The Beginning and the End

by Naguib Mahfouz

  So he was the object of their drunken slanders! What did they say? He should have taken all this into consideration when he had proposed to the Bey’s daughter. Smiling faintly at his friend, he said, “I believe you, and I appreciate your sincerity. But I beg you to repeat to me everything that was said, word for word.”

  Ali al-Bardisi looked disgusted. With extreme distaste, he replied curtly, “He said many things about one of your brothers. I was so indignant that I told him about a highwayman in our village whose brother is a minister in Cairo!”

  Hassanein’s face turned pale. His friend’s defense offended him as much as the charge itself. Yet he said with a desperate laugh, “Usually, a friendly eye sees the minister, while an unfriendly eye only sees…Anyhow, forget about it. What else?”

  “Foolish talk of this sort,” the friend said evasively.

  Hassanein was suddenly overcome with annoyance and impatience. “Please!” he exclaimed. “Don’t hide anything from me, please!”

  Embarrassed, Ali al-Bardisi said, “I loathe speaking about a lady’s honor.”

  “You mean my sister?”

  “He said that she worked to earn her living. And I angrily gave him to understand that there’s nothing to be ashamed of in any honorable work. Poverty isn’t a crime.”

  Shaking his head, Hassanein reiterated his friend’s words with painful irony. “ ‘Poverty isn’t a crime.’ Splendid! What else did he say?”

  “Nothing.”

  That’s enough! Hassanein thought. A brother who is a highwayman and a sister who is a dressmaker, a mere worker. How could I dare to propose to the daughter of an illustrious Bey?

  “I believe,” al-Bardisi said, “you made a mistake in proposing to the daughter of such a faultfinding family.”

  “You’re right,” Hassanein murmured with a sickly smile. I’m up to my ears in the mud, he thought. My only way out is to smash the head of Ahmad Rafat. But will it actually change my circumstances? No. It’s useless to defend myself in this way. Yet I should always remember an important fact: that is, with a strong blow a man can compel people to respect him. Thank God, I lack neither courage nor strength, and I’m capable of dealing such a blow. Hassan was the lowest of our family but he was the most feared and respected: a useful lesson I should not forget.

  Then he heard his friend consoling him: “You shouldn’t care too much.”

  Shrugging his shoulders, Hassanein pretended indifference. “This is well-reasoned advice,” he said. “There’s nothing in our family to be ashamed of. One day we were rich. Then poverty struck us. We faced it with courage, and we managed to overcome it. There’s nothing shameful in this.”

  “On the contrary, one should be proud of it.”

  Hassanein suddenly stamped the ground with his foot, his eyes bloodshot with anger. “But I know how to deal with anyone who insults me.”

  “Of course you do.”

  In the ensuing painful silence, for lack of anything better to do al-Bardisi ordered two more glasses of beer.

  “You can find a better girl,” he murmured with a smile.

  “Oh! Girls in this country are more plentiful than air and cheaper than dust.”

  To quench his thirst, he swallowed gulps of beer, while his friend stared into his drink. Silence fell upon them again.

  Ah! Hassanein thought. I wish I could be born all over again, in a new family and with a new past. But why should I torment myself with futile hopes? This is me and this is my life, and I won’t allow anyone to destroy it. The battle is not over yet.

  EIGHTY-FIVE

  Al-Bardisi bade him goodbye. As he left the Casino, the combined effect of the shock and the beer almost unhinged Hassanein’s mind. Above all, he desired, at whatever cost, to give vent to his pent-up feelings. Yet he knew that a confrontation with Ahmad Rafat would be foolish indeed. Anger made him think of more serious plans. It’s useless to be angry with this conceited young man, Hassanein thought. He heard something nasty and only repeated it. If in the future I have any opportunity to provoke him, I won’t pass it by. But I shall put off the idea of punishing him until the opportunity arises. My real target is the Bey himself with his dyed mustache. I shall tell him that the least he should have done was to preserve the dignity of a man who asked for his daughter’s hand, especially the son of an old friend. If he denies my charge I’ll confront him with conclusive evidence, pointing out to him that poverty is no disgrace, while slandering people is mean and shameful. And if he becomes offended, which in his illustrious position he is bound to be, I won’t be sparing in giving expression to my anger until I’ve got it out of my system. Under the influence of beer and bitter feelings, he flung himself inside the first tram to arrive and rode as far as Station Square. There he boarded another which took him to Taher Street.

