Return of the Spirit

by Tawfiq al-Hakim

Genres: Classics; Literary Fiction

Synopsis

The celebrated, revolutionary novel from a pioneering Egyptian writer Tawfiq al-Hakim, now for the first time in Penguin Classics with a foreword by Egyptian writer Alaa Al-Aswany

First published in Arabic in 1933, Egyptian playwright and novelist Tawfiq Al-Hakim's Return of the Spirit follows a patriotic young Egyptian and his extended family as they grapple with the events leading up to the 1919 Egyptian revolution. Though often cited as an apprenticeship novel in the vein of Joyce's A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man with a touch of failed romance a la Goethe's Sorrow of Young Werther, Al-Hakim's classic is most recognized for being a trailblazing political novel that illustrates the way one man's spiritual awakening ties to a political awakening of a nation. While enthusiasm for the book was stifled in the mid-20th century due to a shift in Egyptian government rule, the 2011 Tahrir revolution in Egypt caused it to be examined anew as a strong expression of nationalist solidarity and an exposé of the heritage-stripping power of Western colonialism that resonates with 21st-century Egyptians. Return of the Spirit is considered Al-Hakim's most important novel despite writing more plays than novels, and his adept understanding of class and culture within Egyptian society has cemented his place as one of the country's most celebrated writers and cultural critics.

Release date: July 9, 2019

Publisher: Penguin Classics

Print pages: 384

Sample

Chapter 1

The lunch hour having ended, the family members went off on their separate ways, even Mabruk, the servant. He finished helping Miss Zanuba clear the table and wash the dishes and then he too departed to sit with the fruit seller next to the Bab al-Mayda quarter. Miss Zanuba remained at home, alone, far from anything that might disturb the serenity of her solitude. She went to her small room and sat down gravely on her cabbage-colored pallet. She looked for a long time at the cards she had lined up in front of her on the faded red kilim carpet.

Time passed. The call to the afternoon prayer rang out. Zanuba was still sunk in her dreams. All she saw was the blond boy beside the dark maiden; both were overcome by happiness. One of them would travel and . . . and . . . and everything else from the world of mystery and symbols.

The door to the room opened suddenly, and Muhsin appeared with his books, ruler, and compass under his arm. He shouted at her in his merry, boyish voice, "Haven't the folks come home yet?"

She did not move, nor did she answer right away. She continued sunk in her reverie. At last, without looking at him, she said, "You're back from school?"

"We got out a long time ago, but I was at the tailor's!" He adjusted his clothes with great care and sat down beside Zanuba on the edge of the mattress. He was silent for a bit; then he fidgeted and looked at her. He hesitated as if he wanted to say something but felt embarrassed.

Zanuba seemed to remember something suddenly. Without raising her head from the cards she said, "I imagine you're hungry, Muhsin. Go get a cucumber to munch on. That should hold you over. It'll be a long time till supper."

She looked up to show him a basket she was hiding from Mabruk behind the door. The moment she peered at Muhsin, though, she shouted in astonishment, "My God! God's will be done! You're wearing a new suit?"

The boy bowed his head and did not reply. Zanuba continued in her amazement: "Fantastic, sister! A person seeing you would say you're a different person. So your family sent you money? Isn't that fantastic!"

Muhsin asked her with some embarrassment and hesitation, "Fantastic? Why?"

Zanuba did not stop gazing at his new clothing with an astonished and admiring eye. "Because it's not like you. You've never been willing to wear a new suit except for the Feast of the Sacrifice, like your uncles. It's amazing! Today, like this, you've turned into a handsome swell! By the Prophet, anyone seeing you would say you're the sultan's son. May the Prophet's name protect you! You're a sight for sore eyes! It might as well be Thursday! Thursday!"

Muhsin blushed a little at this lavish tribute. The praise, though, instead of filling his heart with satisfaction and joy, created a strange pang in his heart. He immediately changed the topic: "What's for supper tonight?"

Zanuba replied lackadaisically after returning to her cards, "Same as lunch."

Muhsin raised his voice a little: "Goose leg, again?"

She brought her head up abruptly and, giving him a reproachful look, asked, "What's wrong with goose leg? Even you, Muhsin, who I say is smart? Okay, by the Pure Lady, tomorrow they'll see what this ingratitude brings. Is our Lord going to bless someone who sticks up his nose at a bite to eat? Don't be like those uncles of yours-they're unbearable. God preserve us. Don't be like them."

The boy replied gently, "But Auntie, this goose leg we've seen in front of us for three days-at every meal. Uncle Abduh swore on the Holy Qur'an today at noon . . ."

