Laziness in the Fertile Valley

by Albert Cossery

  “Scoundrel! Why did you come here? I don’t want to see you.”

  “For heaven’s sake, stop shouting,” Rafik said. “I didn’t come here to fight with you. I’ve got to talk to you.”

  “What have you got to say to me?” Imtissal cried. “Get out of here, you devil!”

  Rafik stood in the middle of the room, still out of breath from his haste to escape Mimi. The brutal way he had left Mimi, after having wounded his artist’s vanity, had so pleased him that he had arrived at Imtissal’s room without knowing it. All along the way he had thought only of Mimi’s sorrowful and bewildered face illuminated by the vague glare of a distant street lamp. And now, in Imtissal’s room, he still thought of the scene with satanic joy. For some time he remained indifferent to the hysterical rage of the woman, then he yawned, remembered he had come to explain something, leaned on the back of a chair and said weakly:

  “Listen! I don’t deserve your insults. Why do you treat me like an enemy? I’ve only come to explain to you . . .”

  “And how would you like me to treat you?” Imtissal cried at the height of her fury. “You who’ve done so much harm to me! Do you expect me to be grateful to you? Listen to him. What impudence!”

  “I’ve suffered as much as you have,” Rafik said. “But it had to be. Try to understand that I’ve come to explain all that to you.”

  “Explain what? I know you and your family. All the quarter knows you. You’re snobs and idlers. And you dare come here to insult me!”

  “I haven’t come to insult you. Just listen to me. And above all, stop shouting. You’ll rouse everybody.”

  “You’re afraid of everybody now? Don’t worry. This isn’t a cemetery like your house. People are alive here: shouts don’t disturb them. I’d like them to come and find you here. That would be a pretty sight.”

  “I beg you, Imtissal, don’t cause a scandal.”

  She laughed sarcastically.

  “A scandal! The scandal is you and your family. You can’t get away from it. Everybody knows about you. No one would learn anything new.”

  She had sat down on the edge of her bed, her dressing gown half open over her naked legs, in a pose of abandon that contrasted with the hate reflected in her eyes. She seemed calm now, her rage had yielded to the bitter pleasure of fully tasting her vengeance. She thought she understood why Rafik had come to see her. His unhappiness had brought him. She couldn’t believe anything else. The approaching marriage of his father — this menace had finally roused him from his inertia. He had only come to her in search of a little consolation — to dissipate the torments that were stifling him. She saw him so beaten down that she had one instant of forgetfulness, and all her being was invaded by pity. But this only lasted a moment. She became enraged and vindictive almost at once.

  “I know what brought you here,” she said. “You’ve left home, and so you’ve come to tell me all your troubles. I warn you, don’t count on any sympathy from me. You won’t get it.”

  “I don’t want your pity,” Rafik said.

  “What do you want then, you bastard?”

  “First I’d like to sit down,” he said. “I’m very tired.”

  He sank into a chair and sat immobile, his back stooped, his gaze absent. Imtissal had almost cried out again to stop him from sitting down, but she remained voiceless, held by a kind of contagious torpor which emanated from the young man. It was true that the simple presence of these people induced drowsiness, even sleep; Hoda was right. Before the lax and almost lifeless air of Rafik, she was seized by a frightful weakness; she felt herself the prey of a senseless dizziness. She couldn’t fight against the sensation of torpor which held her. She closed her eyes as if under the shock of a sudden fatigue, reopened them with fear and looked at the young man slumped in the chair. Before him she felt as impotent as if she were faced with a corpse. How could she fight a dead man?

  Rafik had not budged; he felt secure in this room and thought only of going to sleep. The silence which had followed Imtissal’s abuse seemed propitious to sleep. Yet some torment persisted in him. The comfortable warmth of the room concealed a trap more cunning than all the traps of the world: the presence of this woman’s body, half clothed, swollen with anger and stupor. He made a great effort not to look at her. In spite of him, she was crushing him with her massiveness, becoming more vital and obscene. He thought he would never get to sleep and stared at her with terror. What he saw convinced him of the danger he was in. Fallen back on the bed, Imtissal had spread her legs, and her half-opened dressing gown bared, like a defiance, the inexorable nudity of her flesh. There was no doubt, she defied him. But, extraordinary thing, he felt no desire before that offered flesh. All that was part of a world long since abandoned; it was a pale vision from a distant and miserable past. He sighed, yawned, stretched himself full length, then once more fell into immobility and silence.