  When he saw Ahmad Bey Yousri’s villa, his footsteps became heavy, as if he desired to have more time to think over what he intended to do. From the depths of his mind, voices clamored for his withdrawal. But these were silenced by the heat of the passion that kept driving him to the villa until he found himself in front of the porter. The latter rose respectfully. Without asking permission, he forced his way toward the interior of the villa. Though he was aware of the foolishness of his behavior, he did not stop. The rose and camomile bushes seemed to be slumbering in the slanting rays of the sun. In the middle path he saw the traces of the motorcar wheels in the form of two broad, curving lines. He advanced toward the entrance hall, the vacillation and uncertainty which punctuated his determination showing that he was not entirely convinced of the soundness of his motives. Nevertheless, he climbed the stairs with unexpected determination. On reaching the veranda, a sudden surprise, which his delirious mind had never anticipated, caused him to halt in his tracks. There he saw the Bey’s daughter in flesh and blood sitting in a big chair. Lifting her eyes from a book, she looked inquiringly at the newcomer. Immobile in his amazement, he focused his eyes on her. A profoundly withering sense of shame struck him to his very roots. He realized that he faced a situation in which any shameful surrender to weakness would mean subjection to new humiliation, more degrading than all that had gone before. Encouraged anew by his fears, he got control of himself, determined to find a courageous and dignified way out of this dilemma. Bowing his head respectfully, he said with a gentle smile, “Good evening, miss. Excuse me for this unintended disturbance. May I see the Bey?”

  It was the first time he heard her voice. With complete self-composure she said gently, “Sorry, my father is indisposed today.”

  He bowed his head again, relieved by this unexpected way out. On the point of leaving, he said, “Farewell.” He had already turned on his heels and taken two steps away from her. Then he halted with sudden determination. His passivity had disappeared, giving way to irresponsible anger. The strange state of emotion that drove him from Heliopolis to the Bey’s villa returned to him.

  Turning around, he faced the girl once more with an audacity disrespectful to her proud eyes. He said in too loud a voice, which the situation did not require, “Sorry. It pains me to say farewell to this house without expressing my thoughts.”

  Not uttering a single word, she looked at him inquiringly.

  “I think you were told that I had asked for your hand?” he asked.

  Lowering her eyes, she said, “I’m not accustomed to having my father’s visitors speak to me.”

  “I thought it quite normal in high-class society,” he said, rather surprised.

  “Not always.”

  “Nevertheless, allow me to speak,” he continued. “I wanted to see the Bey to speak to him about this very matter. I’ve been told that my proposal was considered unpardonable impertinence.”

  “It’s better to postpone discussing this subject until you meet the Bey,” she said, still casting down her eyes.

  Fixing his eyes on the girl’s face, Hassanein said, “But I must speak, since I’ve been lucky enough to meet you, who are primarily concerned. It’s i
mportant for me to know your opinion. Is my proposal really an impertinence?”

  “Please postpone discussing this matter until the right time,” she said with annoyance.

  Although he had anticipated her annoyance, it pained and irritated him. “A man who proposes to a girl,” he went on, “usually offers the best of himself. Unfortunately, it happens sometimes that people only see the worst side of him, such as certain things connected with his family background.”

  Frowning, she rose. “I must go,” she said.

  She walked toward the entrance of the hall. He said in a loud voice that followed her in her flight, “I wanted your opinion. But that’s enough. I’m sorry. Please convey my regards to the Bey.”

  Hurriedly turning on his heels, he climbed down the stairs and walked toward the door. A jumble of distant, scattered scenes swiftly rushed to his mind. He remembered his treatment of Bahia in their new flat, al-Bardisi’s conversation in the Casino, and this recent scene with the Bey’s daughter.

