The Beginning and the End

by Naguib Mahfouz

  Always expecting profitable work for Nefisa from Mrs. Zeinab’s visits, Samira was seldom disappointed. Her mind was never free from the worries of life, even after the passage of almost a year. She was particularly worried now about the approaching summer holidays, when she could expect to shoulder the additional task of providing her two younger sons with food at home in place of the meals they took at school. And so she was complaining to Mrs. Zeinab of her troubles during the last months, and the landlady was consoling and encouraging her, when Nefisa came back with the coffee. Wanting to explain her reasons for paying this visit, Mrs. Zeinab smiled sweetly and good-naturedly and said, “I’ve brought you a new bride.”

  “Then I’m entitled to call myself the bride’s dressmaker,” Nefisa replied, laughing with pleasure.

  “I pray to God that you will soon be making your own wedding dress.”

  “Amen,” Samira murmured.

  Nefisa’s gloomy memories were stirred by her mother’s invocation, and she said “Amen” to it in her innermost heart. When shall I become a bride? she wondered. Not before Amm Gaber Soliman dies. How ironical! To cherish such a hope has cost me both body and soul. It is possible for Mother to conceive of what has happened? She thinks of the worries of everyday life as the greatest calamity. But how ignorant and miserable of her to think so!

  “Who is this new customer?” the mother inquired.

  “The new bride is the daughter of Amm Gobran el-Tuni, the grocer.”

  At the sound of this unforgettable name, Nefisa’s senses were jolted. “Does his shop lie at the intersection of Shubra and Al Walid streets?” she asked, her heart beating violently.

  “Exactly.”

  “Nefisa, I see you’ve become as well-informed as a roving detective,” her mother said, laughing.

  The girl laughed mechanically. Surely it is she, she thought. The girl whom Amm Gaber wanted his son Soliman to marry, as Soliman himself has told me. Her marriage will clear the way for me; it will remove the nightmarish thoughts of her that weigh so heavily upon me.

  “Is Gobran el-Tuni well off?” the mother inquired.

  “He is rich enough.”

  “Who’s the bridegroom?”

  “He is nearer than you may imagine him to be,” the woman said, laughing. “It is Soliman, the son of Amm Gaber Soliman, the grocer.”

  “Soliman!”

  Nefisa uttered the name as one would utter a cry. The two women looked at her in astonishment. Thinking that she was surprised to learn that such a girl would accept marriage to a trifling young man like Soliman, the landlady said, “Yes, Soliman. It seems the bride’s father didn’t object, since he is a friend of Amm Gaber. As you see, God bestows the goods of life on whomever He pleases.”

  Despite the magnitude of the shock, Nefisa realized that she had almost given away her scandalous secret. With a strenuous effort, she composed herself to counteract the bleeding cry which had burst out of her breast and escaped her lips. She no longer felt able to follow the conversation and an overpowering feeling of death quickly overtook her. The surrounding darkness seeped in to conceal her features, but she had to press her fingers together painfully to prevent herself from letting out another cry. What did the man say? She could not believe her senses, but she knew she was not demented or tormented by a mere nightmare. Undoubtedly this was the bare truth. Surely the bridegroom was Soliman Gaber Soliman, and nobody else. Memories of old fears, which she had experienced from time to time in her solitary hours, returned to her. Sometimes these were mysterious, like a gnawing worry that dug its fingernails into the flesh of her breast; sometimes they were tangible fears, assuming hideous shapes that caused her to shudder. In her agony she was for a moment under the illusion that she was merely having a nightmare. But this hallucination lasted no more than a moment, after which she was invaded once more by the heavy, dreadful feeling that she was dying. Together with her family, she had already experienced life’s cruelty, but it had never occurred to her that life could be so cruel. She bit her lips, not knowing how to resist the sense of disintegration that was overtaking her body and soul. It was not just frustration in love. It was the sense of the futility of human existence itself. However, she knew she must control herself. Their guest might speak to her at any moment, and her answers must not betray any tremor or tearfulness in her voice. Perhaps it would be safer to flee for a while. Without hesitation she picked up her cup of coffee and retired to the kitchen. There, a deep breath emerged from the depths of her soul; she pulled at her braids, and gazed at the kitchen ceiling, smudged with smoke, its corners covered with cobwebs. Like a person possessed, she remained transfixed. Then it was not a hope I have been cherishing, she thought, but a fraud, a terrible fraud, a fatal blow, a robbery, a stain, a wound that will never heal I am done for; undoubtedly done for. It is impossible for my mother, let alone for Hussein and Hassanein, to conceive of what has happened.

