The Beginning and the End

by Naguib Mahfouz

  He rushed to his clothes, dressed quickly, and having determined on a course of action, left the house.

  EIGHTY-SEVEN

  Hassanein leaned on the windowsill, watching the doctor as he carefully went about his delicate work. Samira and Nefisa had left the room, their breathing almost audible from behind the closed door. At first frightened and deeply agitated, Hassanein gradually calmed and became self-absorbed. In a fight with a member of the family, he had told the doctor, his brother received an injury in the head. He begged him to aid his wounded brother and keep silent about the incident so as to spare the family a public scandal. With some reservations, the doctor accompanied him. After a preliminary examination of Hassan’s injured head, he said, “It’s a deep fracture with profuse bleeding. I don’t understand why you refuse to inform the police.”

  “We’ve got to avoid that,” Hassanein entreated.

  “You don’t seem to understand the gravity of the situation,” the doctor replied as he prepared himself for the operation. “However, for the time being, let’s postpone any discussion.”

  During the surgical operation Hassanein was neither calm nor reassured. The doctor’s last words had uprooted all his tender emotions. This mission of mercy when he went to the hospital to get the doctor aroused in him deep feelings of compassion for his brother, stirring up memories of the days when Hassan had been their sole haven from misery and their only resort in time of need. But fear and anxiety soon hardened his heart toward Hassan, driving out all compassion. Now, in the image of the wounded man he saw instead an evil portent that threatened both his career and his reputation. Here Hassan lay, completely unconscious, unaware of the delicate surgical tools that cut into his flesh. All his life he had been insensitive to pain; a deep cut that would have shattered the nerves of others, bothered him far less. Hassanein remembered his own tears and entreaties, begging Hassan to change his way of life. And Hassan’s only response had been bitter sarcasm. If only he had died in a foreign land!

  Fixing his eyes on the face as it began to disappear under the bandages, Hassanein shuddered in gloom and despair. At last he heard the doctor address him: “I’ve done all that I can possibly do now. Come out with me.”

  He waited for the doctor to wash his hands and put on his jacket before showing him to the sitting room. In deep thought the men remained standing.

  “I don’t think his case is very serious,” he said with unexpected calm. “But he’ll need treatment for a long time. What a brutal attack! Why don’t you inform the police?”

  Though the doctor’s words helped to restore some of his power to reason, Hassanein remained stricken with fear. “To avoid a scandal. After all, we’re members of the same family.”

  Disapprovingly, the doctor shook his head. “Tomorrow morning I’ll come to see him,” he said firmly. “If he’s O.K., I’ll forget about it. But if he isn’t, I’ll be compelled to inform the police.”

  “I hope this won’t happen,” Hassanein replied as if, overcome with worry, he was talking to himself. Then addressing the doctor, he added, “Thank you for your help and all the trouble you’ve taken.”

  Hassanein accompanied the doctor to the door and gratefully shook his hand. But before departing, the doctor repeated emphatically, “I’ll be back in the morning.”

  Hassanein watched him get into his car and zoom off with a roar. He sighed as if to clear away an immovable weight from his chest, and then, with heavy, melancholy steps, he returned to the room. At once his worried mother rushed up to him.

  “What did the doctor say?” she asked him anxiously.

  He loathed her worry and anxiety, but he answered her calmly. “He’s optimistic about the case and will be back in the morning. How is Hassan now?”

  “He hasn’t recovered consciousness yet,” Nefisa replied.

  Flinging himself into the only chair in the room, he closed his eyes. I’m the one who’s really injured, he thought. As for him, he’s sound asleep in a happy state of unconsciousness, which I wish would overtake me. “I don’t think the case is very serious.” That’s what the stupid doctor says. No, it’s very serious; recovery would be more serious than death. If his condition becomes worse, the police will be informed. And if it improves, his existence will continue to weigh heavily upon me until his enemies inform the police. So scandal is inevitable. Is there no escape? I loathe this wounded man, I loathe myself and even life itself. Isn’t there a better life, aren’t there better creatures?

