The Beginning and the End

by Naguib Mahfouz

  “His brother.”

  The woman smiled. Standing aside, she asked, “Are you Master Hussein?”

  “No. Hassanein,” he muttered with amazement.

  Embarrassed and awe-stricken, he entered. Who was the woman and how did she know their names? Was Hassan married? He felt a shudder passing down his spine. Was it possible for his brother to marry such a woman? And for his mother to be her mother-in-law? He desperately wished her to be a mere mistress. The woman walked up to a door at the end of the corridor and knocked on it. When it opened after a while, Hassan appeared on the threshold. As though sensing his presence, Hassan’s eyes were riveted on his brother, and he exclaimed with astonishment and delight, “Hassanein!”

  With welcome and solicitude Hassan hurried toward his brother and shook hands with him. Before either opened his mouth, a number of men stealthily streamed out of the room in succession, casually glancing at Hassanein. Before departing some of them said to Hassan, “This afternoon, by God’s will, we’ll leave for Suez, and you’ll catch up with us tomorrow.”

  Then they left the flat. All wore gallabiyas, and their strange features drew one’s attention. Almost all their faces were disfigured. Hassanein grew anxious.

  Who are these men? he wondered. The members of the band? Impossible! Their features reminded him of the gangsters who appeared on the cinema screen. An appalling idea dawned on him; his brother’s flat was the lair of some outlaws. Casting a suspicious glance at Hassan, he saw that he was wearing a loose, lined garment. Hassan appeared vigorous and in good health, but there were two scars, as of two piercing stabs, above his left eyelid and on the left side of his neck. Good God! His brother, too, bore the marks of injuries received in criminal activities! Now perhaps it was possible to understand the real causes that kept his brother away from the family. Nodding to the room at the corridor’s end, Hassan said to the woman, “Put the room in order and collect the things that are scattered about.”

  Taking Hassanein’s arm, he went toward the bedroom. They entered. Closing the door behind them, Hassan seated his brother beside him on the sofa.

  “How are you?” he inquired. “How is Mother? How is Nefisa? What’s Hussein doing?”

  Absently, Hassanein told him the family news, adding whatever he knew about Hussein. Then, gently reproachful, he said, “You’ve stopped coming to see us as if we were strangers to you, which distresses my mother a great deal.”

  Shaking his head sadly, Hassan said, “I’m up to my ears in my life. But I’m reassured now that Hussein’s secured a job.”

  Affected by the changes he saw in his brother’s appearance, Hassanein wondered whether he was still attached to his family. Instinctively, he started to ingratiate himself with his brother before discussing the reason for his visit. Anxiously, he inquired about the scars. “What is this, brother?”

  “Traces of fights,” Hassan said, laughing. “My life was never free from fights. As a matter of fact, fighting has become one of my main duties in my new life.”

  Hassanein wanted to ask him about this new life. But again, instinctively, he avoided the subject. Life, which drove him to this forbidden house, had also driven Hassan to take up fighting as a means of making a living. How horribly humiliating their life had been! When we were playful children, who would have ever dreamt that such would be our fate? he thought. Hassan was a clever child. My father loved him more than any other living soul. Then my father changed, and it seemed as if he were Hassan’s enemy. But anyhow, nobody would have imagined that Hassan would end up in such a house as this. No doubt Hussein had realized the truth on his visit to this place last September. I wonder whether Mother knows everything!

  He could not possibly summon up the courage to pose this question frankly to his brother. Instead, he inquired cunningly, “What’s the connection between singing and fighting?”

  Hassan burst out laughing. “To many people, they’re the same thing,” he answered.

  At that moment, the voice of the woman reached them. “I’m going out. Do you want anything?”

  “Goodbye,” he responded curtly.

  Unable to contain his curiosity, Hassanein asked anxiously, “Have you married, brother?”

  “No.”

  Hassanein’s face exhibited obvious relief.

  “Does this please you?” Hassan inquired.

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “I prefer that you choose your wife from our milieu,” the young man said.

  Hassan frowned in disapproval. “She’s much better than many ladies; she loves me devotedly and gives me whatever money I ask her for,” he said.