  Oh, God! How was it possible for him to deceive her to that extent?! They were together only last Friday! What a criminal! And how heinous his crime! But what use was her anger? She felt a merciless, poisonous detestation for him. But she recognized the great need to think the matter over and prepare herself for what was to come. She was eager to escape from her surroundings, her big living circle, for which she had developed so much abhorrence, to a remote, solitary place where she could ask herself this question: Nefisa, how did you fall into the abyss so easily, so readily, so degradingly?

  On hearing her mother call, she shook with terror. At that moment she was extremely angry with her mother, and she came near even to hating her. She remained motionless. Her mother called her again. Clenching her teeth, she moved away. She saw their guest getting ready to leave, her mother seeing the woman off at the front door.

  “Come to me the day after tomorrow,” the landlady said as she shook hands with Nefisa. “We shall go together to the bride’s house.”

  Without a word, Nefisa nodded her approval. When the door was closed, her mother said, “Soliman! By God, he doesn’t deserve such good luck!”

  Nefisa felt a dagger stabbing her heart. She uttered not a word of comment. Sick of the place and its surrounding atmosphere, she realized that she could not bear to stay with her mother. Acting on a sudden impulse as scorching as a flame, she walked steadily to her room and returned wearing her overcoat.

  “Are you going out?” her mother asked in surprise.

  “Yes. To buy something for supper,” Nefisa replied as she went toward the door. “Perhaps I’ll spend an hour in Farid Effendi’s flat.”

  THIRTY-THREE

  Breathing heavily and with difficulty, Nefisa reached the courtyard of the house. The clear sky was studded with stars and the cool weather was punctuated by the gentle breezes of budding spring. She walked up to the gate, then dauntlessly proceeded to Amm Gaber’s shop. The old man was busy toting up the day’s accounts, while his son Soliman stood with an elbow on the counter, staring absently between his fingers. Drawing near, she cast a sharp, fiery glance at him. He raised his two tiny eyes toward her. A look of confusion and alarm suddenly appeared in them.

  “Can I help you, Miss Nefisa?” he asked warily. She answered with steadiness and determination, “Follow me at once!”

  He nodded affirmatively, pretending to give her something from the shop. She went out to the street and stood waiting at the top of the alley, carefully inspecting her surroundings. She felt relieved at what she was doing. She could not possibly wait until the next morning. She kept looking about the alley until she saw him hurrying toward her with confused steps, wearing a jacket over his gallabiya.*

  How mean and cheap, she thought. Disgusting. How disgusting! A deceiver, an impostor, and a liar. What would she do? Would she lie prostrate at his feet, wailing and begging? Would she plead with him to remain hers alone? This seemed to her at once monstrous and detestable. Yet it provoked in her profound, inexpressible feelings. Only one hour before, she had considered him her man, and herself his
wife. She had even thought that to perish was more tolerable than to see herself separated from him. Once a worthwhile human being, she had now become worthless…absolutely worthless. How dreadful was the void ahead of her, how murderous her despair! Soliman approached her warily and, without turning to her, inquired, “What’s wrong?”

  His voice drove her to exasperation, but she suppressed it. “Follow me to Al Alfi Street,” she said, still walking on.

  She went by way of a back street to avoid the inquisitive eyes watching her. She slowed her steps until he caught up with her. Losing patience, she suddenly addressed him.

  “Don’t you have any news for me?”

  “What news?” he inquired anxiously and fearfully.

  His equivocating attitude enraged her. With biting sharpness, she snapped, “Don’t you really know what I am asking about? Stop deceiving me!”

