She returned to Shubra Street alone and remained at home until afternoon. Then she went to Taher Street, the so-called Quarter of the Wealthy. It was three blocks north of Nasr Allah alley; a side street with elegant villas and modern buildings on both sides. She asked some passersby the way to the Bey’s villa. It was a beautiful two-storied building surrounded by a blossoming garden. She gave her name to the porter as “widow of the late Kamel Effendi Ali.” He returned quickly and led her to a magnificent sitting room overlooking a wide terrace. The Bey, he told her, was dressing and would come soon. It seemed to her that she was kept waiting for a long time, but she stayed where she was, without removing her black veil, her mind too preoccupied with troubled thoughts to observe her luxurious surroundings. She had great faith in this great friend of her husband’s, of whom he often spoke with love and pride. She had herself witnessed the fruits of that friendship, manifested in the baskets of grapes and mangoes presented to them in their respective seasons. Her husband had spent most of his evenings in this villa, perhaps in the very same place where she now sat, playing on the strings of his lute far into the night. It was possible, then, that she might leave the villa comforted and recompensed. While she was thus absorbed in her thoughts, the inner door of the hall opened and in came the Bey, his body broad and tall, his plaited mustache carefully groomed. Courteously, the woman stood up. The Bey greeted her.
“Have a seat, please, madam,” he said gently. “You have honored us with your visit. God be merciful to your husband. He was a dear friend of mine and his loss distresses me, now and for the rest of my life.”
The woman saw this reception as a good omen and thanked him for his kindness. The Bey continued talking to her about her late husband until her eyes were filled with tears. She was even more moved by the situation itself and, motivated by an instinctive desire to stir up his sympathy, made no attempt to check her tears. Silence prevailed for some time. Despite her grief, she noticed that his mustache and whiskers were dyed, that he was overcareful about his appearance, and that he exuded a strong, fragrant smell of perfume. He inquired kindly about the purpose of her visit.
“Your Excellency,” she replied, “I came to seek your help in expediting the formalities for receiving my late husband’s pension. I’m told this may take months to settle.”
The man pondered. Then he said, “I will do my best. I’ll discuss the matter with the Under Secretary of State for the Ministry of Finance.”
Relieved, she thanked him. Hesitating for a moment, she said, “Your Excellency, our condition, and only God knows what it really is, requires quick action.”
“Yes, of course. I understand,” he said earnestly. “Do you need any help?”
What a question! She had nothing but those two pounds left over from the money she had found in her husband’s wallet. She wouldn’t have anything else till she received what was due of his salary. But how could she tell him that? She had never been in such a position before. One had to be shrewd and get used to it. Shyness kept her silent for a while. Then she said in a low voice, “Thank God, He has protected us. I can wait a little longer.”
The Bey was quite relieved by her answer. He had asked the question out of embarrassment and courtesy. His feeling of relief resulted from no inherent stinginess in his character, nor was it due to any resentment toward the idea of helping his friend’s widow. It was just that he was not in a position to help. In spite of his wealth, he usually spent all his money on himself and his family; so much so that nothing was left. Yet he was ready to help her, but only if she asked him for assistance. The woman was not aware that her husband had not been a friend of the Bey’s in the sense that the Bey understood the term. He might have been a friend of the third order. The Bey liked him and enjoyed his company and entertaining art, but had not considered him an equal or a friend like the rest of his friends among Beys and Pashas. But he was sincere in his desire to help the woman get her pension, in memory of the deceased, and to avoid any further obligation to help her. She stood up to take her leave and he saw her off respectfully. When she reached the street, she sighed hopefully. But she said to herself rather regretfully, “Had I been more courageous I’d not have lost that chance of help which I desperately need!”
EIGHT
Nefisa disappeared into the kitchen. Nobody knew where Hassan was. Their mother had gone to the Ministry of Education to find a solution to her problems. Thus Hussein and Hassanein were left to themselves for the first time since their father’s death. Hussein squatted cross-legged on the bed while his brother sat at his desk in a corner of the room twirling a pen between his fingers.
“Life no longer seems to be bearable!” he complained.
He expected an answer from Hussein, but the latter ignored his remark. Indignantly, Hassanein raised his eyes to him. As the youngest, it was not surprising that Hassanein should expect the others to solve his problems. He was annoyed with his brother’s silence.
“What do you think?” he asked.
“About what?” Hussein replied, pretending to miss the point.
“About what she said, of course! Do you think that our situation is really that bad?”
Hussein shrugged his shoulders. “Why should she lie?” he answered.
His brother’s eyes glistened with a gleam of hope. “To restrain us, of course!” he replied. “To frighten us and make us be careful! No wonder, for she has a harsh disposition. Had it not been for our father, we’d never have known any joy!”
“I wish we never had known it,” said Hussein sadly.
“What?” exclaimed Hassanein.
“If we’d never been pampered before, this new life to which we are doomed would be much easier for us!”
Overcome by fright, Hassanein answered, “Then you believe what she said? Is it true that our father has left us nothing? Wouldn’t the pension be enough to cover our expenses?”