  Thanks be to God, I’m not a failure as a lover; I was about to be one, but God has saved me. Yet I’m a failure as a man, which is even worse. I need to think about all these conversations. I feel I’m suffering from a new disease. What is it? What’s wrong with me? And what’s the remedy?

  As he came out into the street, he was sure he had committed an absurd, foolish mistake.

  EIGHTY-SIX

  Despite the sorrowful look in her eyes, Samira could still smile. “It’s strange,” she said, “how you thrust yourself into serious trouble without being prepared. Suppose they had approved your marriage, what would you have done? Didn’t you think of this? Didn’t we all warn you of its consequences?”

  About ten days had passed since Hassanein’s conversation with his friend al-Bardisi. Whenever Samira observed Hassanein’s absentmindedness as they sat together in the afternoons on the balcony overlooking the road, she started talking to console his sad heart. Nefisa joined in with mingled levity and seriousness.

  “Tomorrow doesn’t seem much better than today,” Hassanein said in a bored voice.

  “Rubbish,” Nefisa said, and Samira added, “In time you’ll discover that it is mere nonsense, and you’ll find a better wife.”

  He wondered why he seemed to be the only pessimist in the family. Was it he or they who were stupid? Wasn’t the role the devil played in this world more serious than the roles of all angels combined? Why didn’t they see this? He had sent Hussein a letter, telling him the news of his rejected engagement. His brother’s reaction had been similar to that of his mother and sister. Were they all as they appeared? Alive—or dead? Had the idea of a decent, luxurious life ceased to have any meaning for them?

  His train of thought was suddenly interrupted by the continuous ringing of the doorbell and by screams of “Master…mistress,” uttered by the agitated servant who opened the door. Hassanein, followed by Samira and Nefisa, rushed into the hall to find out what the matter was. In the open doorway he saw two strangers supporting a third man, whose neck reclined on one of their shoulders. That he was injured was clear from the dirty bandage on his head, dripping with blood. Stunned and uncomprehending, Hassanein approached the two newcomers until he was only a few steps away. He fixed his eyes on the wounded face under the receding bandage; its pale white complexion was tinged with a blueness that suggested death. The face, covered with hair, bore marks of swelling and inflammation. The closed, tired eyes blinked. Through the eyelashes appeared a wan, familiar glance which shocked Hassanein’s memory suddenly back to life like an exploding bomb. Before Hassanein could speak, his mother’s voice behind him confirmed his growing suspicions, as suddenly she cried, in a voice full of fear and compassion, “Hassan! It’s Hassan!”

  “Hassan!” Hassanein repeated in amazement.

  Supporting Hassan’s neck with his shoulder, one of the men who helped carry him growled, “We must put him to bed at once.”

  Astounded, Hassanein advanced toward them. Bending over his brother’s feet, he grasped and gently raised his legs and helped the two men carry Hassan to his bedroom. There they laid him on the only bed in the flat. Followed by Hassanein, the two men hurried out of the room, while Samira and Nefisa rushed in indescribable fear toward the bed. On reaching the hall, one of the men, in gallabiya and skullcap, was the first to speak.

  “Excuse me,” he said, pointing to the other, who was dressed as an Effendi, “this is the taxi driver.”

  Realizing that he was hinting at the unpaid taxi fare, Hassanein walked out with him to the taxi. He paid the driver and dismissed him, but he held the other man.

  “What happened?” he asked in fear and confusion.

  “Master Hassan is my brother and friend,” the man said. “Perhaps you know he’s a fugitive from the police. Seizing this opportunity, some of his enemies hid themselves in a spot they knew he was accustomed to pass, treacherously ambushed him, robbed him of his money, and fled. Suffering from his injuries, the poor man arrived at my house and begged me to take him to his family. We took a taxi to Nasr Allah alley, and the neighbors told us you had moved to this flat. So we came here immediately.”

  Hassanein listened absentmindedly. Though his heart was charged with emotions, fear and worry predominated. When the stranger finished his story, Hassanein muttered, “Thank you, sir, for your kindness. Would you be so good as to stay with him for an hour until he gets some rest?”

