Laziness in the Fertile Valley by Albert Cossery

while it slept. It was a beautiful child and aroused Hoda’s maternal instincts. The prostitute was always very friendly; she spoiled Hoda, giving her syrups and all kinds of sweets. Hoda didn’t quite realize what it meant that Imtissal was a prostitute. She had a rather confused idea about it, and it didn’t disturb her relationship with Imtissal. To her she could talk about Serag, because the prostitute always listened with a tender friendliness. Now there was a sort of conspiracy between them. Hoda had no one else to whom she could tell her grievances, and old Hafez’s latest caprice, along with the whole load of his contrariness and surprises, was too heavy for her to bear alone. She wanted to tell Imtissal about this sensational event. It would do her good to lighten her heart a little.
    The night was long in coming, and in the grey twilight the street lamps flickered weakly, like half-formed stars. Some people were lagging along the road, before going home to bed. The houses were already becoming black and immobile. In some places, there were long vistas over the fields; the country slept in its snare, and an infinite sadness stretched as far as the horizon. Hoda walked purposefully, with the bearing of a serious and well-bred young lady. She wore a blue beret and carried a large shoulder bag that knocked against her hip.
    This bag was the height of elegance, a present from Imtissal, and Hoda was proud to show it off. Basically, she was given to coquetry, like the rest of her sex. She practised it with amusing naiveté. Imtissal lived at the end of the crowded area; after her house there were only a few villas scattered along the road. Hoda was frightened crossing the last yards that still lay between. She was seized by a superstitious terror. She almost ran, stopped in front of the house, panting, and raised her bead. There was a light in Imtissal’s window. Hoda went in and climbed up the dark stairway with the worn steps. The bannister was rickety, and there were obscure designs on the wall. Hoda stopped on the second floor; Imtissal’s door was on the right. She straightened her beret, smoothed her dress, licked her lower lip, then knocked on the door.
    After a moment the door opened, and Imtissal appeared, her hair loose, her long body undressed for the night.
    “It’s you! Come in, darling!”
    “I’ve come for a visit. Am I disturbing you?”
    “On the contrary. I’m very happy to see you. Come in and sit down.”
    Hoda went into the room; she didn’t sit down, but asked:
    “Is the baby asleep?”
    “Yes, but you can take him on your lap.”
    Hoda went over to the corner of the room where Imtissal kept the cradle; the child was sleeping. She took it gently in her arms, then sat on the ground and held the infant in her lap. She was overcome with joy.
    Imtissal, the students’ friend, sat negligently on the edge of the bed. She wore a yellow dressing gown, embroidered with large scarlet flowers. It revealed her full body that had an almost primitive sensuality. In the light of the kerosene lamp, her outrageously painted face looked like a mask. She had a heavy, tragic beauty.
    “Tell me,” she said. “Has Rafik sent you?”
    “No, by Allah!” said Hoda. “I came by myself. I like to see you and play with the baby.”
    “I like to see you too.”
    “You’re so nice to me.”
    “Aren’t they nice to you?”
    “They’re terrible. The nicest one is Serag.”
    “That’s because you love him,” said Imtissal.
    “I guess you’re right,” said Hoda.
    “And does he love you?”
    “I don’t know. You can’t ever tell with him.”
    “No one can ever tell with any of them,” said Imtissal.
    Her voice was husky and slow; it promised infinite sorrows and joys. She heaved a sigh and was silent. Since her experience with Rafik, she had nourished an unspeakable hatred for his family. She had never forgiven them for destroying her love, nor, especially, her dream of a more dignified life.