  Fear-stricken and sighing with resignation, he muttered, “You mean the business of the marriage…”

  “Of course. Don’t you think that’s worth asking about?” she answered with bitter sarcasm.

  “It’s my father,” he said, complaining.

  “Always ‘my father’!” she cried, her body convulsing with fury and agitation. “Are you a man or a woman?”

  “A man who can’t prove his worth,” he said submissively, with sheepish resignation.

  “You mean a woman.”

  “God forgive you. The only thing I hear from you or from him is scolding and reproof. What can I do?”

  She cast a fiery glance at him; her breast overflowing with disgust. A woman! A coward! Pitiful! How could I have loved him? How could I have degraded myself so much as to yield to him? To her, the worst of the world’s miseries and tortures was the fact that it was she who made advances to him, desperately clutching at him and making obsequious attempts to get him back.

  “What a mean, complaining, bewailing person you are! How could you betray me after what had happened? How could you hide this news from me? Answer me!” she shouted at him.

  “My father did what he wanted, against my will. He disregarded my wishes, and I had two alternatives: either submit to his will or die of hunger,” he said with a snort.

  “Why don’t you look for a job in another shop?”

  “I can’t. I can’t,” he muttered in a desperate tone.

  “What a mean coward! Don’t you know what this means to me?” she said.

  “I know. It’s a pity,” he answered in a voice dripping with sorrow. “God only knows how distressed and sorry I am…”

  She threw a sharp look at him. His sorrowful tone drove her to the point of murderous detestation.

  “Distressed and sorry!” she said in a quivering voice. “What use is your distress and sorrow to me? Distress alone cannot undo mistakes. What use is your sadness to me? You brought me to a fatal predicament. So you shouldn’t let me down like this. Don’t you know that?”

  He seemed perplexed and tongue-tied. Looking at her in fear, he gave no answer. She was provoked by his silence as much as by what she felt sure was a pretense of sorrow.

  “What am I to do now?” she said.

  Swallowing hard, he said in a low, disconnected voice, “I am very sorry. I realize how difficult this is for you. How painful it is to me! But…I mean…What can I do?”

  “Reject this marriage! That’s the only way to save me!” She spoke with rancor, barely able to suppress her upsurging passion.

  “Reject it? It’s too late now!” he answered. His reply increased her exasperation.

  “You must reject it, and it’s not too late. You must think of me. Your rejection of this marriage is my only hope of salvation.”

  He was frightened. “I can’t do that,” he said in a hopeless tone.

  Overcome by despair, she realized that she could expect nothing from this unmanly weakling.

  “You were able to do what you have already done. You were able to accept marriage to that girl. But you can’t repair the mistake. You won’t extend a hand to save me,” she cried passionately.

  “How distressed I am! My sorrow for you knows no bounds!”

  “What use is this sorrow to me?” Encountering only silence, she shouted in his face, “What use is your sorrow?”

  “What can I do?” he murmured.

  Seized by a demon of furious despair, she turned on him. As swift as lightning she leapt upon him and, not knowing what she was doing, gripped him by his clothes.

  “You ask me what you can do!” she cried. “Do you take me for a plaything that you can throw away whenever you like?!”

  “Nefisa! Behave reasonably! We’re in the street,” he said, trying in vain to snatch his jacket from her grip.

  “A coward, a scoundrel, mean and treacherous!” she cried.

  She withdrew her hand quickly, and with all her might, she struck him twice in the face with her fist. She saw blood streaming from his nose. She was out of breath, her agitated heart beating violently and irregularly. Soliman felt his nose with his hand, then stretched it out to protect his eyes. Taking a handkerchief from his pocket, he pressed it to his mouth and nose. Contrary to what she expected, he appeared calm and silent. In the beginning he was frightened. But now his fear was superseded by a curious sense of relief, as though he had passed the danger point and there was nothing more to fear. Thus for him the crisis was resolved, the danger over, and after this spilled blood, her moral claim upon him dropped away.

  Quietly and patiently he said, “May God forgive you, Nefisa. I excuse you.”

