The Beginning and the End by Naguib Mahfouz
The sight of him brought her back to the real world, the world of consciousness, nerves, blood, and fear. Cautiously looking about, the man took a bottle from under the seat and uncorked it. Raising it to his mouth, he took huge gulps. He turned to her, his face contracting convulsively. “Would you like a little wine?” he asked.
“No. I don’t drink,” she said hurriedly.
Smacking his lips, he raised his eyelids in surprise. He returned the bottle to its place and the car started to move.
“It’s better to drink now so that I’ll be in the right frame of mind when we reach our destination,” he said.
He drove the car recklessly at high speed. Nefisa wondered at his bravado. He seemed to her strong and daring, but at the same time dishonorable and untrustworthy. What need did she have for an honorable man! She was not worthy of such a man, who had ceased to be the object of her dreams. A scandal was the only thing in life she feared. She heard him laugh and say proudly, “You’ve been coy for so long! But I always thought that one day you would fall into the trap, and here you are!”
She welcomed his conversation; it helped her escape from her thoughts and confusion. A smile appeared on her lips.
“Who told you that I’d fallen?”
“We’ll see what happens in the Almaza Desert,” he said with a laugh.
“The Almaza Desert? Will we be there long?” she inquired, worried.
“Until midnight.”
Terrified, she visualized the faces of her mother and two brothers.
“What a disaster! I must return home before supper. For God’s mercy, stop the car!” she entreated.
“Really? Don’t be frightened. We’ll return before supper. But what are you afraid of?” he asked halfheartedly, in astonishment.
“My family.”
He watched her with pretended suspicion.
“Your family! Don’t they know?” he asked her in a meaningful tone.
His painful words stabbed her in the heart. Her family know! What did he take her for?!
“How could my family know? My brothers are university students and my father was an official,” she said quickly.
Pretending belief, he shook his head.
My mother is only a washerwoman, and my brothers are just vagabonds, he mentally mimicked her, full of sarcasm. But I have to be resigned to God’s will. He doubled the car’s speed to reach his destination as soon as possible. The wine was taking effect, and he felt pleased.
“What’s your name?” he asked her.
“Nefisa.”
Unimpressed, he asked her, “Why didn’t you choose a sweeter name?”
Not catching his meaning, she misunderstood him. “I like it,” she said resentfully.
“Excuse me, Lady Nefisa. Long live your name!”
At length, turning to the desert road, the car dived into total darkness. At a distance the city lights seemed like a powerful giant with innumerable fiery eyes. He started to slow down, then finally stopped and turned off the headlights. Stretching out his arm, he suddenly encircled her waist, pulling her toward him with unexpected violence. Sighing, she fell upon him. Opening his broad mouth, he thrust it upon hers, reaching the middle of her chin. He pulled her brutally to his breast, breathing hard through his nose with a rattling kind of snort. At first she felt pained and worried. But her uneasiness vanished in a strange, mysterious inner darkness. Their two shapes dissolved in the total darkness which engulfed them. She felt grateful for it; it not only made her bold, it concealed her defects. Impelled by an instinctive urge, she did her best to gratify him. In addition to fear and worry, she felt shy at first. But soon she was overcome by an insane passion that thawed these feelings that held her back.
“Let’s wait for a second go,” he said seductively.
Wiping the perspiration that streamed from her forehead, she beseechingly replied, “I can’t. Please, let’s return at once.”
Taking the bottle, he quenched his thirst in successive gulps. His face long and rigid, he drove the car in silence until they reached Ramses Square.
“I feel like doing it again. Shall we go back?” he said.
“No, no, I can’t,” she begged him fearfully.
Suddenly he frowned indignantly. Then he spoke with unexpected roughness. “Damn you! This trip wasn’t worth the gasoline it took to get there!”
His words fell like lashes upon her soul. She was speechless. Her heart overflowed with disappointment. Stunned, she stared at him, but, indifferent, he drove on. Perhaps his ungratified desire for more was an excuse. All the same, would it not have been better to treat her kindly, or at least to say a tender word to erase the ill effects of his roughness? He continued to drive in silence. Turning into a back street to let the girl get out unseen, he stopped the car near the pavement. Considering the insult as she left the car, she wondered whether to accept or reject another appointment to meet him. She was too perplexed to know how to face this inevitable question. But she saw him stretching out his hand, offering her a ten-piaster piece.
“This is enough for one time,” he said.
