Old Hafez sat up to watch her better. The sudden appearance of Haga Zohra filled him with optimism. He already foresaw an end to his misery.
“Come, sit down,” he said. “Tell me your news.”
“Give me time to breathe,” said Haga Zohra.
She squatted on the ground, her melaya spread out, arranging her huge body with infinite precautions on the hard floor. Then she became motionless, resolute as fate. It was the torture of the damned for her to drag her flabby, swollen flesh around to these bourgeois houses, where her work as a go-between took her. Also, once she was settled somewhere, it was difficult for her to leave. She had stopped panting, but she said nothing. Her venal mind, greedy for money, knew the value of the silence that preceded revelations.
“How did you get up?” asked old Hafez. “Didn’t the children see you?”
“I didn’t meet anyone.”
“Good. They ought to be asleep, it’s time for siesta. Anyway, if they ever stop you from coming up, just shout and I’ll come down and take care of them.”
“Why should they keep me from coming up?” wailed Haga Zohra. “What have I done to them? By Allah, I’m just a poor woman!”
Haga Zohra was well aware of the difficulty old Hafez was having with his children since he had announced his marriage, but she preferred to be discreet and play the martyr. Her work demanded it.
“They know you’re arranging my marriage,” said old Hafez.
“So?” lamented Haga Zohra again. “They haven’t seen
anything yet, and they’re complaining already. I haven’t proposed a one-eyed, hunch backed girl that I know of. I’m bringing the most beautiful girl in the country. When they see her, they won’t believe their eyes.”
“That’s not it, O woman! The children don’t want me to marry. But don’t worry, I’ll be married in spite of them. They’ll see I’m the master.”
“By Allah, what’s come over the world? Why don’t they want you to marry?”
“I’ve no idea. They’re criminals, but I’ll teach them. And now, leave the children to the devil and tell me what you’ve done.”
Haga Zohra sighed and assumed a funereal air to show her sorrow at the tribulations of the world.
“It’s done,” she said. “But I won’t hide that I had a lot of
trouble.”
“I hope at least that she comes from a good family.”
“From a good family! What do you think, Hafez Bey? You know quite well I’m not going to propose an orphan! By God, she has a family. And what a family! I had to live with them for a week to persuade them to accept.”
Old Hafez wanted to expose this flagrant exaggeration, but he allowed it to pass, and said:
“But why? I hope you told them who I was.”
“Of course. But the girl is only sixteen. They thought they’d give her to a prince.”
“That’s insane!” exclaimed old Hafez.
“That’s what I made them see after a week,” replied Haga Zohra. “In the end they could hardly believe everything I told them about your fortune and your name. Finally, to convince them, I confided that you had diabetes.”
“What did they say?” asked old Hafez, without taking offence at this illness that had so generously been conferred upon him.
“First, their faces lit up, then they smiled and told me: ‘If what you say is true, he must be very well off.’ I replied: ‘Have you ever seen, O people, a beggar with diabetes? My word! What do you want!’ From then on they were for it.”
“Very good,” said old Hafez. “You’re a clever woman. I won’t forget to reward you.”
“I didn’t do it for rewards,” said Haga Zohra, a little insulted. “I like to give service. You know the esteem I have for your family. What wouldn’t I do for you? You’re the light of the quarter.”
Old Hafez liked her respect; such deference to his social position he had not received since he had broken all his ties with the world. Haga Zohra’s esteem, even though it was soiled by a desire for money, easily satisfied him in a way he had long since forgotten. He moved in his bed, wiped his hand across his face, then suddenly remembered an important detail.
“But Haga Zohra, what are you saying! I don’t have diabetes.”
Haga Zohra recoiled a little, and almost spilled her ponderous flesh over the floor of the room. She caught herself in time and said, breathing very hard:
“Now what? What difference does it make? It’s something that doesn’t show.”
“Even so,” said old Hafez, “it’s an illness.”
“It’s an illness of the rich. It can only make you more respected. Believe me, I know what I’m doing.”
Old Hafez reflected a few seconds; he was thinking about his hernia and telling himself that this new and spectacular malady would perhaps compensate to some extent for the repulsiveness of his infirmity.
“You’re sure of what you say, O woman?”
“Of course. I’ll cut off my arm if I’m lying.”
There was a silence. Old Hafez threw off his anxiety, stretched out in the bed, and drifted into senile reveries about his future marriage. The annoying afternoon light that flooded the room kept him from enjoying the agreeable visions that began to come to him. He closed his eyes and for a long time lay lost in happiness. But he was frightened by the silence around him; it seemed full of things that were after him, determined to destroy his newborn peace. He felt the sweat running down his limbs and was again overcome by doubts. He opened his eyes, heaved a majestic sigh, then turned toward Haga Zohra and fixed a cadaverous look upon her.
Haga Zohra had been meditating upon the different ways in which she might draw the best profit from the situation, when old Hafez’s sighs interrupted her culpable reflections. She thought she had been detected; her heavy flesh quivered, and she instinctively drew the folds of her melaya around her vast flanks. Then, her elbows propped on her knees, she leaned forward and asked hoarsely
“Why are you sighing? What are you complaining about?”
Old Hafez, with his frightened cadaver’s face, opened his mouth, and gave several plaintive moans in reply.
“What are you complaining about?” repeated Haga Zohra. “Here you are almost a married man. What is there to fuss about?”
Old Hafez made an effort and decided to speak.
“I have to tell you something.”
“I’m listening,” said Haga Zohra. “What is it?”
“You know about my hernia. Well, it gets bigger every day! It’s unbelievable.”
“What’s that? The last time you told me it had begun to go away. What’s happened to it?”
“By Allah, I don’t know,” admitted old Hafez.
“It isn’t possible,” said Haga Zohra.
“I suspect the children are playing a trick on me,” said old Hafez.
“The children! What about the children? I don’t understand.”
“It’s very simple. They’re influencing it. They want to keep me from marrying those devils.”
“But how could they do it?” asked Haga Zohra, alarmed to find herself so close to evil spirits.
“I don’t know yet. However, I have strong suspicions.”
Haga Zohra shook her head. The old man was obviously losing his mind. But it wasn’t her affair to correct him. After all, nothing was impossible. Those demons were capable of anything; making a hernia swell would be a marvelous joke for them.
At any rate, her interests compelled her to calm the old man’s fears.
“But Hafez Bey, the children couldn’t do such a thing. After all, you’re their father.”
“They’re criminals, believe me. But it’s not just that. I’m worried about something else as well. Tell me: haven’t you thought this would be a hindrance to my marriage?”