move from here until I finish emptying the whole garbage pail on their heads.”

  Zanuba walked away; fatigue and prolonged standing had exhausted her too. Before she left the room, however, she turned back toward him and cautioned, “I’m afraid you’ll dump it out all at once and depart. One peel at a time the way I taught you. Understand?”

  “Certainly! Most willingly. One peel at a time. You go then, before you’re shoved out.”

  Zanuba hesitated, pausing distrustfully. She asked herself who was to guarantee that the mission would be carried out as she desired. She wanted to curtail Mustafa and Saniya’s conversation with this drizzle of cabbage leaves so their chat would never get anywhere and no word or agreement would be concluded between them.

  She went back to Mabruk to tell him that. The servant couldn’t take any more from her and shouted, “What’s this all about? Isn’t the point, no offense intended, to mess up their reunion tonight? By your life, I’ll make it their last night on this balcony. You just go to sleep.”

  Zanuba was somewhat reassured by Mabruk’s forcefulness. She repeated the part she liked best: “‘Their last night.’ . . . Fine, let me see how clever you are! By the Prophet, I’ll make it worth your while.”

  She went slowly to the door, taking her time. Mabruk watched her encouragingly and said, “That’s the way. Shake a leg.”

  Zanuba finally made it out of the room, leaving Mabruk breathing heavily. Looking in the direction she had gone he said, “God willing, you’ll be stung. My Lord, isn’t all this forbidden?” He looked down cautiously from the window to admire this handsome pair of lovers. He felt the way a man does when he sees two beautiful pigeons or sparrows, male and female, cooing to each other. Perhaps it’s a feeling for the beautiful, a feeling for harmony.

  It was no doubt this feeling that made Mabruk say, while looking at them as the lovely moonlight spread its wings over them, “By the life of the Prophet, they’re good-looking. May God grant them happiness with each other.”

  Then he left the room carrying the garbage pail. He walked on tiptoe till he reached the window of the lavatory, which overlooked a small alley behind the building. He threw the scraps out there. Then he tranquilly went to bed on his table, saying to himself, “The fellow would have been blinded when he saw, all kidding aside, horse-faced Zanuba, who does not even do much for me. The poor fellow.”

  In this way, the rain on Mustafa ended, although he kept the umbrella spread anxiously over his head. How could he know there was nothing to fear from now on? Saniya observed his anxiety and said to him in a serious tone that disturbed and annoyed him, “The best thing is for you to move out.”

  He confined himself to giving her a look of grief, anger, and rebuke. She pretended not to notice and said mischievously, “Unless your rent is cheap.”

  Mustafa rebelled and retorted, “Rent?”

  Smiling, she said calmly and cunningly, “Fine, don’t get angry. Forget about the rent . . . so long as it’s close to your work.”

  Mustafa did not reply. He bowed his head a little. Then he looked up and said, “To the contrary!”

  Affecting surprise, she asked, “Far from your work?”

  Mustafa replied immediately, “Very, very, very.”

  Saniya inquired at once, “Why do you live far from your work?”

  Mustafa replied without hesitation and in a kind of protest, “Do you want me to live in Al-Mahalla? Impossible!”

  “Al-Mahalla?”

  “Yes, Al-Mahalla! Al-Mahalla al-Kubra!”

  “Your work is in Al-Mahalla al-Kubra, and you live here? What’s your profession?”

  “My profession? . . . My profession?”

  “If you’re ashamed to say, never mind.”

  “My father owned the Raji Textiles firm in Al-Mahalla al-Kubra.”

  “And you?”

  “I?”

  “You’re a bon vivant who sits at Shahhata’s coffeehouse?”

  She said this mischievously and with a pretense of harshness. She was hiding her mouth with her wide silk sleeve to conceal her smile. Surprised, Mustafa was silent for a time. He looked at her, at the black eyes visible above her sleeve, and thought at first she was making fun of him.