  As he thought, his features contracted with agony and resentment. Deeply moved, his mother turned to him.

  “Get over it,” she said gently. “Your brother is all right. May God preserve him and us!”

  Astonished, he looked at her curiously.

  EIGHTY-EIGHT

  The next morning the doctor left the house, declaring himself reassured about his patient. Although now he was safe from impending danger, worries continued to torture Hassanein’s mind day and night. Yet for a brief period, the family enjoyed relative peace. Gradually the wounded man recovered his consciousness and vitality and, with his restoration to life, became preoccupied with certain thoughts of the past which soon infected the rest of the family. At first he smiled sadly with unusual resignation. “I’ve given you a lot of trouble,” he said somewhat apologetically. “It seems that God has created me for trouble. May God forgive me!”

  The pleasant and affectionate smiles of his family flashed about him, but he was not deceived. “Sure, you’re angry,” he said, turning his eyes to Hassanein. “Perhaps you’d like to remind me of your previous sermons.”

  “I only want to see you safe,” Hassanein murmured.

  At first a mysterious smile crossed the wounded face, but soon it grew grim, overpowered by his thoughts. The calmness disappeared from his voice. “They robbed me of my money. I’ll get even with them. I intend to escape, and I must escape.”

  He felt his head with his hand, and closed his eyes. As if speaking to himself, he murmured, “What has God done to Sana’a? Will they leave her alone? She won’t surrender to any of my enemies. But she can’t escape with me. It’s too late now. Besides, we’ve lost our money.”

  Hassanein listened in silence to his brother’s delirium. Looking furtively at his mother and sister, Hassanein saw them exchanging anxious glances.

  “I must disappear,” Hassan continued, with the same agitation. “The man who brought me here is a faithful friend. But he’s not smart enough to keep a secret. He’ll get a lot of satisfaction out of telling his mistress all about his kindness. Then she’ll have to tell it to someone else, until it finally reaches those who wish me ill. Then without warning the police will come sweeping into this house.”

  Hassanein sighed in despair. Turning to his mother, his eyes met hers briefly before she lowered them. Fired with indignation, he mentally placed the blame on her. Why did you bring us into this world? he thought. Why did you commit this heinous crime? Then he heard his brother shouting violently.

  “I must disappear. I’ll leave this house as soon as I’m able to walk. Perhaps I’ll leave the country entirely.”

  For the first time since this man of evil destiny had been carried into the house, a glimmer of hope struck Hassanein, as refreshing as a soft breeze. Could this possibly happen, before the catastrophe occurs? he thought. Could he really disappear into some unknown land without leaving a single trace behind? In that case, let him stay here and get well. Then my life will be secure.

  As time passed, they became used to the melancholy atmosphere of the house. Almost recovered, Hassan began to think seriously of leaving the flat and escaping from the country. In continuous, silent meditation, he worked out plans to achieve his purpose. Nefisa no longer stayed at home; she resumed her regular daily visits. Returning to normal life, Hassanein spent his time in his office, his home, and his club. But he continued to worry about his brother’s presence and its threat to their reputation. He hesitated to discuss this delicate point with his mo
ther. He said to her one day with concern, “It’s a divine miracle that the police haven’t yet discovered where he is, and the miracle can’t last forever!”

  In response she threw him a glance which, at first, he couldn’t interpret. Was it mute reproach? Or was it helpless resignation to fate? Or was it a sort of disapproval which she couldn’t express? Perhaps it was all of these combined. But the mystery was unraveled when he saw a slow, shy tear that painfully wavered before it glistened in her eyes. This was disturbing in the extreme, for in spite of all their frequent predicaments and misfortunes, he found it difficult to remember ever having seen his mother in tears. The thought vanished as in pain and astonishment a stream of images of her stoicism and self-control passed through his mind. Now, he thought, she’s like a ferocious lioness in the pangs of death. But once alone, Hassanein was concerned only for his own pains and fears; the others didn’t matter. As his anger increased, he cursed both himself and his mother.