  She was incensed by his words. Once more she was driven by an insane impulse. Without thinking, she leapt upon him again, and seized him by his clothes, as if to keep him from escaping. Terror-stricken, he lost his composure. Suddenly he snatched at his jacket, freeing it from her grip.

  “Don’t touch me!” he cried, stepping backward. “Go away! Go away! You have no claims on me.”

  She continued her assault; he pushed her, shouting in frightened agitation, “Don’t touch me! I didn’t force you! You came home with me of your own accord. If you touch me I’ll call the police!”

  He continued to step backward until he was some distance away from her, then turned on his heels and fled.

  She was transfixed, her body shaking violently. She lost control of herself. The whole thing seemed to her a dream, or the hallucination of an overheated mind, in no way related to reality. She was not quite sure that the physical objects around her, the street, the tree, the lamppost, and the passersby, actually existed. Everything seemed remote from the world of reality. She regained her bearings only when she burst out weeping, burning tears overflowing from the depths of her heart.

  * * *

  *A long, robelike garment typically worn by members of the lower classes in Egypt.

  THIRTY-FOUR

  Soliman was wiping the counter. He saw the shadow of someone reflected on it. Raising his head, he found Hassan standing before him. His body shivered with horror as though he were struck by a thunderbolt. There before him stood Hassan, tall, his hair bristling, the color of his suit faded with wear, his eyes emitting a sharp light, violent and daring.

  I’m done for, Soliman thought. My hour is drawing near if Nefisa has confided her secret to him. He cast a silent glance at Hassan, like a mouse watching a cat.

  “Peace be upon you,” was Hassan’s salutation, his resonant voice echoing painfully in Soliman’s fearful ears.

  “May the peace of God, His mercy and blessing, be upon you.” Amm Gaber’s answer came from behind his desk. “How are you, Master Hassan?”

  Soliman was too terrified to reply to the salutation. This is no greeting, he thought. It’s an evil omen. Oh, God! How did I allow myself to have an affair with a girl who has such a brother!

  “Thanks be to God,” Hassan said. “I’ve come to speak to you about an important matter.”

  He knows about the affair, Soliman thought. Now my father will know of the scandal. The devilish man is drawing near.
Raising the ledge of the counter, he quickly slipped into the shop. I’m just a few inches from the devil’s grip. How foolish of me to have an affair with Nefisa! I wish Hassan would give me a chance to renounce this forthcoming marriage and undo my mistake.

  Hassan leaned over the desk, supporting his hands on the edge. He kept turning his eyes from father to son. Expecting to receive a terrifying blow, Soliman lowered his head.

  “I’ve learned that Soliman is to be married,” Hassan said.

  “By God’s will,” Amm Gaber answered. “We hope your marriage, too, will soon occur.”

  “When will the wedding ceremony be held?”

  “In the very near future, by God’s will.”

  “Amm Gaber, we are neighbors, and I think I am the right singer for the occasion,” Hassan said, rapping his fingers on the desk.

  Soliman’s small eyes opened wide. He could not believe his ears. So this was the purpose of his visit! How could he forget that Nefisa would die rather than tell her secret to this tyrannical brother! He laughed twice, then burst out into uncontrollable, hysterical laughter. Surprised, his father and Hassan looked at him scoldingly. He stopped laughing at once.

  “Without your singing, the wedding party will be nothing,” he said to Hassan genially.

  Hassan smiled in satisfaction.

  Afraid of the consequences of this foolish promise, Soliman’s father added, “With the greatest pleasure, Master Hassan. Personally I don’t object. But I’m afraid the bride’s father may have a different idea.”

  Hassan looked at him suspiciously. “The bridegroom has the final say in this matter,” he said.

  “We prefer to have you, Master Hassan,” Amm Gaber said gently, “but give me time to consult with Amm Gobran el-Tuni.”

  Hassan pondered this. “Thank you, Amm Gaber,” he replied, “but I would like to remind you of the advantages of having me sing at the wedding party. The most important, in my view, is that nobody, however strong and evil-intentioned, would dare to break into the party, as often happens.”