  “Speak,” she said. “Tell me what you want.”

  He looked at her, a little stupefied. He had completely forgotten why he had come and tried to remember.

  “I’ve simply come to tell you why I left you two years ago. Back then you wouldn’t allow me to explain my decision. You chased me out like a dog, without even wanting to listen to me. And then, the idea that you thought I was only obeying my father tormented me. There is something else. I want to make you understand what forced me to act the way I did . . .”

  “Your father!” Imtissal cried. “I knew you’d end up talking about him. He’s the reason you came here tonight. I know what he’s cooking up for you, and it makes me very happy.”

  She burst out with a strident laugh that made the flame of the candle dance. A feeble cry of fright came from the cradle.

  “He wants to get married?”

  “You know about it, then,” said Rafik, stunned by her question.

  “Yes, I know about it, and I’m delighted by the news. It gives me great pleasure to see you miserable at last.”

  “Don’t rejoice too soon,” Rafik said. “The marriage is not going to take place.”

  “You’re going to stop it, I suppose! Infant!”

  “Perhaps I don’t have to stop it,” he said. “In any case, the marriage will not take place. There’s one thing you don’t know about.”

  “What, you devil?”

  Rafik did not reply. He realized he had ventured too far. Now he had to tell this wretched woman everything because she wished to know everything.

  “What thing? Tell me.”

  He smiled slyly, closed his eyes, and said after a moment of silence:

  “It’s a secret.”

  “The hell with you! What’s the secret?”

  “I can’t tell you that.”

  “By Allah, you’d better tell me! If you don’t I’ll scream so loud all the neighbors will come here and chase you out like a dog. Come, tell me, tell me!”

  In spite of his torpor, Rafik sensed a storm and searched for a refuge against this possible onslaught. But it was too late for him to react. There was no limit to the fury of this woman. He knew that too well; she was capable of rousing the whole quarter for the simple pleasure of creating a scandal.

  “Ah well!” he said. “Since you insist you might as well know that my dear father has a hernia.”

  “A hernia!” she exclaimed.

  “A hideous hernia,” said Rafik. “A real disaster.”

  Imtissal leaned forward and stared at Rafik with a dazed look.

  “I don’t understand. What is this hernia? You’re making a fool of me, scum!”

  “It’s easy enough to understand,” said Rafik. “You undoubtedly know what a hernia is? Very well! My dear father is afflicted with a hernia as big as a watermelon. One doesn’t marry with a thing like that. Now do you understand?”

  Imtissal remained dumfounded for a moment as she began to comprehend. Then she was seized by a sudden fit of hysteria, and began to jerk as she laughed, her bead thrown back, her body shaking with convulsions.

  “
I beg you, he quiet,” Rafik implored.

  She didn’t seem to hear him; she laughed on, carried away by a wild gaiety. Rafik stared at her, his face drained by terror. The spectacle of this degraded frenzy brought him back again to a detested world of perversity and corruption. He would have liked to flee, but his inertia held him in the chair, and he felt that her laughter would follow him forever in his sleep.

  At last she calmed herself.

  “What a family!” she said. “I could wish to kill you all, but instead you’ll make me die laughing at your stories.”

  “This is hardly a story to laugh at,” said Rafik. “If you only knew what I suffered before I found out about this hernia. I couldn’t sleep. It’s saved us all from a catastrophe.”

  “No matter, it’s a charming tale,” said Imtissal. “And trust me, I’ll take it upon myself to spread it around the quarter.”