  The following afternoon he received a further shock. He was sitting on the bed conversing with his mother and brother. Nefisa was out. Suddenly the bell rang and the servant went to the door. Returning in obvious confusion, she addressed Hassanein.

  “Master, a policeman wants to speak to you!”

  EIGHTY-NINE

  At the sound of the word “policeman,” their souls burst apart like shrapnel. Hassanein leapt to his feet, staring at the servant. Hassan flung one of his feet from the bed to the floor. With a gruesome glance at the window, he muttered, “Escape!” Their mother looked dazedly from one son to the other, her throat so dry that she was unable to utter a word. Hassanein remained momentarily immobile. Realizing how stupid it was just to stand there doing nothing, he shrugged his shoulders in despair and went to the policeman at the door. They exchanged salutes.

  “Yes?” Hassanein inquired.

  “Am I addressing the respected officer Hassanein Kamel Ali?” the man asked gruffly.

  “You are.”

  “The respected officer of Al Sakakini police station wants to see you at once.”

  Looking beyond the policeman as far as the road, Hassanein was reassured when he saw none of the faces he might have expected. Uncertain, he inquired, “What does he want me for?”

  “He ordered me only to inform you that he wanted to see you.”

  Hassanein hesitated a little. Then he went to the room to put on his clothes. He found his brother eavesdropping behind the door. At once Hassan asked anxiously, “Have they come?” In a sickly, feeble voice his mother repeated the question. As he dressed, Hassanein recounted the conversation with the policeman.

  “Perhaps,” Hassan spoke up immediately, “this officer is one of your acquaintances. Maybe he wants to alert you before they ambush the house. This is clear enough. Listen to me. If he asks you about me, tell him you haven’t seen me for ages. Don’t hesitate and don’t be afraid about lying to them, for they’ll never be able to trace me. As soon as you leave, I’ll disappear. So have no scruples about what you tell them. May God protect you!”

  Hassanein hid his eyes from his brother lest they reveal the gleam of an emerging hope. “Are you strong enough to make your escape?” he asked.

  Hassan snatched his suit from the peg. “I’m all right,” he said. “Goodbye!”

  Hassanein went off with the policeman. The first thing to occur to him was to ask the officer’s name. Maybe he actually was one of his acquaintances. But he was once more in the dark when the policeman gave him a name he had never heard before. Now matters were complicated indeed. However, Hassanein was relieved and reassured at Hassan’s decision to disappear. They reached the police station a little before sunset, and the policeman led him to the officer, stopped, and saluted.

  “Lieutenant Hassanein Kamel Ali,” he said.

  At arm’s length from the officer as he sat at his desk stood two lower-class men and a woman, the marks of a recent fight on their faces. The officer rose, stretched out his hand.

  “Welcome!” he said. He ordered the policeman to leave the room and close the door. He waved the young man to a chair in front of the desk.

  What does it all mean? Hassanein thought as he sat down. Welcome and compliments. What next?

  The officer rose, and leaning with his right hand on the edge of the desk, stood facing Hassanein, carefully studying his face; a curious, perplexed sort of glance, as if he didn’t quite know how to begin the conversation. Hassanein found this short interval of silence coarse and intolerable. An abhorrent feeling of awe, worry, and annoyance had come over him from the very moment he stepped into the station.

  Maybe he’s a refined officer and is too embarrassed to fling the charge in my face, he thought. This is curious in itself. Speak out and take the burden off my chest. How much I’ve dreaded this nightmarish moment. I already know what you want to say. Speak.

  “The policeman said you wanted to see me,” he said, losing his patience.

  “Sorry to bother you,” the officer apologized. “I’d have preferred to meet you under better circumstances. But you know what duty dictates sometimes!”

  Breathing out his last hope of safety, Hassanein replied gloomily, “Thank you for your kindness. I’m listening.”

  “I hope you’ll take what I have to say with courage,” the officer said earnestly and gently, “and behave in a manner that suits an officer who respects the law.”

  Hassanein was wan and almost fainting. “Naturally,” he said.

  The officer clenched his teeth, his cheeks contracting. “This,” he said curtly, “has to do with your sister.”