  He was on the point of making a slip of the tongue, adding, “And from her own money I gave Hussein the funds he needed.” But out of mercy for his brother he stopped. In spite of the changes that had occurred in his character, Hassan’s sympathetic feelings toward his brother remained the same. Not even his resentment against him would change them. When he saw remorse and anxiety appear in the young man’s eyes, he said tenderly, “A wife’s devotion to her husband is, in one sense or another, utilitarian. But this woman’s devotion is pure and untainted. Life will teach you so many things which you now know nothing about.”

  Shaking his head, Hassanein pretended to be convinced. Ingratiatingly, he gave his brother a tender smile. Remembering what he had nearly forgotten, he addressed Hassan warmly, believing this would impart congeniality to the almost strained atmosphere. Laughing, he asked his brother, “When I was inquiring about your house, I learned that they call you the Head. What does this mean?”

  Hassan gave a loud laugh that restored his brother’s reassurance.

  “They call me that because of this,” Hassan said, pointing to his head. “Somehow, I sweat to earn my living.” Stretching out his hand, he butted it with his head. Then, casting a meaningful look at his brother, he laughed. “Or rather, I earned it by the blood of my forehead. We all have to sweat in order to live. But different organs sweat in different people.”

  Hassanein felt estranged from his brother. Pondering, he said sadly, “There are people who earn money without sweating at all!”

  Hassan, appearing not to comprehend the real meaning of his brother’s words, said enthusiastically, “It’s very clever, to earn one’s living with other people’s sweat!”

  Bored with this rambling conversation, Hassanein decided to discuss the reason for his visit. After remaining silent for a while, he said in a low voice, “I think you’ll be pleased to know that I’ve passed the baccalaureate exams.”

  “Congratulations. Of course, I’m pleased at whatever pleases you and Mother,” he shouted with delight. Scrutinizing the young man’s face, Hassan continued in a tone containing both irony and compassion: “You get a job. Then you go to Tanta or Zagazig. Isn’t that right?”

  Seizing the opportunity, the young man took a further step toward discussing the reason for his visit. “No. I intend to join the War College.”

  “The War College! Splendid! Thank God you haven’t decided on the Police College!”

  “The fees are too high.”

  “I don’t mean that. I mean I don’t like police officers!”

  Curious, the younger man stared at his brother.

  “Army officers are only meant for festivities,” Hassan said with a smile. “You see them marching before the Mahmal, and in big ceremonies, while the police officers are only interested in bringing about the destruction of people’s homes.”

  There was silence. The two brothers exchanged glances, Hassanein anxious and embarrassed, Hassan smiling knowingly. For a long time they remained in this posture until Hassan burst out laughing, followed by his brother, who lowered his eyes shyly. They went on laughing until both of them were tired.

  Then Hassan came right out and asked him, “How much?”

  Again, Hassanein laughed, his face flushing with embarrassment.

  “You mean the first installment of the fees,” he said. “I’m sorry to
tell you that it’s a considerable sum of money. But from Hussein’s money and what Nefisa promised to give me, I’ll manage to pay the second installment and the fees for next year as well.”

  As he recalled how the family used to consider him its black sheep, and how they now considered him their resort in time of distress, Hassan’s heart was filled with pride. However, this did not change his cordial feelings for his family; perhaps it intensified them.

  “How much is this considerable sum of money?” Hassan asked, smiling.

  “Twenty pounds,” Hassanein said fearfully.

  Despite himself, Hassan couldn’t keep the worry from his eyes. “Twenty pounds!” he exclaimed. “Our whole army isn’t worth that much money. Do you intend to join a college for field marshals?”

  Worried and confused, Hassanein waited. He kept silent until his brother resumed the conversation on a more serious plane. “This is a really big sum. Today, I can’t give you more than ten pounds.”

  A painful period of silence prevailed. Hassan snorted with annoyance.

  “I wish you had come to me a week earlier!” he exclaimed. “However, tomorrow I leave for Suez. Perhaps I’ll come back with what you need.”

  He was absorbed in his thoughts. Hassanein said in a low voice, “I’m sorry I’ve disturbed you.”