  But suddenly she appeared to be profoundly disappointed. The thought that the marriage of old Hafez could really be ruined by this hernia moved her so that her eyes filled with tears. Her vengeance might escape her. Then anger seized her again, and glaring at the young man she cried:

  “It isn’t true!”

  “What isn’t true?’

  ‘That your father has a hernia. It’s a lie you’ve invented to get me in trouble. Admit it, you bastard.”

  “It’s all true,” said Rafik. “On my honor, it’s no lie. My father has a hernia. Do you want to see it?”

  “Shut up, dog! Do you want me to kill you?”

  “Forgive me,” said Rafik. “I see you don’t dare accept it. However, it exists. Believe me.”

  He was alarmed to see this stupid grief in her. For the first time he noticed the changes in her features. On her face, already aged, was the brand of long prostitution. Rafik felt again an immense pity for her, and saw that she would soon be nothing more than a worn-out whore with hanging flesh. But what was this woman’s fate to him? There were thousands like her spread across the world. She could do him nothing but harm.

  “Listen to me, Imtissal. I haven’t come to talk about my father’s hernia. Now, I beg you, stop treating me like an enemy. You must know why I abandoned you two years ago, and you must pardon me. You thought it was in obedience to my father, and that isn’t true. The truth is that I was afraid.”

  “Afraid of what?” demanded Imtissal.

  “I was afraid of all that was not our house. Of all that moves and strives uselessly in life. When I’m not in my bed, I feel as though something fatal will happen to me. I’m not really at peace except in bed. That’s easy enough to understand.”

  “I won’t try,” cried Imtissal, “You’ve come to tell me these stupid little stories, you son of a whore.”

  “Yes. I’ve wanted to make you understand the distance that has separated us for a long time. I knew you wanted me to leave you. But now that you know the reason, I hope you’ll forgive me.”

  “Forgive you!” said Imtissal. “Then you think I’ve suffered for two years only for you to come and tell me stories? How am I supposed to believe that you’re sorry?”

  “But I’m not sorry,” said Rafik. “What I thought for two years I’m more convinced of now than ever. All I want is to know that you understand that my father had nothing to do with my decision, and that my sleep is what I wanted to save by abandoning you.”

  “I don’t understand anything,” said Imtissal. “You’re an idler — that I knew. You don’t have to explain that to me. But I hoped that through love for me you’d do anything to shake off your laziness. You could have worked and earned a living without help from your father. We could have been so happy with each other!”

  “Work!” cried Rafik. “Earn a living! That’s all you think of. And you pretend you loved me. What would you have done to me if you hadn’t loved me! You can kill a man with ideas like that. No, Imtissal, I’m not made for work.”

  “What are you made for then?”

  “I’m made to sleep and to live in a corner, away from men. Listen, Imtissal, I’m afraid of men. They’re all criminals — like you — always wanting to make others work.”

  “You’re a fool. Besides, all your family are corrupters. Damn the day I knew you and loved you!”

  She was still sitting on the bed, and stared at him in silence and antagonism. This man she had loved had revealed himself to her like the malingering touch of a contagious disease. Never had she expected this exhibition of indolence which bordered on madness. She remained voiceless, subdued by fear, wondering how she could get rid of him.

  Rafik suddenly felt overwhelmed by a great torpor. He began to be aware of a profound listlessness, and a great need for sleep tortured him. What had he come looking for at this woman’s house? An explanation? He should have guessed she would understand nothing. She was like the others, tainted by her mean existence, indoctrinated with righteousness, and ready to overturn the world for a love story. She couldn’t remain at rest; she must be on the move all the time, and make others move. He looked at her fixedly, astonished that this woman, almost naked and whom he had loved, was so close to him, yet gave him no desire to caress her. Even the simple thought of caressing her terrified him like the threat of some laborious business. He glanced away, opened his mouth to yawn, but stopped, disturbed by the sight of the cradle.

  A strange emotion mastered him. He paused for a long moment, then rose, approached the cradle unsteadily, and stared at the sleeping infant: Imtissal watched him, her face hard and anguished.

  “He’s sleeping,” he said.