“I believe everything she said. It’s the truth,” sighed Hussein.
“How are we to endure such a life?” Hassanein wondered anxiously. A sad smile hovered over Hussein’s lips. He shared his brother’s sorrow and anxiety but found it wiser to oppose him.
“We shall bear it as lots of others do,” he declared. “Do you think that everybody lives in prosperity, with a generous father to provide for him? Yet all human beings survive and don’t commit suicide!”
Hassanein became exasperated. He stared at his brother and exclaimed, “Your sangfroid is amazing!”
“If I agreed with you, you would renounce hope and burst out crying,” Hussein replied with a smile.
“Whoever yields to fate encourages it to impose further tyranny!”
The other boy smiled sarcastically. “Let’s revolt against fate,” he said teasingly, “and shout, ‘Down with Fate,’ just as we shouted, ‘Down with Hor.’ Didn’t ‘Down with Hor’ do us some good? But the other shout would not do us any good whatsoever.”
Distressed, Hassanein frowned and wondered, “Who can we appeal to now?”
Hassanein’s broad smile flattened his nose and it appeared at that moment as coarse as his mother’s.
“Only to God,” he answered curtly.
This answer added fuel to his anger. He did not doubt it, but he did not consider it enough. It is true that God is the resort of all people. Yet how numerous on earth are the hungry and distressed! He had never renounced his creed, but in his dread he was eagerly searching for a tangible means of security. He imagined that his brother was putting him off in the hope that he would leave him alone. But this only made him more obstinate.
“God has taken our father from us,” he said, “and left us without support.”
“He is our support,” said Hussein, as if he were deliberately trying to provoke his brother.
Hassanein burst out, “I’m not taken in by your pretended calmness. Do you really feel secure?”
Hussein listened to him with resentment and pain. Then, perhaps to hide his feelings, he said, “The believe
r would never feel anything but serenity.”
“I believe, but I am still worried!”
“Then your faith is weak,” said Hussein, not really believing his own words.
“Oh, let it be so!” Hassanein exclaimed indignantly. “I know some students who don’t hesitate to proclaim their doubts.”
“I know.”
“They are intelligent and well read.”
“Would you like to do the same?”
“No, I am not so much interested in reading,” he answered in fright. “You read too much yourself!”
“That’s right,” said Hussein with a smile, “yet I have never driven God out of my heart. To tell you the truth, we overdo it when we hold God responsible for our many calamities. Don’t you see, if God is responsible for our father’s death, he is not responsible for the small pension he left us.”
Hassanein felt that the conversation had drifted away from his true worries. He said, disturbed, “Tell me how we are going to live without our pocket money. Without movies or football. I was about to take up boxing!”
“Avoid whatever may cause our mother pain,” Hussein said with a frown. “If we cannot help her, let’s at least spare her unnecessary troubles. Remember, she is all alone. We have no uncles on either side of the family.”
“No uncles on either side! Indeed! However, this would have been much less humiliating if our sister had not become a dressmaker. Oh, my God! What will people say about us!”
Hussein became depressed. The word “dressmaker” was very painful to him, and he said angrily, “We can go on living without caring for what people say.” Then, to cut the conversation short, he stood up and left the room.
NINE
They were embarrassed as they entered the school yard for the first time after their father’s death. They could never resume their old life and everything would be changed. Nothing could be hidden from the rest of the students. That was so obviously painful to both of them. Only a few friends knew what had happened but soon the news spread around and their friends came to express their condolences. One of the students warned them: “Your family should choose the right guardian for you, for I never realized what a catastrophe my father’s death was until my uncle’s guardianship was inflicted upon me!”
A guardian! Hussein pretended to be listening to some pupils talking about the last demonstrations and the endeavors to present a united front, but he heard Hassanein’s answer to his friend: “We are quite sure of our guardian.”
“How lucky you are,” said his friend. “But it all depends on the sort of inheritance you got. In the case of land, it will be easy to cheat you. But if it is buildings, it wouldn’t be that easy for the guardian. That’s what my mother says.”
“Fortunately, our inheritance consists only of buildings,” Hassanein calmly replied.
Hussein listened, infuriated. He was not only vexed by these lies, but also feared their consequences. How could we face our new situation if the boys thought that we were wealthy? he wondered. What are we going to do, and what are we going to say? He is lying irresponsibly. Damn him! He gave a warning look to his brother, but, annoyed, the boy avoided his eyes. One of the pupils asked how their father had died. Hassanein replied, deeply moved, “We are told that he died suddenly. Amazingly enough, on the day of his death, in the morning when he saw me going out to school, just one hour before his death, he patted my shoulder tenderly and said, for no obvious reason, ‘Goodbye. Goodbye.’ How could I have known that he was bidding me farewell?” Nothing of that sort had really taken place and he did not know why he said it. It was still more curious that his words rang with true emotion, as though all of this had actually happened. What he said was impromptu, motivated by a mysterious urge to venerate his father. So surprised was Hussein by his brother’s description and show of emotion that he almost smiled. Averting his face, he saw the captain of the football team standing some distance away. He wanted to give vent to his pent-up feelings. He walked up to the captain and greeted him.
