IX
Now the mouse was under the bed; Galal heard it nibbling the strips of the parquet floor. He didn’t dare move; he didn’t even dare open his eyes. Sweat chilled his body, he felt it running in small rivulets along his limbs. Every evening this mouse came to destroy his sleep. It was obstinate; it turned round and round, then began to run from one end of the room to the other, making a tiny noise, scarcely perceptible. Galal had the disagreeable impression that it was running across his skin.
He lowered the covers and looked over at the other bed; Rafik wasn’t there. Where could he be? They were all becoming maniacs in this house! What could keep them up like this, lost in their useless debates, as if they were plotting the end of the world? The idea made him smile. What if it really were the end of the world! A light flashed through his mind his father’s marriage. It was true his father had decided to marry. And he’d slept for days, without worrying about anything! How was such a disaster possible? It would be unbearable! He must do everything he could to stop this marriage. He must act quickly. Act! The very thought sent painful cramps through his body.
Thus his sleep was menaced! Why hadn’t he guessed the tragedy hidden in this marriage at once! A woman coming into a house would ruin a state of sleep established for an eternity. Once again he thought he would have to do something about this calamity. The best thing would be for his father to die. But this idea didn’t attract Galal much. His father’s death would bring complications of another order, just as disagreeable, if not more immediate. First, there would be the mourners who never failed to assemble. The cries of those infernal females would fill the house for days. And then, he would have to get up, to receive their condolences and follow the cortege to the cemetery.
No, it would be better if his father didn’t die. He would have to find something else. Galal realized that the idea of the marriage was going to be an endless torment. He believed he was in great danger and didn’t know what to do about it. No one was there to help him. Rafik was busy with the affair. That’s why he wasn’t in bed. Ah! Good boy! Perhaps he was murdering Haga Zohra! Galal had faith in him; he was almost an engineer, he had lots of profound technical knowledge. Galal felt a little calmer, but he still couldn’t sleep.
What time could it be? In any case, it still wasn’t dawn. Galal didn’t remember having heard the carts go by. The carts came from a nearby factory, and took red bricks to the city. They passed on the road regularly, with a thunderous noise that shook the house to its foundations. Galal was awakened each time as though by an earthquake. He couldn’t help thinking of the men who drove the carts. Agonized, he always asked himself what stupid miracle had awakened these men at dawn and sent them to work. It was something Galal could never understand.
The mouse seemed to be seized by a sudden frenzy; it leaped all over the room as though in search of some way out. Galal listened to it, scarcely breathing, the covers drawn up to his chin. Above all he feared it would jump into the bed. The thought drove him mad. He would have liked to have turned on the light, but to reach the switch he would have to make a crippling effort. He lay still under the blankets, forcing himself to forget everything, and tried to fall asleep again.
He felt some presence near him and started up.
“It’s you!”
Uncle Mustapha was standing near the bed. He was dressed as usual and wore his tarboosh on his head.
“Are you going out?” asked Galal.
“No, I’m not going out,” said Uncle Mustapha. “I’m worried.”
“I see,” said Galal. “You’re always dressed as though you were going out. And that tarboosh! How can you stand it on your head? Isn’t it heavy?”
“That doesn’t matter,” said Uncle Mustapha. “I beg you, wake up a minute.”
“Say what you have to say,” said Galal. “I’m awake. What do you want?”
“I’m worried,” said Uncle Mustapha.
“Why? What’s the matter now?”
“It’s your brother, Rafik,” said Uncle Mustapha. “He went out last evening and he isn’t back yet.”
Uncle Mustapha was silent and watched Galal. The night bulb in the hall sent a thin streak of light through the open door. In this, single beam, Galal’s face seemed hideously pale, like that of a cadaver. Uncle Mustapha recoiled, appalled. He sat on Rafik’s empty bed and sighed several times, even more profoundly than usual.
“You’re worried for nothing” said Galal. “What time is it?”
“It’s ten o’clock,” said Uncle Mustapha.
“Is that all!” said Galal. “I thought it was much later.”
“What bothers me,” said Uncle Mustapha, “is that he doesn’t usually go out. I don’t understand it.”
“Maybe Serag took him along to look for work,” said Galal.
“That’s impossible,” said Uncle Mustapha. “Rafik wouldn’t do it. He’s never looked for work. Besides, Serag is in his room.”
Actually, Uncle Mustapha’s distress was only a pretext for coming to talk to Galal. He needed to talk to someone. He was growing feeble in this house; the deathlike silence oppressed his soul. His conscience also tormented him. The image of the washerwoman’s swollen stomach wouldn’t leave him. Ever since he had thought of her, he couldn’t manage to get her out of his mind. Every day it grew more overwhelming. Uncle Mustapha couldn’t fight it; the stomach swelling with mysterious life was crushing down on him, almost suffocating him. A strange thing was happening to him: he had begun to think about the child. What had become of it? Uncle Mustapha was ready to give some remorse to these reflections. His life was thus given a fixed point; he found this a charming relief. He could spend his leisure hours plumbing the remorse of his conscience. He finally felt like a man again!
“Then you’ve no idea where he could be?”
“Uncle Mustapha, I haven’t any ideas. Don’t you know that, or are you doing this on purpose? I’m very patient. But I want to be left alone.”
“Don’t be angry, my boy!”
“There’s that cursed mouse too. That’s why I was awake.”
“Is there a mouse in this room?”
“Yes, it’s over there chewing on God knows what!”
Uncle Mustapha had instinctively stiffened and drawn up his legs. He looked fearfully at the floor.
“I’ll tell Hoda to set a trap,” he said.
“Never mind,” said Galal. “I don’t want a trap. I might catch my foot in it.”
There was a silence. Uncle Mustapha tried to hear the mouse. He stared at the line of light that came through the door; it was his only safeguard against the danger. But there was no noise. He raised his eyes and looked at Galal. In the half light, he saw his almost unreal face lit by an evil smile. He heard a faint snickering.
“Uncle Mustapha! I know where Rafik went!”
“Where, my boy?”
“He’s undoubtedly gone to murder Haga Zohra! He’s full of courage. He wants to rid us of our great misfortune!”
“Be quiet, Galal, my boy! You astonish me. You’re a wise, thoughtful lad. And here you fling yourself beyond all reason!”
“The thing that’s beyond all reason is this marriage.”
“Your father wants to marry. It’s his right. No one can stop him.”
“What about our rights! Uncle Mustapha, haven’t we the right to sleep in peace’?”
“What stops you from sleeping?”
“Uncle Mustapha, why do you play the fool? A child would understand. How can we sleep with a woman in the house? A woman who runs in and out all day, arranging everything around her. She’ll want everything right and proper to impress the neighbors. She’ll begin by getting a maid, because little Hoda won’t be enough for her. Imagine it, Uncle Mustapha, a maid in the house! It makes me tremble! Without counting all her relatives! They’ll come visit us. We’ll have to get up and dress to meet them. We might even have to talk to them. What kind of life would that be, I ask you!”