“I’d like to talk to you,” said old Hafez.
Uncle Mustapha was sitting on the edge of the bed. He smoked his cigarette with a terribly unhappy air.
“I’m listening,” he said.
“Well!” continued old Hafez. “You know about my decision to marry.”
“A happy decision,” said Uncle Mustapha. “It would be good to have a wife to take care of you. Allow me to congratulate you.”
“You can congratulate me later. Right now I want you to tell the children not to meddle in this affair. I suppose you’re not in league with them. That would really be shameless ingratitude.”
“Me!” said. Uncle Mustapha. “On the contrary, I’ve undertaken you defence. But I can’t do anything with Rafik. He’s capable of killing me.”
“That’s ridiculous! You’ve let yourself be frightened by a child! Rafik’s a bad boy, and that’s all. But I’ll teach him.”
“You’re right.”
“I’m always right. In any case, I’ll be married in spite of everything. I’ve told Haga Zohra to find me a young woman of a good family. There are plenty around here. I plan to marry as soon as possible.”
Uncle Mustapha didn’t answer. He knew his brother’s obstinacy and, above all, he remembered the story of the goat. It was a characteristic example of old Rafez’s bad faith and spirit of contradiction, One day when he was walking on his land with a cousin, old Hafez — who was then in his fiftieth year — stopped in the middle of a field and noticed a black form at the summit of a rise of ground. It was rather far away, and neither he nor his cousin could make it out clearly enough to say exactly what it was. “It’s a goat,” old Hafez said at once. “It’s a kite,” replied his cousin. Old Hafez told him he was blind and persisted in his own idea. After a minute, as they were arguing, the object of dispute flew up in the air and lost itself on the horizon. “You see, it was a kite,” cried the cousin, triumphant. Old Hafez retorted, not the least disturbed; “It was a goat, even if it flew away.” Before such aberration, the cousin went away, indignant, and stayed angry with old Hafez for a long time.
“And you, what do you think of the marriage?” asked old Hafez.
“It’s an excellent idea!” said Uncle Mustapha. “Heavens, I envy you!”
He had become disarmingly humble, not dreaming, himself, of the transformation. To live in this house, he had undergone a sort of enchantment. He had never thought that one day his money would be exhausted; he had let it all go. He had lived, a long time after his ruin, expecting a miracle. He didn’t want to believe he had no more money.
He was still awaiting the miracle, even though it was impossible that a miracle could arise in this sordid room, with the infirm old man seated in his rocking chair, wanting to be married. Uncle Mustapha looked at his brother and, for a moment, thought he was dreaming that all this rotten atmosphere was only a snare devised by sleep. Suddenly, he felt a burning at his fingers; the cigarette was entirely consumed. He put it out in the ashtray on the night table and sighed again, as if to impress himself with the reality of his misfortune.
Old Hafez sprawled in his armchair; he twirled his moustache pensively.
“You haven’t told me about the children’s newest plots.”
“They haven’t any new plots. Only Rafik has taken possession of the dining room. He stays on the sofa, waiting for Haga Zohra. I don’t think he’ll be able to keep it up long.”
“Cursed boy! And Galal, what’s he doing?”
“He doesn’t do anything, he sleeps as always. He’s put Rafik in charge of the whole affair; he relies on him. He’s an astonishing boy.”
“Why do you say that?”
“No reason. Only to see him sleeping like that all the time seems rather strange to me.”
“There’s nothing strange about it, believe me. What do you want him to do? At least he’s peaceful, he doesn’t bother anyone.”
Old Hafez frowned; his children were a burden to him. He didn’t know how to make them reasonable, without disturbing himself.
“You’ll have to talk to Galal,” he continued, “He’s the eldest; his brothers will listen to him.”
“Talk to Galal!” exclaimed Uncle Mustapha, astounded. “You don’t know what you’re saying. He only gets out of bed to eat, and not always then. Do you know what he dared ask me once? It’s really shameful! He asked me to bring him the chamber pot, because he wanted to use it and didn’t want to disturb himself. It’s barbarous, and I don’t like it. Speak to him yourself.”
“This is insane! Tell him to come up and see me. I don’t know what you’re good for. It’s unspeakable that you can’t give me the least help when I need you.”
“It’s easy to see you aren’t used to being around them. Those children are impossible. They want to drive me crazy.”
“Never mind! A man like you, you should be able to exert a little authority!”
Uncle Mustapha felt the vengeful irony in these reproaches. He saw himself caught in a circle of vile atrocities. The unreal atmosphere, the unused furniture, all the shabby comfort revolted his soul. And this dangerous sleep that submerged everything, like a devastating flood. He looked at his brother, this stupid old man who was dreaming of marrying, his enormous hernia bursting through his nightgown between his spread legs. He was fascinated by the hernia. It reminded him of an old scene that had had the same grotesque fascination.
It had happened so long ago it was nearly lost in the folds of his memory. It had occurred in a bachelor apartment he had rented in the city. A woman had come to wash his linen each week in the bathroom. Uncle Mustapha couldn’t remember her face — an expressionless face, the sort that left no trace in one’s mind. She was always silent and did her work with a tired, resigned air. Uncle Mustapha had lived for a long time without thinking about her actual presence, as if she moved in a separate existence on the edge of a dream. Then, one day, he didn’t know how, a terrible thing happened: he slept with her. This only happened once, and Uncle Mustapha didn’t think of it again until, several months later, he noticed the woman’s stomach had become huge. He was worried and asked her if he was responsible. At each visit, the woman’s stomach grew with an agonizing and precise rhythm. She always kept her passive beast’s attitude, never pronouncing a word. It finally became unbearable; Uncle Mustapha grew sick. Each week he watched this lewd stomach, and each week it seemed more impossibly swollen. He would have gone mad if the woman hadn’t disappeared one day and never come back.
He roused himself from his memories and asked his brother:
“How’s your hernia?”
“Thank God,” replied old Hafez, “it’s getting better.”
“You have to learn to take care of it,” said Uncle Mustapha “It could be a real nuisance.”
Old Hafez put his hand between his legs and caressed the swelling as one caresses a child.
“Don’t you find it smaller?”
“It’s hardly visible anymore,” said Uncle Mustapha.
He wanted to appease his brother; his situation as a parasite demanded that he be courteous. Old Hafez knew he was lying, but his lie was agreeable all the same.
“Is that true?’ he asked.
“On my honor, it’s true. I wouldn’t fool you! A few days ago, it was frightening. But now you can scarcely see it.”
“May God hear you! I wish it would go away entirely. Do you think it will be an obstacle to my marriage?”