“Please,” he said, “release my brother and me from membership in the Shubra Club.”
The captain looked astonished. He was particularly troubled because Hassanein was the right wing on the team. “What’s troubling you?” he protested.
Hussein was touched. “Our father is dead,” he said.
The captain fell into deep silence, then gently expressed his sorrow. After several speechless moments, he inquired, “Need this really mean that the club should be deprived of two skillful members like you?”
“Mourning dictates it,” Hussein quickly replied.
“Mourning is not incompatible with sports,” said the captain with compassion.
“Our circumstances warrant this. I’m sorry,” said Hussein amiably.
He made his farewells and walked away, avoiding his eyes. Joining his friends, he found them discussing politics. One was saying, “God be merciful to the martyrs of the Faculties of Art, Agriculture, and Dar el-Ulum!”
“Sacrifices must be made,” said another, “for blood is the only language the British understand.”
“The pure blood of the martyrs has never been shed in vain.”
“Don’t you hear the call for unity now?” said a third.
“And here is The Times hinting at negotiations.”
The bell rang and, still arguing, they went to their classes.
TEN
Carrying their books, they silently crossed the courtyard of the house. “The Shubra Club football team will soon be starting its training for the next match!” said Hassanein as they went upstairs. Hussein did not answer. He kept imagining the playground and the players, and he mentally heard the voice of the captain telling the others of their withdrawal from the team “on account of the recent family circumstances.” There would be no play, no joy, and no escape from Hassanein’s continuous complaints. They knocked and were let in. Inside they stopped in astonishment at the strange, unexpected sight that met their eyes. They saw all the furniture of the house piled into the hall in complete disorder, the chairs on the sofa, the carpets rolled up, and the wardrobes undone. There stood Samira and Nefisa, their sleeves rolled up, covered with dust and sweating in spite of the mild weather.
“What’s the matter?” cried Hassanein.
“We are leaving this flat,” their mother answered.
“But where to?”
“Downstairs. We shall exchange flats with the landlady.”
A ground-floor flat, on the same level with the dusty courtyard and with no balconies! Its windows, which overlooked a side blind alley, all but exposed the rooms to the people passing by; no sunlight, no fresh air.
“But why?” asked Hassanein discontentedly, although he had already guessed the answer.
“Because the rent is only one pound and fifty piasters,” their mother replied in a clear voice.
“The difference in the rent is less than fifty piasters. It doesn’t match the difference between the two flats!” the young man complained.
“Would you undertake to pay that little difference?” the mother asked indignantly.
“Why, then, did we allow Nefisa to become a dressmaker?”
His mother gave him a fiery look. “So that we can eat!” she cried. “To keep you from dying of hunger!”
Trying to keep his face pleasant and not show any resentment, Hussein asked his mother, without a trace of objection, “When did all this take place, Mother?”
“I suggested it to the landlady, and did not hide anything from her,” the woman replied as she wiped her forehead with the sleeve of her black dress. “She was good enough to agree without hesitation.”
“If she were really good, she would let us stay in our flat without asking for the difference in the rent!” Hassanein grumbled.
“People have other things to attend to than your welfare!” His mother answered sharply.
“How are we going to sleep tonight?”
In a downcast voice, which indicated that she
had not yet recovered from the shock of her father’s death, Nefisa answered, “We shall sleep in the new flat.”
At that moment Hassan emerged from his dead father’s bedroom carrying the peg, the last piece of furniture. “Stop bickering,” he said quickly, “and let’s take the furniture downstairs. We have only two hours before dark.”
Wishing them to follow his lead, he lifted one side of a sofa, saying to his brother Hussein, “Lift the other end.”
Nefisa opened the door wide, and the two brothers passed through with their load. Going carefully downstairs, Hussein wondered if anyone in the family of their good neighbor Farid Effendi Mohammed, who lived on the third floor, would see them.
Separation, he thought, is not the worst part of death. It is only secure people who experience sadness on account of their separation from the ones they have lost. But as for us, our troubles succeed one another so fast that they leave us no time to be sad. How our condition deteriorates! But we have to be patient or at least to pretend that we are. The worst thing we can do is increase, through our anxiety, the misery of our mother. I shall speak more firmly to Hassanein! Their mother and sister followed with whatever pieces they could carry. Hassanein could not bear to stand there as a spectator, so he joined them. The members of the family climbed up and down the stairs, moving in. The landlady had emptied her flat and all her furniture was lying in the courtyard. Her porters were standing nearby awaiting their turn to start working. All the members of the family, whether or not they showed their emotions, shared the same feelings of sorrow and pain. Samira’s face was not easy to decipher, but Nefisa’s eyes were filled with tears. Hassan was working hard as if to ingratiate himself with his mother through his labor, lest she criticize him for his idleness. Being used to a vagabond’s life, it was natural that, of the three brothers, he should be the least affected by the radical change that had been visited upon the family. Panting with exertion, Hassanein whispered to Hussein, “Don’t you see that we will never make up for the loss of our father?” Two tears rolled down his cheeks.
The Beginning and the End Page 4