  His blood boiled. He burst out telling her his whole life story, truthfully and sincerely. He informed her of his desire to liquidate the business or sell
it to the foreigner Cassoli and his plan to obtain employment in a government agency so he could remain in Cairo. He had not stepped forward to ask for her hand from her family until now because he had not yet carried out his idea. When he got the job and settled in Cairo, the first thing he would do would be to search for another dwelling that would be appropriate, in a modern district. Then he would send the wife of his maternal uncle, who was a cotton merchant, to ask for Saniya’s hand from her mother.

  Saniya listened to his long speech. Most of it she already knew. She had previously deduced it but wanted to hear from his own mouth the facts of his case. She had plotted to draw him out this way.

  When he finished speaking and fell into downcast silence, Saniya hid her head in her arms. She emptied herself of everything including her laughter and delight before she raised her head. Pretending to frown angrily, she said, “From what I’ve understood now, you’re an idle heir like the ones we read about in books.”

  He turned toward her, offended. Saniya drew back a little from her window and said in a tone of anger and scorn, “You, sir, are seeking a career as a bureaucrat. On top of that you were wanting to ask for my hand?”

  Mustafa trembled. He looked at her sullen face and her lips, on which derision was sketched. He felt he understood nothing and that Saniya had changed in a frightening way in a moment. He wanted to speak, to clarify, or to plead and beseech. But she didn’t give him time. She grasped the two shutters of her window and declared, “I thought you were better than that!” She said no more and closed the window in his face.

  Everything went black before Mustafa’s eyes.

  CHAPTER 23

  The following night when Mustafa went out on his balcony to wait for Saniya, he was in the most intense state of anxiety. He was afraid she was serious about what she had done the evening before and that he would never see her again. Hours passed as he trained his eyes on her closed window with something like supplication. Whenever another portion of the night passed, he shook with despair and fervently beseeched God to grant him a glimpse of her tonight if only for a single minute, because he couldn’t bear to be parted from her and because for her to be absent tonight after what happened the night before would have frightening implications.

  So let her come out tonight to reassure him. Then she could disappear again if she wished. He was determined to purchase from her a moment of this evening at any price.

  None of these pleadings, which did not escape the confines of his troubled breast, were to any avail. No one paid them any attention, not even the still night, which enveloped him and heard them, and most of it passed while he waited hopefully.

  * * *

  • • •

  Three nights, which Mustafa considered three years, elapsed in this manner. What inferno was he in now? He had been in paradise without knowing it and had quit it, plummeting not just to earth but straight to hell.

  How had he sinned? What forbidden tree was it? How had he rebelled against her so she should drive him out and expel him from the bliss he enjoyed? She had deprived him of her light, which had shone from the window.

  Mustafa began to review all her last words. Perhaps he could figure out why she was angry. From the hour of her disappearance he had thought of nothing but his devastating desolation without her.

  Did she scorn him because he was an idle heir? But he had told her he was looking for a career as a bureaucrat. Did she disdain him because he had left his place of business and work to come live in Cairo? He remembered she had said to him, “You’re a bon vivant who sits at Shahhata’s coffeehouse.” He did not know exactly what she meant, but a hidden feeling called out in him that he truly was an idle heir and actually deserved her scorn. A person like him had a frightening job before him. His father had begun it and he ought to continue it, if he was to be anything other than a lazy, idle, ambitionless heir. For the first time he felt contempt for himself. Suddenly force and determination flowed through him. His eyes lit up, and a curtain of clouds seemed to have drifted away from his vision. He saw the facts clearly. He told himself, I’m a fool. It’s true! A job as a bureaucrat brings in ten pounds . . . whereas from the firm, if I look after it, I’ll earn a monthly income of at least one hundred pounds.

  Then he remembered her saying, “You, sir, are seeking a career as a bureaucrat? On top of that you wanted to ask for my hand?”

  Did she disdain him because he was looking for a demeaning career when he had work that was more important and useful? Yes, he understood now. Didn’t she have every right to disdain him and accuse him of being a fool or at least of lacking in manliness and vigor? “I thought you were better than that” was the last thing she had told him.

  At this Mustafa rose. Some force seemed to propel him. He shouted to his servant to pack his suitcase. Thoughts, plans, and projects crowded together in his head. He felt that forces within him had been revealed to him.