  Laughingly pinching him on the nose, Hassan teased him, “I know you’ve got a long tongue, so I’m surprised to find that you’ve learned to be so polite. Don’t worry. I’ll bring you what you want even if I have to murder a man and steal his wallet!”

  Hassan gave him the ten pounds, and asked him to convey his regards to his mother and sister, and to be wise enough not to disclose to them what he had seen in the alley. Thankfully pressing Hassan’s hand, Hassanein left the flat. As soon as he was alone, he said to himself in a heavy, melancholy voice, “Hassan’s life is a scandal we should conceal. Perhaps what’s hidden is worse and even more hideous.”

  Walking along the street absorbed in his depression, he felt nauseous and fearful. He could not help remembering his brother’s favors and kindness to him. Yet he could not forget the woman, the disfigured men, and Hassan’s two appalling scars; all this had been horrifyingly inscribed on the young man’s heart. Good heavens! How different from other human beings Hassan had become! He was no longer one of them or of the community in which they moved. Hassanein staggered as if a terrible blow had fallen on his head and knocked him unconscious. Walking rapidly, he was beset by a sense of catastrophe. His need for money, which had caused him to seek his brother’s assistance, accentuated his nausea and resentment.

  Desperate and defeated, he cursed his need from the bottom of his heart. More painful to him was the fact that he still needed his brother; after a few days he would return, begging for his help. Hassanein wondered how his brother would get the money in Suez. His heart did not lie to him. What he had already seen furnished enough evidence. In spite of all this, he would return to him, asking him to fulfill his agreement. Should he allow his anger to replace wounded pride? Would he actually return these pounds to his brother, shouting in his face that he disapproved of his filthy life?! He laughed hoarsely, realizing that he was foolishly daydreaming. He knew as well as Hassan that he would return of his own accord to accept the money with thanks and gratitude from him if he was kind enough to offer it. He could not help wishing his brother the best of luck, even though he knew he was going to steal it. As if to appease his gnawing conscience, Hassanein thought: To us, at any rate, he is a virtuous and generous brother!

  FIFTY-NINE

  That afternoon, Hassanein paid a visit to Ahmad Bey Yousri’s villa in Taher Street. He was, in fact, vigorously heading for the realization of his life’s dream, to join the War College or perish. He had climbed the stairs and now sat waiting in the drawing room, glancing absentmindedly about the garden. He saw it enveloped in mystery. His eyes moved among the elegant palm trees growing amidst tastefully arranged circlets of grass interspersed with rosebuds and surrounded by hedges of camomile. To relieve himself for a while of worry and preoccupation, he focused his attention on a wide circle of grass in the center of the garden between the entrance to the villa and the drawing room. In the middle of this circle stood a short, young palm tree, with a white trunk, rosebushes profusely covering the top, their branches touching it and the intertwining roses merging in a vast halo, whose red, green, and yellow hues blended in peace and harmony. He smiled without realizing it. An evening shadow crept over the garden area and part of the road behind it. Traces of the setting sun fell on the top story on the other side of the road, and the warm air was filled with the fragrance of the jasmine which mounted the fence. He wondered whether it would be possible one day for him to own such a villa! He imagined life there, the bedroom and the garden, the car and the respectable family that living in such a place usually involved. This was his second visit to Ahmad Bey Yousri’s villa, and in both cases the lava of frustrated ambition, discontent, and desire for life’s clean and respectable pleasures erupted from his volcanic breast. Most of all, he feared that his life would be as confined as that of his brother Hussein, and that, lacking any flowery prospect, he would spend the rest of his life striving for menial promotions from the eighth to the sixth grade. He felt he must have his full share of the world’s pure air and higher pleasures. Suddenly his thoughts were interrupted by the sight of a girl riding a bicycle through the left side of the garden. The girl was so absorbed in warily weaving her way on the mosaic paths between the circular flower beds that she paid no attention to anything around her. She was sixteen years old, slender, with a pure complexion and a blossoming bosom. She wore a long white dress, her head demurely bound with a small kerchief. Hassanein was so attracted to the movements of her legs pedaling up and down under the cover of her dress that he hardly made out her face. She disappeared behind the right wing of the villa before he could see what she looked like. His eyes glowed in watchful interest. He wondered who this girl might be, if she were not Ahmad Bey’s daughter. The image of Bahia with her soft, plump body and moonlike face came to him, beautiful and delicious but with nothing approaching this girl’s elegance. Remembering his sister, Nefisa, he wondered at the vast differences between creatures of the same species. The compassionate ache in his heart brought him back to himself with the realization that the sight of the cycling girl, the garden, the villa, and the chandelier of the reception room combined to stir in him ambition, revolt, and discontent.