  “Yes,” said Imtissal. “He’s as lazy as you are. But he isn’t your son.”

  “I know. No matter, I love this child. He sleeps so well. Above all he doesn’t talk of work.”

  He returned and looked at Imtissal, his eyes half-closed, as though lost in an exquisite dream.

  “Let me sleep on your bed for a moment,” he asked in a supplicating tone. “I promise — only for a moment. Then I’ll leave at once.”

  Imtissal remained stifled, without strength. She knew she was defeated by this immense inertia which nothing could rouse. She shook with sobs and began to tear her hair, screaming curses. But Rafik went over to her slowly, unmoved by her cries. Suddenly he sank down on the bed, and was carried away by the heavy waves of sleep.

  XIV

  Old Hafez was sitting in his bed contemplating his hernia with wonder and dismay. Each time he awoke, the sight of his impotence filled him with despair. He put a trembling hand on the horrible swelling that never stopped growing — defying him. It was really amazing how it increased every day, as though it took pleasure in torturing him, in becoming more and more outrageous. Old Hafez couldn’t even believe it anymore; it had passed the bounds of the possible and even of the detestable. There was no doubt that some evil being had cast a spell over this growth, trying to destroy him. Wasn’t it one of the children’s tricks to ruin his marriage? They were capable of the worst villainy, those children. But, even so, old Hafez couldn’t imagine what devilish and intricate mechanism they could have used to produce this result. His mind became confused in the maze of this terrible conspiracy. The absurdity of such suspicions, that came from pure indulgence, didn’t bother him at all; he stubbornly held to the contrary, not wanting to founder in hopelessness and accept defeat. He was even suddenly tempted to go downstairs, to tell his children that he had discovered their plot and to teach them some respect. Only the vanity such a move would imply stopped him.

  Soon he was tired of looking at his infirmity. He lowered his nightgown, pulled up the covers and began to lament his fate. How, in this condition, could he hope for a marriage that would rejoice his declining years? Everyone was plotting against him, everyone had abandoned him. Even Haga Zohra had given no sign of life since her visit so long ago, when she had promised miracles. No doubt she had forgotten him. Thus there was nothing left him in his solitude but the dismal spectacle of his hernia. He was alone, faced with this agonizing hernia that he felt f
orever growing between his legs and filling the bed with its incongruous mass.

  To escape his obsession, he took the paper off the night table and opened it. It was a very old paper, yellowed, the type blurred with time, giving its news a doubtful aspect that corresponded with his own views of the world. But he had scarcely read a line when he felt tired and started to fall asleep.

  After a moment, he was awakened by someone pronouncing his name in a muffled, respectful voice.

  “Hafez Bey!”

  He quickly opened his eyes; it seemed to him that someone was calling him from a great distance, almost outside the house. He thought he was dreaming and wanted to go back to sleep, when he saw a black form standing in the doorway.

  “Ah! It’s you. Come in. I’ve been wondering what had become of you, O woman!”

  “I’ve been working for you,” said Haga Zohra.

  She was out of breath, and her panting was like that of a steam engine. She immediately began to complain.

  “What a curse those stairs are! I’m too old to go up such stairs. If it weren’t for you . . .”

  She came into the room, enormous and flabby, her black melaya wrapped around her huge body. Each time she moved, her voluminous breasts stirred dangerously. The room seemed filled by her presence.

  Old Hafez sat up to watch her better. The sudden appearance of Haga Zohra filled him with optimism. He already foresaw an end to his misery.

  “Come, sit down,” he said. “Tell me your news.”

  “Give me time to breathe,” said Haga Zohra.

  She squatted on the ground, her melaya spread out, arranging her huge body with infinite precautions on the hard floor. Then she became motionless, resolute as fate. It was the torture of the damned for her to drag her flabby, swollen flesh around to these bourgeois houses, where her work as a go-between took her. Also, once she was settled somewhere, it was difficult for her to leave. She had stopped panting, but she said nothing. Her venal mind, greedy for money, knew the value of the silence that preceded revelations.