As she stood motionless before him, he threw the silver coin at her feet and drove off in a trail of choking smoke, the car roaring and gurgling. Blind with fury, she remained transfixed, her body shaking all over. Biting her teeth, she continued to quake. She kept sucking in her breath rapidly as if from a bursting chest. He did not care to ask her for another appointment. Just a transient relationship as though she were…Oh, God! Just a transient relationship! Then she remembered how he threw the ten-piaster piece at her! An idea occurred to her, extinguishing her anger and replacing it with embarrassment and a sense of failure. No. Wasn’t it possible that she failed to appeal to him and satisfy him? This was quite possible, even probable. It was certain! She was overwhelmed with a profound feeling of sorrow and degradation. She suddenly realized that she was still standing on the pavement. On the point of leaving, she remembered the coin lying at her feet. Not knowing what to do, she gave it a furious glance. Memories rushed to her mind. She immediately recalled the five-piaster piece which Soliman had borrowed one day at the tram stop, the day he had taken her to his home, the total darkness of the place, her quarrel with him in the street, and her dead father’s words about her sweet temper. Then once more she focused her attention on the silver coin at her feet. She gazed at it for a long time. Seeing no reason to leave it there, she picked it up.
FORTY-TWO
After a rather long absence, Hassan paid his family an unexpected visit. The members of the family were gathered in the two brothers’ room, their favorite sitting room during the summer months. This time he arrived with a basket in his hand. Putting it behind the door, he stepped forward with laughter in his greeting. They welcomed him as usual. His sister and brothers’ reception was unreserved while the mother cast an inquisitive glance at the basket.
“What on earth may a mother expect from a worthless son?” she murmured sarcastically.
Taking a seat in their midst, he assured her with a laugh, “Don’t be in a hurry. Patience has its rewards.”
But none of them paid any attention to the basket, for they were not accustomed to expect anything good from him.
“You come to see us only as a visitor!” Nefisa remarked.
“I roam God’s vast land, arduously making my living. Don’t be surprised if you see me only as a visitor. The reason is that I’ve found myself a dwelling!”
All eyes focused on him with interest.
“Has God guided you? And have you found a job at last?”
“With Ali Sabri’s band and nobody else. But now God has provided us with earnings enough.”
“I shall never be convinced that this is a job in the true sense of the word,” the mother remarked.
“Why not, Mother? With the band I sing, while in other occupations I quarrel, as you know,” Hassan replied.
“Have you really found a dwelling of your own? Where?” Hussein asked.
“Why do you want to know?” he asked.
“So we can return your visits.”
“Don’t. My dwelling is not properly furnished to receive people. Besides, it isn’t a private place; it’s occupied by all the members of the band. Let’s forget about it. Tell me, when did you last eat meat?”
“To tell you the truth, we’ve forgotten. Give me a moment to try to remember,” Hussein said sarcastically. “If I draw on obscure memories, I’m able to visualize the last slice of meat I’ve eaten. But I don’t remember when or where. We’re a philosophical family. Following the principles of Al Maarri,” he added with a laugh.
“Who is this Maarri? One of our forefathers?” Hassan inquired.
“A merciful philosopher. So merciful toward animals that he abstained from eating their flesh.”
“Now I understand why the government opens schools. It does this to make you hate eating meat so as to have all the meat for itself.”
Hassan rose and went to get the basket. Returning, he placed it before his mother and removed the paper cover. Underneath was a fleshy leg of mutton, the red surface of the meat blending with the white fat. Beside it lay a medium-size tin box.
“I can’t believe my eyes,” Hassanein exclaimed. “What’s inside the box?”
“Shortening.”
The spirits of Hassan’s brothers and sister rose high and their eyes glistened. Their mother’s heart was touched by the atmosphere of contagious merriment.
“Now we’re sure of a sumptuous dinner for tomorrow,” she muttered, smiling.
“No! You mean a sumptuous supper right now!” shouted many voices.
“Have you any idea of how long it will take to prepare this supper?”
“Never mind. We’re ready to wait until the break of dawn!”
Nefisa rose and carried the basket into the kitchen.
Without further objection Samira rose, too, nodding to Hassan to follow her as she left the room. With a knowing smile, Hassan traipsed after her. She took him aside in a corner of the hall.
“Is it true,” she asked eagerly, “that you’re really making enough money?”
“To some extent! But my future is uncertain.”
“Can I trust you to help us?”
“Yes, whenever I’ve enough. I hope so.”
“Where do you live?” she inquired after a moment’s silence.
Knowing that she understood him inside out, he realized the futility of telling her lies. “Number seventeen Gandab alley in Clot Bey,” he answered.
“With a woman?” she asked, hesitantly.
“Yes,” he said, giving a short laugh.
“Is it marriage?”
“No,” he muttered, laughing again.
In the darkness, he could not see the signs of disapproval in her face. Having long since despaired of reforming him, she did not take the trouble now to scold him or give him advice. Yet she asked him with interest and warmth, “I suppose you get your earnings by decent means?”
“Yes,” he reassured her. “Have no doubt about this. We are requested to give so many marriage feasts, and we sing in coffeehouses and music halls,” he added emphatically.
