He sat up in bed and began to think. As usual, his reflections were simple and passionless. But for some time he had been prey to gnawing thoughts; a mute uneasiness was devouring
him. This marriage he had resolved upon, at the decline of his life, preoccupied him beyond all reason. It was the desire for renewed youth, and, at the same time, an act of authority. In his solitude, he had imagined this marriage as the last manifestation of his failing will. His unsociable spirit was always toying with all sorts of caprices whose essential aim was to contradict those around him. For some years he had not given an undeniable proof of his bad disposition; his family had begun to forget. Thus before dying, he wanted to leave some ineffaceable evidence of his tyrannical power.
For several days old Hafez had been waiting impatiently for Haga Zohra. She had promised to help him. She was a notorious go-between, and the allure of a profit made her extremely diligent. Old Hafez wasn’t worried about that; his worries were elsewhere. He paused in his reflections and listened to the silence of the house. No noise came from the first floor — everywhere the same silence. They must all be asleep. Old Hafez thought bitterly of his children. He hadn’t seen them for a long time; sometimes he managed not to see them for months. But through Uncle Mustapha he knew everything that was being plotted against him. Decidedly, they weren’t pleased with the idea of his marriage. He also knew Rafik was at the head of the revolt, that he’d sworn to kill Haga Zohra. He had given them too much freedom, and now they thought they could do anything. But he knew how to break them; he would show them he was still master.
Unfortunately, this struggle with his children was only a minor concern. Something else preoccupied him much more — a monstrous affliction. Old Hafez considered this affliction as the only serious obstacle to his marriage. He couldn’t even think of it without seeing his dream of a tardy union dissolve at once. He pulled back the covers, raised his nightgown, and examined his lower abdomen worriedly. An enormous hernia protruded like a mountain between his thin legs. It was really horrible. Each time old Hafez looked at his hernia, he was stupefied by its form. Every day it assumed fantastic shapes. Old Hafez was saddened when he uncovered it. He asked himself anxiously how he could dare present a young wife with such a calamity.
He put out a trembling hand and tested the swollen, hard skin with extreme circumspection. Then he began to massage the edges slowly and expertly. Old Hafez watched hopefully to see this stubborn swelling between his legs grow smaller, but it seemed, on the contrary, to enlarge under his hand. It was ridiculous, insane. After some minutes, he gave up his treatment, pulled up the covers, and began to call for Hoda. No one answered. He took a package of cigarettes from under his pillow, drew one out and lit it. Then he called again. This time, he heard Hoda running up the stairs.
“You don’t listen when I call you!”
Hoda was panting slightly; she was always afraid when she entered the old man’s room. She felt physically ill and wanted to vomit.
“I came up right away,” she said.
She lowered her head humbly; her hair was hidden under a scarlet kerchief, bordered with tiny white shells. She watched the old man furtively, waiting for his orders. Sometimes he was completely unreasonable. Most of all, she feared he would make her look at his hernia. Old Hafez frequently showed it to her, simply to watch her reaction. Hoda’s obstinate silence usually comforted him, but today it didn’t help; he tossed in his bed and groaned:
“Open the window!”
Hoda went to the window and opened it. The rude light invaded the room, and the objects resumed the look of dead things. It was a large room, filled with heavy furniture, tarnished and dusty. Old Hafez felt drowned by this profusion of light; he blinked his eyes and turned to the wall.
“Tell me, girl! Hasn’t Haga Zohra come yet?”
“No,” said Hoda. “Not yet.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’m sure,” said Hoda. “I haven’t seen her.”
He rolled over and squinted at her.
“You’re lying, daughter of a bitch! I know my children told you not to let her come up.”
“That’s not true,” said Hoda. “No one has told me anything. I’ll bring her up when she comes.”
“Listen to me, you little ingrate! Don’t forget that I’m the master in this house. You take orders from me alone.”
“Yes, master,” said Hoda, “I do what you tell me.”
“If you don’t, I’ll throw you out of here. I only keep you out of pity for your mother. Don’t try to fool me. As for the children, I can take care of them, even if I don’t see them very often.”
He moved his hand over his chin, feeling the stiff hairs of his beard.
“And now, get ready to shave me.”
Hoda disappeared and came back with a basin of water, putting it on the table. Old Hafez got out of bed, and walked tremulously toward the rocking chair near the window. He was incredibly thin; his nightgown flapped around him. He walked bent over, his legs crooked, weighted down by his hernia. He dropped into the chair, threw back his head, and waited. Hoda began to soap his face. He closed his eyes with satisfaction. He felt a voluptuous pleasure at this freshness on his skin. He had a face of acute angles, cut by an abundant moustache, with edges yellowed by tobacco smoke. It sickened Hoda to touch this decaying, old man’s skin. His breath stank, and Hoda, afraid of fainting, strained not to come too close to him.
“What are the children doing?” he asked.
“They aren’t doing anything,” said Hoda. “They’re sleeping.”
“It’s all they know how to do,” said old Hafez. “By Allah! They’re beyond hope. Does Serag go out very much?”
“He’s been out once or twice,” said Hoda.
“That child is crazy! What’s he looking for outside?”
Old Hafez had a particular fondness for his youngest son. The boy seemed to him to possess a demon for adventure. He didn’t know how to steer him off his dangerous road. Old Hafez felt personally responsible for the difficulties that would not fail to overwhelm Serag if he persisted. He had created an existence of complete repose for him, and here he was, running out of the house with the diabolical idea of looking for work! Surely this generation was inconsiderate and frivolous. He thought he should have a serious talk with Serag. He would show him that his rash scheme was only an absurd and fruitless game. Old Hafez didn’t want one of his children to become a tramp on the streets. The honor of the family forbade it.
“You tell Serag I don’t want him to go out,” he said. “That child is going to be killed one of these days.”
“Yes, master,” said Hoda. “I’ll tell him.”
Hoda had finished shaving old Hafez when Uncle Mustapha came to see his brother. He lived on the same floor in an adjoining room.
“I’ve come to ask you for a cigarette,” he said with a forced smile.
“You and the children, you take all my cigarettes,” said old Hafez, groaning. “They’re on the bed, help yourself.”
Uncle Mustapha went up to the bed, took a cigarette and lit it. It was a very cheap tobacco, and Uncle Mustapha smoked it with weary distaste. He sighed and recalled the luxurious cigarettes he had smoked during his zenith.
“I beg you, stop sighing,” said old Hafez. “Why should you be so unhappy? Haven’t you everything you want?”
Old Hafez felt nothing but scorn for his brother Mustapha, who had squandered his part of their inheritance in a marriage with a disreputable woman. When, after the catastrophe, he had allowed Uncle Mustapha to come to the house, he had not made a gesture of brotherly pity. Rather, he had hoped to be able to humiliate him. Uncle Mustapha, not long before, had been extremely arrogant with old Hafez — the only one who had resisted him. He had never concealed the fact that he considered old Hafez a timorous bourgeois, miserly and mean. Old Hafez had never forgiven him for this insulting attitude. Now he avenged himself.