“Why are you afraid?”
“I don’t know. Do you think they’re made for work?”
“I think they’re incapable of it. There’s no danger of losing him. He’ll give up the idea soon.”
“May God hear you!” said Hoda. “It’s given me a heavy heart.”
“Yes,” said Imtissal. “I know them, I know what they can do. They scorn people who work. They’d rather wet their pants than unbutton their trousers — it’s too tiring.”
“That’s Galal,” said Hoda. “He’s exactly like that.”
“That one I don’t know,” said Imtissal. “I’ve never seen him. When I came to live here, he was already buried in sleep. He seems to be their teacher. Rafik admired him tremendously.”
“He’s astonishing,” said Hoda. “When I watch him, all at once I want to go to sleep myself.”
Instinctively, at the memory of Galal, she opened her mouth and yawned. The child was heavy on her knees. She was tired from her day’s work and her limbs felt stiff. The odor of the kerosene lamp, mingled with the aroma of perfume and cosmetics, was strange and heavy in the room. Hoda felt herself falling asleep. The great bed, the mirrored chest which reflected all Imtissal’s movements, all the atmosphere of faded, cheap luxury, began to dizzy her. She saw Imtissal’s supple, adorned body languishing on the rose quilt. One of her legs, slipping through her dressing gown, seemed, in the weak lamp light, like the supreme indecency of all flesh. Hoda felt drugged in the stagnant air; she heard the death-rattle of love infiltrate the silence. The room seemed, for the first time, strange and corrupting. She shook herself, blinked her eyes, and asked in a smothered voice:
“You don’t want to see him again?”
“Who are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about Rafik,” said Hoda. “He still devils me about you. He thinks it’s my fault you won’t see him.”
“Tell him I’ll never see him again,” cried Imtissal. “And that I curse him with all my soul. To think he stuffs himself there, in the middle of his disgusting family. Ah! You don’t know his pride! He’s bursting with vanity. Do you know what he said to me one day, when he saw a funeral go by? That he wished he was the dead man. Because of the pomp of the cortege, you understand! How can anyone be so vain!”
“He told me he wanted to explain some things to you,” said Hoda.
“What has he to explain? I don’t want a single explanation. It’s enough to know he’s plunged in unhappiness! Ah! It’s going to be so funny! I hope someone will pass out sugarplums at that rotten old man’s wedding. Don’t forget to bring me my share.”
Imtissal had risen; she was standing now at the foot of the bed, in a martyred pose. A bitter pain twisted her highly painted face. Now she finally had her revenge! She bared her breasts and burst out in hysterical laughter.
♦ ♦ ♦
The monotonous, insidious call of the corn vendor harassed him.
“Roasted corn! Eat some roasted corn!”
These wandering vendors — he despised them more than anything in the world; they cried their merchandise in the ears of the passers-by as if they offered an obscene invitation. This one was even worse than the others. He gave himself the airs of a conscientious, organized worker. The imbecile! He thought he was working because he pulled some ears of roasted corn on a cart! What stupidity! Rafik heard his call again, distorted by the distance, filling the night. He felt the mute cries of men around him, ready to devour him. He hurried on. The road was deserted now, but he felt the certain presence of monsters, always ready for murder. He felt them waiting behind the walls of houses, couching in the shadowy underbrush of the fields, and even in the dull sky above him.
Rafik prowled a few minutes under Imtissal’s window. He didn’t dare go up; he was afraid she’d be with a client. He’d never be able to survive such a humiliation! He suffered a deadly jealousy at the thought of Imtissal making love. He was tormented by visions; he stiffened under the intensity of his carnal memories. He glanced toward the entrance and was terrified by its look of a shadowy trap. The house was in deep shadow; the street lamps didn’t penetrate it. Its sinister façade and crumbling walls seemed buried in the night. Rafik couldn’t take his eyes off the entrance. His need to explain to Imtissal, that had brought him this far, had changed to a physical desire. Suddenly he felt himself torn apart, and a light split the darkness. A car passed at top speed, creating a wind of panic. Rafik felt himself caught and staggered like a drunken man. He couldn’t stand the least shock. His head ached, his limbs were weak and painful; he was afraid of falling on the road.
The café he entered was a sort of dirty hovel, lit by a gas lamp. Some shaky tables swam in the weird light. The proprietor stood behind the counter. He was about thirty, with a dull face, and had a bird tattooed on his right temple. He was busily preparing a multitude of apparently useless things, since there was no one in the café, except a shriveled old woman, whose head was covered by a black veil. She was sitting near the counter and never took her troubled look off the man.
Rafik ordered a cup of coffee; he waited, half conscious, for his strength to return. He was angry with himself for his cowardice. He had gone out with the intention of seeing Imtissal, and he hadn’t dared go up to her room.
Why hadn’t he dared? His desire for her had stopped him. In leaving the house that evening, his mind had been free of all mental reservations; he had simply wanted to explain himself to her. It was only when he stood under her window, thinking that perhaps she was entertaining a client, that he had felt the blood rush in his veins. His desire for her was not yet dead. She had been too close to him, the warmth of her body was still alive in him. He felt caught in the memory of former voluptuousness.
At this moment he noticed a strange scene.
The café owner was talking to the old woman at the table near the counter. There was nothing remarkable in that; he spoke with his usual voice and gestures. Then, suddenly, he changed his voice and his movements, as though he were imitating someone else. For some time he alternated roles. First he was himself, then another person. This other person was always the same; he had a well-defined voice and manner. He could be recognized quickly as soon as he entered the scene. It seemed to unroll according to established rite; no false note interrupted its charm.
Rafik was intrigued by this mystery. He was also growing impatient for his coffee. He tapped on the table and caught the man’s attention. The man nodded his head to show he had understood.
A moment later, he brought him his coffee. Rafik looked at the man curiously.
“Yes,” said the man. “That’s how it is!”
“What’s that?” asked Rafik.
The man put a finger to his lips and leaned forward.
“That woman is my mother,” he said.
“So?” said Rafik.
“She’s mad,” said the man.
“I see,” said Rafik. “But what sort of comedy are you playing?”
“It’s not a comedy,” said the man. “Listen, here’s the story. I had a brother who died last year. My mother doesn’t believe it. She’s crazy, I tell you. Well, so as not to distress her, I take my brother’s gestures and voice. That way she thinks he’s still alive, and that she sees him.”
“What a story!” said Rafik.
“Yes, it’s a pretty story!” said the man. “All this tires me enormously, especially with the work I do. Each time she comes here I have to begin these grimaces all over again.”
“I pity you,” said Rafik.
“It does me good to talk to someone,” said the man. “You don’t know what a burden all this is to me.”
Rafik got up and left the café. He was upset by what he had just seen. The collective insanity of mankind had never astonished him more. He knew its many forms. The café proprietor was as mad as his old mother! They were all mad. There was no salvation anywhere in the world. Rafik ran almost all the way back to the house.