FORTY-THREE
Another year passed, and life continued its usual course. The members of the family followed their normal routines of everyday life. Had their dead father come back to life, he would have been shocked by the tremendous change which had come over the souls, bodies, health, even the looks of his family. But he would certainly have recognized them. His wife and children had not changed that much. But his house had become so completely transformed that, no matter how hard he tried, he would have failed to remember it. The furniture had almost disappeared. The sitting room contained only a sofa and a pale thin carpet which had formerly covered the floor of Samira’s bedroom. Now it replaced the sitting-room carpet, which had been sold. Most of the furniture had been bartered away, and nothing remained in Samira’s bedroom but two sofas, used as seats during the day and as beds at night. Once the sideboard, table, and chairs were sold, the hall, which served in former times as a dining room, became bare. Hassan’s bed had been sold. So degraded was the family’s condition that they took their meals from a tray laid on the floor. Hussein and Hassanein’s beds would have been sold, too, were they not indispensable. The family’s life was hard and arduous. Without Samira’s determination and frugality, the father’s pension and Nefisa’s meager earnings would together have been insufficient to meet the essential expenses of food and shelter. As for Hassan’s assistance, it was scanty and unreliable, extended only on his rare visits, when he brought them hope and delicious food. From time to time he bought his mother a garment, a handkerchief, or some pieces of underwear. Apart from these rare visits, nobody know where he was. Apologetically, he spoke to his mother about his strenuous struggles and slim earnings. This being usually the case, he was not always exaggerating. In fact, he had found life harder than he had expected.
He sang with Ali Sabri’s band, took part in brawls whenever occasion arose, trafficked in narcotics on a small scale, and possessed the body and money of a rather beautiful woman. But his earnings fell short of his aspirations. Furthermore, his mode of life made it necessary to be extravagant and spend money lavishly, to keep up a dignified appearance and hold his assistants. He was constantly torn by a conflict between his personal needs and selfishness on one hand and love for his family on the other. Sometimes love for family gained the ascendant. But self-love being almost always predominant, he allowed himself to be carried away by the strong current of his reckless life. Then, remembering his family, he would act generously toward them as far as his means would allow. Under this generous impulse, he would wish very much to restore his family to the relative prosperity of the past. But, again, his adventurous life would make him oblivious to it; then, once more overcome with remorse and pain, he would remember, and the cycle would continue indefinitely. Though Hassan’s visits afforded the family relief and entertainment, they could not look upon him as the man of the house whose substantial assistance would help them stand on their feet. Samira alone was the cornerstone of the family. Sacrificing herself for the sake of the others, she almost went to pieces; two years of this life had aged her quickly, telling on her more than the previous fifty. She became thin and pale, a mere skeleton. Yet she did not surrender to the ordeal. Never complaining, she steadfastly adhered to her ingrained virtues of fortitude, determination, and strength. She worked throughout the day cooking, washing, cleaning up, sweeping, patching, darning, and attending particularly to her two sons, watching their play, urging them to study, settling their trifling disputes, and checking their impulses, especially those of the whimsical Hassanein. Busy though she was, she kept thinking of the family’s present and future, absorbed in her pain at seeing her daughter, Nefisa, moving incessantly from one house to another, working hard but earning little, in her laborious and desperate endeavors. With supreme stoicism she endured her pains, drawing upon an unshakable faith and clinging to a firm hope, which she believed was bound to be rewarded no matter how long it might remain unfulfilled. By her efforts, her two sons were able to make steady progress without swerving from their goal, and despite their austerity and deprivation, to continue their progress with admirable persistence.
Hassanein was more pained by his deprivation in love than by life’s humiliation. His beloved was no less stubbornly adamant than his mother. She forced him to be content with an ascetic, platonic relationship that was unsuitable to his passionate temper. Engrossed in the troubles of their private lives, the two brothers were almost oblivious to the drastic changes their country was undergoing at this time. In fact, Hussein paid very little attention to politics and public affairs. Perhaps Hassanein was more interested in politics than his brother, but not sufficiently so to be considered a political-minded student. His interest was confined almost entirely to partisan discussions or participation in peace
Their mother objected to their participation in political life. Entirely ignorant of politics, she was so absorbed in her feelings for her family that she had no room for national sentiment. Hearing the distressing news of student deaths and injuries in demonstrations, she became alarmed.
“Poor boys!” she was saying to her sons. “What use are demonstrations and politics when these boys have lost their lives?! Their families are afflicted, their homes are ruined, and their death serves no purpose.”
Conscious that he lagged behind his fellow revolutionaries, Hassanein gave vent to his suppressed feelings.
“Countries live by the death of their heroes,” he said.
She gave him a stern look. Lowering his eyes, he changed his mind and desisted from his inflammatory speech. Later, when the Home Front was formed and the nationalists entered into negotiations with the British which led to the conclusion of an agreement, a general sense of relief pervaded the whole country. Hassanein resumed his political conversations, with more daring than his brother when speaking to their mother.
“Now do you realize,” he said, “that the sacrifices made by the martyrs have not been in vain?”
This time she did not get angry, feeling that the danger was now past and that peace had returned. But she did not give up her former opinions.
“Nothing in the world can make up for the death of a young soul,” she said.