When he told his father of his resolution, old Hafez became intractable; he formally opposed it. His son must either leave the house or renounce his insane plan. Rafik’s first impulse was to leave and marry Imtissal. However he needed money to live. What could he do? Work! The word was so painful he couldn’t bring himself to pronounce it. He deliberated a long time, tortured between his real passion and the vicissitudes of a life where sleep and tranquility would be banished forever. Finally, he renounced his love; no joy of the flesh was worth the sacrifice of his repose. He announced his father’s refusal to Imtissal; he confessed his decision to separate from her. It was an unforgettable scene.
This adventure had taken place two years earlier, but Rafik had never forgotten the intensity of those carnal moments. The memory of them burned in him like a devouring flame. The image of Imtissal haunted him even in his sleep. Since their break, she had refused to see him. She had gone hack to her old life as a prostitute, and the young students had come back to knock at her door. Rafik kept informed of everything she did; he had learned that she had had a bastard child, whose father she didn’t even know. She was raising it herself, in the single room in which she made love.
What tormented Rafik above all was not his separation from Imtissal, but rather the misunderstanding that existed between them. Imtissal had only understood one thing: that Rafik had ceased to love her. He had never had time to make her understand his real motives for leaving her. She had suddenly begun calling him a pimp, because he had told her he never wanted to work. Without even attempting to listen to him, she had screamed like a madwoman, then had thrown him out, showering him with curses.
Rafik wanted to see her one more time; he wanted to try to explain the beauty of this peaceful existence he had chosen above her love. A few days before, he had charged Hoda to go to her and ask her to see him. But Hoda had told him, just before lunch, of the failure of this overture. Imtissal refused to see him. From that moment, Rafik had been thinking of the one means left to approach Imtissaclass="underline" to go to her house without warning and thus force her to hear him. He resolved to go out some evening and do this. But would she admit him? He was anguished at the thought of this meeting. However, it was too strong for him; he had to try a last explanation with Imtissal. Perhaps he would be able to make her understand that he had never ceased to love her, that this had nothing to do with love; he was simply incapable of leaving his father’s house, that shelter which protected him from the ugliness of the world. To tell her all men were murderers, and that he was afraid of them — she would surely take him for a fool. No matter! In any case, after this decisive explanation he would be calmer. Because ever since this drama of love had slipped between him and his sleep, he hadn’t been able to taste fully of his quietude. The ghost of Imtissal, vindictive and murderous, always stood before him, an obstacle.
Rafik rose up from the bed, left his room and crossed the hall. In the kitchen, little Hoda was scampering about like a mouse; Rafik slipped noiselessly into the dining room. His plan to intercept Haga Zohra and keep her from seeing his father hadn’t left him for a moment. For this purpose the dining room was the best lookout. From the wide-open hallway door, Rafik could watch the wooden staircase that led up to the next floor. Thus, when Haga Zohra came, he could hardly miss seeing her. And then, there was the couch. Rafik could lie down while he waited for this vile go-between. He resisted the couch for the moment; it was still too soon. He would run the risk of falling asleep at once. He must give proof of his endurance. Without it all his laborious maneuvers would have been for nothing. Rafik sighed and called all the energy of which he was capable to his aid. Then he went to the window and looked at the sleeping alley. At this hour, everyone in the house across the way was asleep. It was a three story building, newly constructed, its walls unplastered, with the forbidding look of a prison. Rafik had only seen men there; the women must have hidden themselves, peeking out from behind the blinds. These bourgeois families, with their prejudices and barbarous customs, no doubt forbade their females to show themselves outside. Rafik thought he’d like to sleep with one of them. But that was dangerous, and then they’d be ugly. He gave it up without regret. After a moment a child appeared; he was coming up the other side of the street, playing with a hoop. It was an iron hoop, very heavy, and the child was having trouble rolling it on the uneven ground. He soon disappeared at the turning of the alley, shouting in triumph.
Rafik began to feel again the ravages of this unwonted watch. His eyelids burned, his legs were getting weak. That he had to miss his siesta because of this cursed Haga Zohra was an unbearable torment. This couldn’t go on long; in a minute he would have to lie down on the sofa. Leaning against the window and turning his head, he stiffened himself with all his might against sleep. He had the impression of swimming against the current in the middle of a river of treacherous eddies. From time to time, in a supreme effort, he managed to free himself; he raised his head and breathed deeply. Then, again, he found himself plunged into the depths of an annihilating sweetness. The waves of an immense, seductive sleep covered him. Once again he came to the surface to breathe. Suddenly a distant noise reached him; he thought he was dreaming, shook himself, then listened attentively. The noise became more distinct, louder, the deaf murmur of a crowd on the march. Rafik heard them approach slowly, and soon he could see a strange procession passing in front of the window.
It was a man burdened with chains, surrounded by a mob of clamoring children. Some of them marched backwards in front of him, to watch him the better. The man carrying the chains had the stature of a giant, and long hair that fell in curls to his shoulders. A huge beard hid his black face streaming with sweat. His breast was naked and his waist bound with a sort of loin cloth of rags. The ends of the chains were wound round his ankles, as if to weigh down his steps and give him a pathetic grandeur. He looked like a galley slave escaped from some wild and distant prison. With an enormous stone he hit himself on the chest above the heart. The blows were spaced far apart, and each time he raised his arm, the crowd of children became silent in anxious expectation. At the spot where the rock struck him, the skin was only a cracked and greenish crust. The man punctuated each blow with a muffled grumble and some indistinct words like an invocation. He played his role of penitent sinner with a tragic magnificence. Sometimes, from a window, someone threw him some money; the man gathered it up and slipped it into a leather pouch hanging around his loins.
Rafik had seen this creature several times before, and even, while still a child, had followed him in his rounds through the alleys. But was this the same man? There were numbers of them who had adopted this system of spectacular begging. They had formed a wild sect and were proud of these tortures they inflicted on themselves to make people pity them. Rafik was horrified. These diabolical means to which men were reduced to live seemed to him like the extreme limit of a universal nightmare. The man loaded with chains looked toward the window, slowly raised his arm and beat the heavy stone against his chest. During this brief moment, his gaze fell on Rafik standing at the window. Rafik closed his eyes and stood without moving, the keen look of the man planted in him like a knife. He waited a long time till the noise of the crowd grew distant, then he opened his eyes.