  How wonderful it would be to possess this villa and lie with this girl! he thought. It’s not mere lust. It would be a symbol of power and glory to have this girl of good birth lying in my arms naked and surrendering, her eyelids closed, as though all the organs of her passionate body were clamoring, “My master.” This is life. Mount it, and you’ll mount a whole class!

  Again recalling Bahia, his pain intensified, mingled with something akin to remorse and shame. Then his thoughts were interrupted by the sound of footsteps from the direction of the stairs. Turning, he saw Ahmad Bey Yousri approaching in a white silk suit, a red rose in the lapel of his jacket. Hassanein stood up, went politely up to him, and bowed, greeting him with veneration. Smiling, the Bey welcomed him. He inquired, as they took their seats, “How is your family, my son?”

  “Remembering your favors, they kiss your generous hand,” Hassanein answered ingratiatingly.

  “You need not mention it,” the Bey murmured.

  The Bey was certain that shortly this young man would beg him to find him a job or transfer his brother to Cairo. This was the routine of his life every day. Though such requests irritated him, he actually liked them, and could not bear to see his house empty of people seeking his help.

  “What’s the matter, my son?” he said.

  “Your Excellency, I’m appealing to you for help, to intercede for me in joining the War College.”

  Astonished, the Bey seemed to have expected anything but this aristocratic request. Without hiding his surprise, he in
quired, “But what made you choose this narrow gate?”

  Distressed at the Bey’s astonishment, the young man at this moment developed a blind hatred for him, yet he continued to address him in the same polite and ingratiating manner. “Your Excellency, the government’s decision to enlarge the army affords me a golden opportunity this year that had never presented itself before. Furthermore, your intercession will be more important than anything else.”

  “What about the fees?” the Bey asked curtly.

  Once more he felt detestation for the Bey. He soon forgot about his request for exemption from the fees, or decided instead to put it off until some other time.

  “I’m ready to pay the entire fee,” he said, confident and reassured.

  The Bey pondered the matter.

  “The Under Secretary of State for the Ministry of War is an old friend. I’ll talk to him about it,” he said.

  Hurrying forward, Hassanein took the Bey’s hand to kiss it to express his gratitude. Withdrawing his hand, the Bey stood up, perhaps to end the interview. Hassanein bowed low over the man’s hand, saluted, repeated his thanks, and left the room, full of cheer and hope. Crossing the garden, he remembered the cycling girl. As he looked at the traces of the wheels on the path, her image flashed before his mind, but absorbed as he was in his hopes for the future, the vision soon passed away.

  SIXTY

  At the same hour, Nefisa was in Station Square. In supplication, the sky waited for the darkness of evening to fall, while the square bustled with hurrying human beings, animals, trams, and motorcars. On the pavement next to the statue of the Renaissance of Egypt, the girl stood waiting for a break in the traffic so that she could cross the street to the tram stop. She observed a man standing a few arm’s lengths away, looking curiously at her. She had learned to understand the real import of such looks. But overcome with astonishment, she wondered: Even this man!

  He was sixty, age lending to his body a sagging yet dignified appearance. In spite of the hot weather he wore a woolen suit; he carried an elegant fly whisk with an ivory handle, and his eyes were shielded by blue spectacles. His tarbush, slanting backward, revealed a broad forehead, the lower part of which was scorched by the sun, while above the marks left by the fringes of the tarbush, his skin was a brilliant white. His whiskers and the hair at the back of his head were likewise pure white. Held by curiosity and greed, she remained where she was, although the traffic had stopped. Turning her eyes, she found him still gazing at her. As though encouraged by her glances, he walked toward her with heavy steps. As he passed her, he whispered, “Follow me to my car.”