  An idea flashed through his mind: Was her anger at him a deliberate ploy to stir him up and goad his dying energy? Who could say? She was extremely bright. He felt a terrific desire to see her. In any case he would not be able to quit that place without telling her what he had decided. He was ready to do amazing and impossible feats for her sake. He also had to learn something about their future from her, just as she had learned about his past and present. He would not shrink from living in Al-Mahalla al-Kubra, even in remotest Upper Egypt, if she was with him.

  But how was he to see her?

  All of a sudden it came to Mustafa that her closed window could not remain closed all night and all day. She would no doubt open it early in the morning when she got out of bed in order to let air and light into her room. Why not watch for her early in the morning?

  Then he reflected further, and another idea came to him. It was a hot night. She could not spend the whole night in her room without fresh air. She would no doubt make a special point to close her window only during the hours they used to meet. Then after the first part of the night she would get up and open it. From all these deliberations Mustafa reached a conclusion. He would stay up the whole night to watch her window from the balcony. He now had enough willpower to do much more than that.

  Night came, and the time for their rendezvous passed. Mustafa got out a thick coat to wrap himself in and a scarf to put around his neck. The night was still warm but would turn chilly by dawn. As an extra precaution, he brought his umbrella, which he had never abandoned since the day of the cabbage leaves and colocasia peels. He moved a large chair to the balcony and sat with his legs tucked up and the umbrella spread over his head to begin his watch.

  If Mustafa had only known, he had nothing to fear from Zanuba’s side. It had not taken her long to notice Saniya’s absence. She was the first person to enjoy Mustafa’s distress at this absence. Zanuba, however, attributed the secret of this split between the lovers to Mabruk and his personal cleverness. From that day on she had a heightened appreciation of his abilities. Wasn’t he the one who told her, “Go sleep. By your life, this will be their last night together”?

  He had promised her and fulfilled this promise. That actually had been their last night together. Zanuba questioned Mabruk in amazement about what he had done to achieve this dazzling result. “By the life of your father, Mabruk, just tell me what you did.”

  But Mabruk was even more greatly and intensely astonished than she was. “What did I do? Who, me?” He was forced to conceal his own astonishment, though, asking himself in anxiety and confusion, What should I tell her? That, all kidding aside, I threw the pail out the window of the john?

  He remembered his feeling for these two lovers. He was surprised at what had happened to them and began to ask himself morosely what could have caused the rift between them, as though the matter concerned him.

  Finally he looked at Zanuba out of the corner of his eye and said to himself, It’s all because of the evil eye. She envied them.

&nb
sp; Zanuba did not let up on him, attacking again. “But what did you do, Mabruk, after I left you? Won’t you tell me and relieve my heart?”

  Mabruk turned toward her. He thought for a moment to invent something. In the end he asked, “Shall I tell you the truth or its cousin?”

  “No, the truth!”

  “The truth: I kept taking either a colocasia peel or a cabbage leaf, and after reciting, all kidding aside, a number of ya-sin over it, I threw that between them.”

  She smiled and told him with admiration and enthusiasm, “My God, sight and strength to you always, Mabruk. You’re a regular elder statesman, sharp and in the know. You’re a comfort to me.”

  * * *

  • • •

  At that moment Saniya was at her mother’s side, speaking to her and joking with her. She was pretending not to be concerned about anything, but in fact she wanted to set her mother talking on a topic that interested her.

  Saniya took her mother’s hand and asked her, “Do you love me, nina?” The mother raised her head to look at her daughter and said, “Does anyone hate her children?”

  Saniya said mischievously, “That’s why, Mother, when someone wanted to marry me last year you told his family: ‘We don’t have any girls who will travel and live far away.’”

  The mother said, “That’s well known, daughter. Do I have anyone to rely on other than you? I want the happiness of having you near me.”

  Saniya said with a meaningful tone, “Is that true, Mother? You’re still traditional!” She was silent for a moment. Then suddenly she asked gently, “Did you go with Papa to the Sudan?”

  The mother answered, “Daughter, your father went there before he married me.”