He did not finish, because Zanuba waved her arm furiously and shouted, "Abduh! Who is His Lordship Mr. Abduh? Is he the respected head of the household or is that the eldest? Shame on Mr. Abduh! Shame! Since when, fellow, has this house had a head other than the eldest, who is rightfully and justly the senior: your uncle Hanafi, may God protect him. He works, pays the bills, and cares for us. He never complains or breathes a word. May God never deprive us of him! Then there's that boy Abduh. All he does on the face of the earth is to shoot his mouth, yell, and attack."

"He'll be making good money tomorrow, aunt. At the end of this year he's going to get his diploma and become an engineer."

Zanuba did not reply. Her expression was still sullen. She had gone back to the cards-arranging, sorting, and lining them up.

After a moment, though, she raised her head suddenly and asked, "Does he think I'm going to be frightened by his pointy fez? That pipsqueak kid . . . God's name; just because he's nervous and impatient . . . No, by the Mighty Lady, I'm not afraid of anyone."

Muhsin smiled sarcastically and asked, "Could you say that to his face?"

She turned toward him fiercely and asked, "What are you saying?"

Muhsin did not want to quarrel with her, especially not today, and seemed to regret what he had said. So he laughed, or pretended to laugh, to make her think he was kidding and did not expect to be taken seriously. Then he said earnestly, "Do you want the truth, auntie? Uncle Abduh has a good heart and is a fine person like all the others."

Zanuba did not reply. She was silent for a moment and then leaned over the cards again, busy and preoccupied with them. Before long she was immersed in her previous musings and thoughts. Muhsin began to watch her, following the movement of her hands as she picked up and set down the cards. He observed the expression of her face as if eager to discover her secret. His eyes shone with an innocent, childish skepticism.

Finally he approached her familiarly and sat beside her. He asked with a mischievous smile, "For whom are you reading the cards? For a bridegroom?"

As soon as she heard these words her eyelids, which were heavily daubed with kohl, began to tremble. She raised her hand nervously to rearrange her scarf-which did not need it-over her henna-tinted hair. Then, her eyes downcast, she replied with embarrassment, "No, by the Prophet. That's not what I was thinking about."

Muhsin kept up his veiled sarcasm. "Then about what? Am I a stranger you should hide things from? You know, auntie, by God Almighty, no one has chased away bridegrooms except Uncle Hanafi. The mistake is entirely Hanafi's-he's the one who's run off the suitors."

"No, by the Prophet, that's not what I'm thinking about."

She kept her eyes modestly downcast as though she were a girl of twenty. Muhsin was silent for a moment while he stealthily began to study the lined and misshapen face of this old maid. He seemed to be wondering whether this modesty of hers was an affectation or genuine. Then, as his boyish sarcasm was quickly overtaken by a kind of melancholy, he bowed his head.

Zanuba grew up in the country, where she was neglected and left uneducated. She served her fatherÕs wife and raised chickens for her. When her brothers Hanafi and Abduh came to Cairo to study, she came with them, together with Mabruk ibn al-Khawli-her classmate from the village QurÕan school, who had not prospered there. She was to look after them and to manage the household. Her long stay in the capital had had no real effect on her; she remained just as she had been. The life of the commercial center and metropolis had intruded on her only superficially, its influence limited to her clothing and speech. In these she mimicked the standards of her Cairo girlfriends and modern neighbors without understanding what she was imitating. Muhsin said he once heard her greet some female visitors before noon with ÒBonsoir, ladies.Ó Zanuba, like many other homely women, was aware of everything except her homeliness. She was quite amazed when she saw one of her acquaintances and neighbors become engaged and marry. Although she was lovely, thrifty, the lady of her house, perfect in every way, she still had no offers. She consoled herself by ascribing that to: ÒLuck, bad luck! May you never experience it! Nothing but that!Ó This she repeated to herself and others.

Even so, matchmakers had come to her more than once. One of them stopped her pitch as soon as she saw Zanuba, stood up, and, tucking her wrap around her, hastened to leave. Zanuba was sure the matchmaker was delighted and was going immediately to inform the groom. She scurried along beside her to the door of their apartment, whispering, "So, say nice things about me to him."

The matchmaker's smirk was hidden by her veil. She replied maliciously and sarcastically, "Well, sister, no one deserves praise but you!" and departed, never to return.

One day, however, there occurred a historic event in the life of Zanuba. On a day that hardly seems to have been part of her life, a rare, never to be repeated opportunity was offered her, but, alas, Mr. Hanafi, through his stupidity, idiocy, and naivetŽ, forfeited that unique opportunity. One afternoon, as luck would have it, good fortune-apparently grumpy at being slandered and unfairly censured-sent Zanuba a suitor who was an educated gentleman, a perfectly acceptable person, to ask for her hand directly, without recourse to a matchmaker or mother. He was apparently a good-hearted gentleman with upright intentions, or else a pious person who placed blind and unlimited trust in God.

