Now she must find Serag and tell him lunch was ready; then wake Galal who was sleeping, as always, with his head buried under his quilt. Old Hafez ate alone in his room on the top floor. He was never disturbed, living in almost complete isolation. Hoda had been ordered by him to bring his meals to his room. She was responsible for everything and took care of the family as if it consisted of sick children.
She wiped the plates, stacking them in a pile to carry to the dining room. At this instant, as she turned her head toward the window, she saw Serag standing in the alley, his back turned toward the house. Her heart trembled. Instinctively, she wanted to call to him, but found herself unable to pronounce a word, held back by his strange pose. Serag was standing very erect, his hands thrust in his pockets, his head thrown back, his face held up to the sun. He seemed to be contemplating something fascinating in the sky. Hoda couldn’t see his face, and that intrigued her even more. What could he be gazing at, motionless as a statue? Hoda put the stack of plates on the table and crept to the window.
Serag was still in his ecstasy, cut off, entirely lost in some dream. Hoda raised her head, looked at the house opposite, then at the sky where light clouds were scattering in the wind. There was nothing unusual to hold the attention. No doubt, Serag wasn’t looking at anything. Perhaps his eyes were even closed. What a strange boy! He could stay that way forever. Hoda stood still for a long time, hoping to see him move, then decided to open the window.
“Serag! Lunch is ready!”
Several seconds went by before the young man turned his head. Seeing Hoda, he made a face of annoyance, then smiled sadly. Hoda saw him open the gate to the garden. She ran to pick up the pile of dishes and started toward the dining room.
“Well, you bitch, is lunch ready?’ asked Rafik.
“It’s ready,” said Hoda. “You can sit down at the table.”
“Hurry up, you daughter of a whore!”
The dining room, on the first floor, was large, with black and white tiling, furnished with a few moth-eaten chairs. Except for the table and chairs, there was only a buffet and a couch, covered by a white cloth with yellow stripes, repulsively dirty. A rather large mat of braided straw covered the tiles under the table. The walls were bare and sweating from the humidity. Like all the rooms in the house, the dining room gave off a special odor of mustiness — the stale air of closed houses, of a vault or a cavern. On one of the walls, in a gold frame, was a huge photograph of old Hafez, retouched with water colors. Because of the dust and flyspecks that had completely covered the glass, old Hafez looked like a horrible daubed corpse. Old Hafez, who never left his room, found this a means of presiding, in a rather terrifying manner, at his children’s meals. But no one paid any attention to him; he grew dimmer in his gold frame, gradually forgotten in the general indifference.
Rafik was stretched out on the couch, dressed in dirty pajamas, his feet bare except for wooden shoes. He had just finished a very animated conversation with Uncle Mustapha, during which he had riddled him with sarcasms. Now he was relaxed, taking malicious pleasure in his uncle’s crestfallen face. Uncle Mustapha was already at the table, silently at his place, nibbling a piece of bread while he waited for lunch. He had assumed an imperturbable calm, even though he was deeply shaken. Rafik’s sarcasm always wounded his dignity, and he tried to compose himself in an attitude of serenity, which, unfortunately, fooled no one.
Hoda arranged the plates on the table and started back toward the kitchen. Rafik had been watching her malevolently. As she passed him, he grabbed her by a corner of her dress and asked in a low voice:
“Tell me: have you seen her?”
“Yes, I saw her,” replied Hoda.
Rank had a gleam like hope in his eye. His voice became deeper, agonized.
“What did she say?”
“She said she didn’t want to see you.”
“Bitch! You’re lying!”
Hoda tried to free herself, but Rafik held on to her dress. She feared him more than all the others, because of this gleam of lust always burning in his eyes. He seemed possessed by a constant fury.
“It’s not my fault,” she defended herself. “I can’t do anything about it. She told me she didn’t want to see you.”
“It’s impossible,” said Rafik. “It’s impossible she’s forgotten me.”
“She hasn’t forgotten you,” said Hoda. “She just doesn’t want to see you.”
“The whore! And you, you’re another!”
“Let go of me,” begged Hoda.
Rafik released her and fell back on the sofa. Hoda went back to the kitchen.
During this hushed dialogue, Uncle Mustapha gaped, his eyes fixed on some invisible point in the room. The bitterness of his thoughts led him inevitably to one of his prolonged withdrawals that astonished the household. He seemed to be always vegetating in some other world. He wandered about all day in his nightgown and an old jacket of maroon wool, his tarboosh always on his head for fear of the cold. In this garb Uncle Mustapha gave the impression of being there only for a visit. His endless displays of dignity tired him enormously. To maintain his self-respect among these lazy and disrespectful children was a job he found more and more exhausting. Uncle Mustapha took much pain to safeguard, in his present situation, a remnant of this solemn dignity which had been his prerogative long ago. From time to time during several minutes, he emitted strange sighs that seemed to come from some deep-rooted suffering.
“Here’s our great labourer!” said Rafik suddenly.
Serag had just come into the dining room. He had taken off his football shoes in his bedroom and now was walking around in his socks, with an uncertain step, his face tired as though he hadn’t slept for many days. Slowly he took his place at the table. His morning walk had left him rather exhausted and he was glad to find himself back with his family. Each time he came back from a hike across the countryside, he felt as though he had escaped some sinister danger. Then the desire to wander seized him again, and he began to hate this atmosphere of mystery and sleep that smothered him. At this moment he was smiling, almost contentedly.
“Hello, Uncle,” he said.
“Hello, my son.”
“Well,” said Rafik, “what good news do you bring from the outside?”
“I didn’t see much,” replied Serag. “I just walked in the country.”
“Not really! You look so tired. And where do you think you’ll drag yourself next?”
“That’s none of your business,” said Serag. “I’m free to walk where I want.”
“You walk!” sneered Rafik. “Look where you’re walking now. I think you were looking for work. But excuse me, I see you’ve given up that folly.”
“Go to hell!” said Serag.
“Leave the boy alone,” said Uncle Mustapha.
“Uncle Mustapha,” replied Rafik, “you’ve lived in the city a long time; tell us, please, what men who work do.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said his uncle. “What are you trying to say?”
“It’s a question that only concerns Serag,” insisted Rafik. “He’ll have to prove himself. I can hardly wait till he brings some money back to the house. Because my dear Serag, I hope that with all your talents you’ll earn a lot of money.”
Serag was used to this insulting irony and didn’t answer. Only Uncle Mustapha always rose to his nephew’s bait. He couldn’t resist, even though he had been around him for almost three years. His bewilderment at such moments was pitiably funny. Rafik found him the perfect target and never lost an opportunity to abuse him. Actually, it wasn’t that he was innately malicious; he simply needed a release to calm his nerves which were continually on edge. Rafik’s sarcasm covered a painful sorrow; for at bottom he was the only sane person in his whole family. He had consciously chosen the quiet destiny that bound the native idleness of a whole clan. His reason, as well as his own temperament, had drawn him to it. He could analyze everything that such a destiny of disinterested grandeur meant and was provoked to see others not seemingly aware of their good fortune. From this came his scorn and sarcasm.