“Forgive me,” said Rafik. “I see you don’t dare accept it. However, it exists. Believe me.”
He was alarmed to see this stupid grief in her. For the first time he noticed the changes in her features. On her face, already aged, was the brand of long prostitution. Rafik felt again an immense pity for her, and saw that she would soon be nothing more than a worn-out whore with hanging flesh. But what was this woman’s fate to him? There were thousands like her spread across the world. She could do him nothing but harm.
“Listen to me, Imtissal. I haven’t come to talk about my father’s hernia. Now, I beg you, stop treating me like an enemy. You must know why I abandoned you two years ago, and you must pardon me. You thought it was in obedience to my father, and that isn’t true. The truth is that I was afraid.”
“Afraid of what?” demanded Imtissal.
“I was afraid of all that was not our house. Of all that moves and strives uselessly in life. When I’m not in my bed, I feel as though something fatal will happen to me. I’m not really at peace except in bed. That’s easy enough to understand.”
“I won’t try,” cried Imtissal, “You’ve come to tell me these stupid little stories, you son of a whore.”
“Yes. I’ve wanted to make you understand the distance that has separated us for a long time. I knew you wanted me to leave you. But now that you know the reason, I hope you’ll forgive me.”
“Forgive you!” said Imtissal. “Then you think I’ve suffered for two years only for you to come and tell me stories? How am I supposed to believe that you’re sorry?”
“But I’m not sorry,” said Rafik. “What I thought for two years I’m more convinced of now than ever. All I want is to know that you understand that my father had nothing to do with my decision, and that my sleep is what I wanted to save by abandoning you.”
“I don’t understand anything,” said Imtissal. “You’re an idler — that I knew. You don’t have to explain that to me. But I hoped that through love for me you’d do anything to shake off your laziness. You could have worked and earned a living without help from your father. We could have been so happy with each other!”
“Work!” cried Rafik. “Earn a living! That’s all you think of. And you pretend you loved me. What would you have done to me if you hadn’t loved me! You can kill a man with ideas like that. No, Imtissal, I’m not made for work.”
“What are you made for then?”
“I’m made to sleep and to live in a corner, away from men. Listen, Imtissal, I’m afraid of men. They’re all criminals — like you — always wanting to make others work.”
“You’re a fool. Besides, all your family are corrupters. Damn the day I knew you and loved you!”
She was still sitting on the bed, and stared at him in silence and antagonism. This man she had loved had revealed himself to her like the malingering touch of a contagious disease. Never had she expected this exhibition of indolence which bordered on madness. She remained voiceless, subdued by fear, wondering how she could get rid of him.
Rafik suddenly felt overwhelmed by a great torpor. He began to be aware of a profound listlessness, and a great need for sleep tortured him. What had he come looking for at this woman’s house? An explanation? He should have guessed she would understand nothing. She was like the others, tainted by her mean existence, indoctrinated with righteousness, and ready to overturn the world for a love story. She couldn’t remain at rest; she must be on the move all the time, and make others move. He looked at her fixedly, astonished that this woman, almost naked and whom he had loved, was so close to him, yet gave him no desire to caress her. Even the simple thought of caressing her terrified him like the threat of some laborious business. He glanced away, opened his mouth to yawn, but stopped, disturbed by the sight of the cradle.
A strange emotion mastered him. He paused for a long moment, then rose, approached the cradle unsteadily, and stared at the sleeping infant: Imtissal watched him, her face hard and anguished.
“He’s sleeping,” he said.
“Yes,” said Imtissal. “He’s as lazy as you are. But he isn’t your son.”
“I know. No matter, I love this child. He sleeps so well. Above all he doesn’t talk of work.”
He returned and looked at Imtissal, his eyes half-closed, as though lost in an exquisite dream.
“Let me sleep on your bed for a moment,” he asked in a supplicating tone. “I promise — only for a moment. Then I’ll leave at once.”
Imtissal remained stifled, without strength. She knew she was defeated by this immense inertia which nothing could rouse. She shook with sobs and began to tear her hair, screaming curses. But Rafik went over to her slowly, unmoved by her cries. Suddenly he sank down on the bed, and was carried away by the heavy waves of sleep.
XIV
Old Hafez was sitting in his bed contemplating his hernia with wonder and dismay. Each time he awoke, the sight of his impotence filled him with despair. He put a trembling hand on the horrible swelling that never stopped growing — defying him. It was really amazing how it increased every day, as though it took pleasure in torturing him, in becoming more and more outrageous. Old Hafez couldn’t even believe it anymore; it had passed the bounds of the possible and even of the detestable. There was no doubt that some evil being had cast a spell over this growth, trying to destroy him. Wasn’t it one of the children’s tricks to ruin his marriage? They were capable of the worst villainy, those children. But, even so, old Hafez couldn’t imagine what devilish and intricate mechanism they could have used to produce this result. His mind became confused in the maze of this terrible conspiracy. The absurdity of such suspicions, that came from pure indulgence, didn’t bother him at all; he stubbornly held to the contrary, not wanting to founder in hopelessness and accept defeat. He was even suddenly tempted to go downstairs, to tell his children that he had discovered their plot and to teach them some respect. Only the vanity such a move would imply stopped him.
Soon he was tired of looking at his infirmity. He lowered his nightgown, pulled up the covers and began to lament his fate. How, in this condition, could he hope for a marriage that would rejoice his declining years? Everyone was plotting against him, everyone had abandoned him. Even Haga Zohra had given no sign of life since her visit so long ago, when she had promised miracles. No doubt she had forgotten him. Thus there was nothing left him in his solitude but the dismal spectacle of his hernia. He was alone, faced with this agonizing hernia that he felt forever growing between his legs and filling the bed with its incongruous mass.
To escape his obsession, he took the paper off the night table and opened it. It was a very old paper, yellowed, the type blurred with time, giving its news a doubtful aspect that corresponded with his own views of the world. But he had scarcely read a line when he felt tired and started to fall asleep.
After a moment, he was awakened by someone pronouncing his name in a muffled, respectful voice.
“Hafez Bey!”
He quickly opened his eyes; it seemed to him that someone was calling him from a great distance, almost outside the house. He thought he was dreaming and wanted to go back to sleep, when he saw a black form standing in the doorway.
“Ah! It’s you. Come in. I’ve been wondering what had become of you, O woman!”
“I’ve been working for you,” said Haga Zohra.
She was out of breath, and her panting was like that of a steam engine. She immediately began to complain.
“What a curse those stairs are! I’m too old to go up such stairs. If it weren’t for you. ”
She came into the room, enormous and flabby, her black melaya wrapped around her huge body. Each time she moved, her voluminous breasts stirred dangerously. The room seemed filled by her presence.