intelligence.
“Listen! Listen! It’s quite easy. What everyday action can turn you into someone filthy?”
He looked around triumphantly and then gave the answer himself. “Walking down the street. That makes you a streetwalker, a prostitute. Ha ha ha!”
Very good, very good, a nice riddle. The cherub clapped her hands, all worked up by her brother-in-law’s ingenious invention. “Indecent!” thundered Adma. Indecent were the kisses exchanged by Alfeu and Fárida between mouthfuls; intolerable was the satisfied belching of Ibrahim, his belly full. She didn’t dare interrupt Raduan Murad, but she tightened her face as she listened to him declaiming poetry in Arabic about women and wine: filth! Immune to the noisy jollity, apart from the general well-being, intolerant and unhappy. At a certain moment, in order to serve the coffee better, Samira leaned over in front of Jamil, and her neighbor had no way of preventing his eyes from landing on theopen neck of her dress. That was enough for Adma to lock her sister in a deadly stare, along with the hateful guest and the heedless riddler. Jamil trembled.
The malignant look of accusation and repugnance followed Jamil outside when, after dinner, gathering up his courage, Ibrahim asked the gentlemen present. “Shall we take a walk around the square, to help digest our food?”
With the exception of Alfeu, still on his honeymoon, as has been noted, and Esmeraldino, who started along but held back when Samira wanted to know, “So who’s going to take me home?” addressing her husband without taking her roguish eyes off Jamil.
The others picked up their hats and headed for the whorehouse. Raduan Murad wondered if there was still any salvation for poor Adma. Maybe it was too late and neither young Adib, with his adolescent gawkiness, or the gigantic Jamil, with his immense tool, could rescue her from her madness, from the fires of hell, save her from the curse of her hardened virginity and teach her, in bed, the love of life.
13
Ibrahim stopped midsentence. He tried to get up from his chair and slipped down under the table, from where they pulled him up with the help of the waiters. The meeting was adjourned, and Jamil resolved to take his countryman to the door of his house. He would never get there by himself. His legs wouldn’t hold him up.
Sad and weepy, Ibrahim had spent most of the night thinking about the dead woman. All that love was very moving for the whores who had gathered around the table to listen to him. Some of them had known Sálua when she was behind the counter at the Bargain Shop, where they went to shop for adornments for their dresses, fine combs, fancy rings. A married and rich lady owner—and such a beauty!—Sálua had made no distinctions among her customers, treating all of them with the same courtesy, whether mothers with a family or licentious harlots.
Sharing Ibrahim’s feelings, they remembered that during his wife’s lifetime he was a model husband—a terrible example for the community in the majority opinion of the heads of families. He never frequented the cabaret, nor did he spend the night in bawdy houses, and if he did happen to do so, it was with an idea to forget it, but he never forgot. On the occasion of a festive dinner at home, so frequent when she was alive, so rare after her death, the weight of her absence became unbearable. Cockeye Paula, the sentimental reader of serialized novels that came out every Thursday, would burst into tears. A love like the one that joined Sáluaand Ibrahim could be found only in the one between Paul and Virginie, and even then!
Jamil had come to realize that the widower had very little or no wisdom at all, never going beyond being just a nice fellow. He would listen to his laments with silent sympathy as he got ready to take him home. Raduan Murad had left sometime earlier, off to his duties at the poker table, but Jamil could count on the help of Glorinha Goldass and Cockeye Paula. Among
“Listen! Listen! It’s quite easy. What everyday action can turn you into someone filthy?”
He looked around triumphantly and then gave the answer himself. “Walking down the street. That makes you a streetwalker, a prostitute. Ha ha ha!”
Very good, very good, a nice riddle. The cherub clapped her hands, all worked up by her brother-in-law’s ingenious invention. “Indecent!” thundered Adma. Indecent were the kisses exchanged by Alfeu and Fárida between mouthfuls; intolerable was the satisfied belching of Ibrahim, his belly full. She didn’t dare interrupt Raduan Murad, but she tightened her face as she listened to him declaiming poetry in Arabic about women and wine: filth! Immune to the noisy jollity, apart from the general well-being, intolerant and unhappy. At a certain moment, in order to serve the coffee better, Samira leaned over in front of Jamil, and her neighbor had no way of preventing his eyes from landing on theopen neck of her dress. That was enough for Adma to lock her sister in a deadly stare, along with the hateful guest and the heedless riddler. Jamil trembled.
The malignant look of accusation and repugnance followed Jamil outside when, after dinner, gathering up his courage, Ibrahim asked the gentlemen present. “Shall we take a walk around the square, to help digest our food?”
With the exception of Alfeu, still on his honeymoon, as has been noted, and Esmeraldino, who started along but held back when Samira wanted to know, “So who’s going to take me home?” addressing her husband without taking her roguish eyes off Jamil.
The others picked up their hats and headed for the whorehouse. Raduan Murad wondered if there was still any salvation for poor Adma. Maybe it was too late and neither young Adib, with his adolescent gawkiness, or the gigantic Jamil, with his immense tool, could rescue her from her madness, from the fires of hell, save her from the curse of her hardened virginity and teach her, in bed, the love of life.
13
Ibrahim stopped midsentence. He tried to get up from his chair and slipped down under the table, from where they pulled him up with the help of the waiters. The meeting was adjourned, and Jamil resolved to take his countryman to the door of his house. He would never get there by himself. His legs wouldn’t hold him up.
Sad and weepy, Ibrahim had spent most of the night thinking about the dead woman. All that love was very moving for the whores who had gathered around the table to listen to him. Some of them had known Sálua when she was behind the counter at the Bargain Shop, where they went to shop for adornments for their dresses, fine combs, fancy rings. A married and rich lady owner—and such a beauty!—Sálua had made no distinctions among her customers, treating all of them with the same courtesy, whether mothers with a family or licentious harlots.
Sharing Ibrahim’s feelings, they remembered that during his wife’s lifetime he was a model husband—a terrible example for the community in the majority opinion of the heads of families. He never frequented the cabaret, nor did he spend the night in bawdy houses, and if he did happen to do so, it was with an idea to forget it, but he never forgot. On the occasion of a festive dinner at home, so frequent when she was alive, so rare after her death, the weight of her absence became unbearable. Cockeye Paula, the sentimental reader of serialized novels that came out every Thursday, would burst into tears. A love like the one that joined Sáluaand Ibrahim could be found only in the one between Paul and Virginie, and even then!
Jamil had come to realize that the widower had very little or no wisdom at all, never going beyond being just a nice fellow. He would listen to his laments with silent sympathy as he got ready to take him home. Raduan Murad had left sometime earlier, off to his duties at the poker table, but Jamil could count on the help of Glorinha Goldass and Cockeye Paula. Among
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