  But raising his hand to his head in an expression of thanks for the invitation, the man said, “I must go at once. I’ve got to tell you something more before I go. You must take care of this wound at once. But I warn you, don’t call the police or take him to the hospital, as this will lead to an investigation and the meddling of the police.”

  The man saluted and departed. As if he were groping his way through the murky dark on shaky ground, Hassanein returned to the room where Hassan had been placed. He found his brother lying senseless, as before. Obviously worried, the women bent over him, and at the sound of Hassanein’s approach, they turned to him for help. For a long time, he looked closely at his brother.

  “Didn’t he speak?” he inquired in a strange voice.

  Swallowing hard, the mother said, “He muttered a few meaningless words before he fainted. Go get a doctor!”

  The injured man moved his hand with a strenuous effort. When there was need for it, he seemed able to overcome his weakness. With a feeble voice, devoid of its usual vigor, he said, “No doctor. The doctor…informs…the police.”

  Hassanein studied his brother. The bloodstained bandage covered his head, his forehead, and parts of his cheeks; beneath it nothing appeared except his wan, tired eyes and an unshaven chin. His mouth was agape, his breathing heavy and rattling. His necktie and jacket pocket were torn. He moaned from time to time, and his right hand kept opening and closing. Stunned at the sight, Hassanein forgot his fears in a powerful upsurge of pain and compassion. For a moment he forgot everything; he had to do something for his prostrate brother, something to save him at whatever cost. But the feeling of fear and anxiety which had pursued him in recent days emerged from his depths and floated on his consciousness, threatening his career and reputation. Shame for such sentiments and remorse for entertaining them now cut him to the heart. Talking offered an escape from this heavy weight upon his conscience, and Hassanein spoke gently to the wounded man. “Let me get you a doctor. Your life is much more important than anything else.”

  “Yes, Hassan,” Samira and Nefisa entreated him. “Let’s get a doctor.”

  Raising his heavy eyelids, Hassan said in a tired, muffled tone, “No. Don’t be scared. This is a trifling wound.”

  When he tried to take a deep breath, he had to rest for a while. With his eyes closed, he said, “They betrayed me and I’ll punish them. If I survive, I’ll punish them. But don’t call a doctor; a doctor will inform the police.”

  Conflict still stirring within him, Hassanein replied, “We must get a doctor. It won’t be difficult to persua
de him to keep quiet.”

  “Hassan, have mercy upon me and allow us to get a doctor,” his mother begged him.

  Snorting, Hassan murmured impatiently, “Have mercy upon me and leave me in peace! Oh!”

  Their mother kept turning her eyes from Hassan to Hassanein in his inner struggle. All ambivalence resolved, Hassanein became aware of his true feelings. He realized that his sympathy for his brother was nothing compared with the fear that weighed heavily upon him. We’re done for, he thought. My heart tells me no lies, at least not when I expect evil to occur. Now we’re done for in Heliopolis as we were done for in Shubra. The police will pursue us all like criminals. I can almost see the officer searching the rooms and arresting this fleeing culprit. Is there no way out? But should I deny my brother? Despite everything, he’s still my brother. But he is trampling down my life while he moves on his own thorny way. Oh! How sick I am of this!

  He heard his mother shouting at him, “Help me, Hassanein! Can’t you see that he’s dying?”

  No, he won’t die, Hassanein thought. It is I who will die a slow, cruel death. My dignity is mortally wounded. Now, if he dies here, a doctor will come to examine his body. Soon the police and prosecutor will follow. While they can’t hurt him after he’s dead, the rotten stench from his decaying corpse spreading throughout the place will be scandalous in itself.

  Suddenly he turned to his mother; her frightened, distracted eyes moved from the prostrate man to Hassanein. Silent though she was, her glances seemed to him as vocal as heartrending screams. He wondered about himself. At first he had hated his mother; then, attacked by quick, vague flashes of memory, he softened and his attitude changed abruptly. As once more he focused his attention on the bloodstained bandage, he recovered his vigor of mind. A bright idea dawned on him. “Why didn’t I think of this before?” he murmured. He spoke hurriedly to his mother. “I’ll go get a friend of mine,” he said, “a doctor at the Army Hospital. Wait, I won’t be long.”