  Hassanein raised his eyebows in surprise. “You mean my brother?” he said.

  “I mean Madam, your sister. But excuse me. First I should like to ask you: Do you have a sister by the name of Nefisa?”

  “Yes. Has she had an accident?” Hassanein asked.

  “I’m sorry to tell you this,” the man said, lowering his eyes, “but she was arrested in a certain house in Al Sakakini.”

  Hassanein rose to his feet. Frightened, rigid, and pale, he stared at the officer. “What are you saying?” he asked, out of breath.

  The officer patted his shoulder sympathetically. “Get hold of yourself,” he said. “This has to be handled with reason and calm judgment. I hope you’ll help me do my duty without making me regret the measures I’ve taken to protect your reputation.”

  Staggered, Hassanein stared at the officer, listened vaguely to his voice. As if in a dream, the voice would vanish, the face remain; the face vanished, the voice remained, sometimes only two lips spewing forth a stream of frightful, disconnected, incomprehensible words. Despairing, Hassanein glanced nervously around the room, his eyes blinking: a gun fixed on the wall here, a row of rifles there, an inkstand, and the strange odors, the dead smell of old tobacco, the strange scent of leather. In a kind of receding consciousness, his mind harked back to memories which had no connection with the present. The old alley floated in his mind’s eye; now he was again a boy playing with marbles with his brother Hussein.

  She was arrested in a certain house, he thought. What house? Surely one of us has lost his mind! But which one of us? First, I’ve got to be sure that I’ve not gone crazy.

  Resigned, Hassanein sighed weakly. “What did you say, sir?” he asked the officer.

  “A Greek woman has a house in this quarter,” the officer continued. “She rents rooms to lovers at so much per hour. This afternoon, we raided the house, and found Madam…with a young man. We arrested her, of course, and I proceeded with the customary cold-blooded formalities, of which, of course, she was frightened, you know, and in the hope that I would release her, she confided that her brother was an officer.”

  “My own sister? Are you sure? Let me see her.”

  “Please control yourself. Had I been sure she was your sister, I’d have released her. But I was afraid she was lying. So I referred the matter to my boss, the Mamur. He approved of suspending legal action on condition that we could prove the
truth of what she was saying.”

  Curiously enough, Hassanein entertained no doubt about the identity of the arrested girl. Yes, his pessimistic heart told him, it’s got to be Nefisa. Was this the end of his journey in life? In his state of shock, he felt like some ancient relic of the past, of no relevance to the present. He was eager to get it all over with.

  “Where is she?” he said in a lifeless voice. “Please let me see her.”

  The officer pointed to a closed door. “She fainted when she knew I’d sent for you instead of setting her free, so we left her in this room. Conduct yourself like a man with respect for law and remember I’m responsible for security. You’re a decent, respectable man. So use your head. Nobody in this police station needs to know anything about it. But don’t forget, everything depends on you.”

  “Please let me see her,” Hassanein repeated in the same lifeless voice.

  With heavy steps, the officer walked to the door and opened it. Like a sleepwalker Hassanein approached, casting a glance over the officer’s shoulder like a man entering a morgue to identify a corpse. Close to the wall facing the door, a girl huddled against a sofa, her head flung back, her eyes half closed, dim, unseeing. She was either unconscious or had just recovered. Her face was as pale as death, and a few wet strands of hair stuck to her forehead. It was unmistakably Nefisa.

  When it comes to disaster, he thought, my heart never lies to me. If she was dead, I’d disown her without hesitation. Unaware of their presence, she remained motionless, perhaps too exhausted to move. The officer looked inquiringly at him. But Hassanein’s eyes became glazed as he stared at his sister. Surprisingly, in the deathlike silence, he found a temporary escape from his agony. Oblivious of the passage of time, he seemed to hear a terrible inner voice shattering the silence: Everything is finished! it proclaimed. He recalled the scene at home before he had left, an hour earlier, his mother desperate and perplexed, standing between him and Hassan, who was then preparing to escape. His mind filled with blasphemous imprecations, Hassanein wished he might die.