This man came and met with Hanafi Effendi, a math teacher at the Khalil Agha school, since he was head of the household and its ranking member by age and position. He discussed the matter with him, saying that there was no need to delegate someone from his side to see the bride and that he would be satisfied with asking whether she was ugly. So long as she wasn't ugly or misshapen, he wouldn't demand anything more.

He asked the alleged "president" of the household his opinion of her with a polite, reserved look. The honorary head of the household, as they termed him, raised his head to the other man and gazed at him with nearsighted, inflamed, and diseased eyes. He turned toward him his misshapen, dust-colored face, which sun and sores had scorched and turned the color of the mud bricks used to build village houses, and put his hand to his fez, which he pushed back, revealing an ugly, scarred forehead. Then he said to the suitor warmly and vehemently, "No way! Never! Have no fear! Not bad at all! Rest assured! A piece of cake! This woman is as sound as a gold guinea-twenty-four carat! Look, sir. Have you observed me closely? The bride is my spitting image, a chip from the same block, because she's my full sister, born immediately after me."

The gentleman suitor was surprised and temporarily flustered. When he calmed down a little he began to look stealthily at Hanafi's ugly face, trying to hide his distress, disgust, and distaste. Finally, he muttered in a kind of whisper to himself, "Impossible . . . no way!"

Hanafi heard him and quickly tried to reassure him, "Impossible how? It's a sure thing, a fact!"

"Impossible!"

"Just don't trouble yourself at all, sir, about that aspect. You, sir, have nothing to worry about! She resembles me perfectly, my guarantee. Nothing for you to worry about."

The gentleman had scarcely succeeded in getting out of Hanafi's house; nothing was ever heard of him again.

Muhsin repeated his words in a flattering and cajoling way. ÒItÕs true. It was all Uncle HanafiÕs fault.Ó

Zanuba lowered her head and did not reply. She had to restrain herself from sighing. Muhsin was silent for a moment. Then he suddenly sat up as though remembering something. A smile, which he attempted to conceal, came to his lips. He tried to look earnest and said at once, "Auntie! Have you heard? Mustafa Bey downstairs is sick."

Zanuba raised her head. This woman who was almost forty blushed slightly, although she pretended to be calm. Trying to make her voice sound normal, she asked, "Sick? Who told you?"

Muhsin, noticing the effect of this news while pretending not to, said, "This morning I ran into his servant on the stairs. He was carrying a bottle of Epsom salts."

She fixed her eyes on him as though wanting to interrogate him and pump him for more information but gained control of herself right away. Then she lowered her eyes in embarrassment. She was silent for a long time. Muhsin began to survey her stealthily, with a merry, childish smile on his lips.

At last he pointed to the cards and asked mischievously, "Didn't the cards tell you?" She was temporarily flustered and did not answer. Muhsin looked at her for a moment. Then he asked abruptly, "What are you thinking about?"

The woman shuddered and stammered anxiously, "I'm thinking about something else."

Muhsin would not let her off the hook. "Something else? Like what, for example?"

His knowing tone embarrassed her, but she remained calm. At that moment her mind rescued her and her memory came to her aid. She found the presence of mind to reply in a reasonably relaxed voice, "I've been busy since this morning thinking about the neighbor's handkerchief that disappeared the day before yesterday from the roof." As soon as Zanuba said this, Muhsin's face changed color, turning first red and then yellow. He bowed his head straightaway. Zanuba didn't notice what had suddenly happened to Muhsin but seemed to feel she had discovered a topic that would rescue her from her plight. So she rattled on: "Saniya's silk handkerchief! Do you think it's true, Muhsin, that the wind blew it away?"

Muhsin did not reply; he wasn't even able to raise his head.

Zanuba continued, "By the Pure Lady, that talk just doesn't make sense to me. The wind blew it away? Does the wind make handkerchiefs fly off?"

Muhsin stammered, "Then what?"

She answered immediately, "No way! Do you take me for a fool? By your life, it was stolen!"

The boy looked at her fearfully and did not utter a word.

She continued, "By the dear Prophet, it has been stolen. Do you know who stole it?" When Muhsin didn't respond, she went on, "The person who stole it . . . is Abduh!"

Muhsin suddenly raised his head with obvious astonishment and joy. "Uncle Abduh?"

She answered critically, "He's the only bad character we've got."

Muhsin bent his head and did not utter a word.

She declared forcefully, "By the Prophet, I'll consult the astrologer tomorrow and find out."