The Beginning and the End by Naguib Mahfouz
FIFTY-SIX
Two weeks later he received a letter from Hassanein telling him that he had paid the examination fees and was constantly studying, determined to succeed. Confident of his brother’s intelligence and ability, Hussein had no doubt he would pass. Though it was not in his nature to yield to the enchantment of dreams, he tended these days to entertain them. However, although he did not believe in these fantasies, Hussein imagined in his reverie that once his brother had obtained his certificate, he would get a job to relieve Hussein’s burden. Thus he could visualize himself embarking on a new, happy life with an easy conscience. He did not hope for more than a secure married life. His lonely days in his barren flat taught him the value of having a family, for which he was as eager as a homeless person for a shelter to protect him from the pouring rain. He could not bear to frequent restaurants to take his meals. He seemed afraid to remain alone in his room even for a short time. He was at once fatigued and fed up with his bachelor’s life, which required continuous attention to his flat, furniture, and clothes. And this itself dwindled into insignificance in comparison with the hunger and yearning in his heart. He was not in love with this particular girl so much as he was with the femaleness and conjugal life she represented. As the tangible ideal of his dreams, his heart yearned for her, becoming the more attached to her since he saw very little of her except on certain rare, happy occasions. At first Hussein thought that they were hiding her from him. But later it became clear to him that Hassan Effendi was a genuinely conservative man, tolerant up to a point but not beyond the limits of decency. If Hassanein agreed to get a job, this would make it possible for Hussein to go directly to his girl, marry her, and lead a true life. This was his dream. But realizing it was merely a dream, he did not know when it would come true. Hassanein would continue his education, and he himself should accept this without resentment. He must wait for life to run its course as God ordained.
But one evening an unexpected event made it clear to him that he would not enjoy this interval of waiting in peace and security. Immediately after he finished having tea with Hassan Effendi, the latter said to him, “An important matter, worth discussing with you, has recently come up.”
Inquiring, Hussein raised his eyes. The man said seriously, “Ihsan’s cousin, a merchant and farmer in Beheira province, wants to ask for her hand. But before deciding this matter, I thought I’d better ask your opinion.”
So shocking was this inauspicious surprise that it left the young man incredulous, dumbfounded, defeated, and bewildered. In fact, although he had some doubt as to how true it was, he found himself at an impasse, which his suspicions failed to overcome. He felt the resentment of a man whose circumstances forced him to waver and reduced him to a state of speechlessness. What should he say to the man?! If he agreed to marry, he would betray his family; and if he refused, all connections between him and Hassan Effendi would be severed. In spite of his agitation and bewilderment, he pictured the face of the girl on whom he had pinned his hopes, feeling the grip of despair closing about his neck. Disguising his increasing resentment, the young man cast a cold look on his tormentor; the man patiently scrutinized his face.
To break the long silence, the man inquired, “Hussein Effendi, what do you have to say about this?”
Knowing that he must speak, Hussein replied beseechingly, “There is nothing I can add to the detailed account I’ve already given you of our family circumstances.”
Sounding bored, the man said, “Your brother will be finishing his studies at the beginning of next summer.”
“But as far as I can see, he is determined to continue his education.”
The man became annoyed. “This is a silly idea to which you must not submit and you must not bear responsibility for it,” he said.
Seeking to avert this danger, Hussein was as evasive as a mouse hiding itself uselessly behind the leg of a chair.
“I can announce the engagement right now on condition that I can wait for a period of time before I marry,” he said.
“For how many years?” Hassan Effendi asked warmly.
Oh! The man thought that he was concerned only for his brother; he was almost unaware of Nefisa and her problem. Hussein genuinely wished he could blurt out the whole truth to him. Extremely fearful, he answered, “Four years.” Hussein looked at him to see the effect of this declaration. “Waiting will do us no harm. Don’t you trust me?” he said hurriedly.
Making a wry face, the man shook his head. “Four years!” he said with dreadful calm. “Who knows whether by then we’ll be alive? Do you want me to tell her mother that I’ve refused her cousin, who wants to marry her now, to keep her waiting four years more? Hussein Effendi, it seems to me you weren’t serious about your desire!”
Shaking in his agony, Hussein shouted, “May God forgive you, Hassan Effendi! I’m a faithful man and I still stick to my honest purpose. I see no reason why any obstacle should get in our way.”
“You simply don’t see the reason because you’re in the position of neither a father nor a mother. Now, put all arguments aside. Can’t you get married this year?”
A long silence prevailed. But Hussein uttered not a word. He had nothing to say. For a long time he remained both thoughtful and perplexed. Desperate and defeated, he pressed his lips. Hassan Effendi smiled faintly, compressing his lips in turn, his small oval face anguished and immobile. A long, strained silence fell upon them, and an odor of unfriendliness, intolerable to their nerves, spread like the hot dust carried by the winds of the khamsin, which blew up off the desert. However, Hussein, not bearing to take the first step in cutting off relations, asked dejectedly, as though predicting the answer, “Can’t you wait?”
“No,” the man nervously replied.
Embarrassed and pained, Hussein remained for a while. Then, taking his leave, he rose and departed. So intense was his sadness and despair that he left the flat with unseeing eyes, knowing that never again would he return to it. Back in his room, he lit the kerosene lamp and flung himself on the bed. He viewed everything around him with discontent and hostility. At this moment he hated not only himself but humanity at large. Am I weak or strong? he thought. What have I done with myself? Is it daring and courage or just contemptible flight? Everything appears detestable to me; I’ll be leaving this room, with the lonely room at the hotel waiting to engulf me. Perhaps the man imagines that he can annoy me in my work at school! Damn him; he will find me tougher than he thinks. But of what use is it all? Death is more merciful than hope itself! There is nothing surprising in this, for death is divinely appointed, while hope is the creation of human folly. Both end in frustration. Am I destined to lead a life of endless frustration? Why doesn’t Hassanein get a job on the baccalaureate? Why doesn’t he want for me what he wants for himself?
He became extremely vexed. Finding his loneliness intolerable, he took his suit from the peg, dressed, and left the house. The night was cold. He continued to roam the streets until he tired of walking, and finally went to a coffeehouse. Unexpectedly invigorated by the walk and the cold air, and calmer than before, he took a seat in the café. To pass the time, he watched the people sitting in the coffeehouse, listening to whatever scraps of their conversations reached his ears. These were not devoid of amusing remarks that made him smile. His mad fury subsided, leaving him in deep but mute sorrow, tinged with remorse. He wondered whether he should have agreed with the man. But would this man have been pleased if he had left his own family to the mercy of fate?! He realized his own folly, that he had a right to be sorrowful but no right to feel so furiously angry. Besides, it was foolish to surrender to sorrow. He knew that as long as he allowed irrationality to sway him he could not banish sorrow from his life, not for a long time to come. All the same, he believed that ultimately everything would come to an end. Even this choking sorrow would eventually be relieved. Like a person attempting to shake off a nightmare, he awaited this relief. Life’s miseries had taught him that one day it was bound to come. And
FIFTY-SEVEN
Along about midsummer there came a happy day in the life of the family inhabiting Nasr Allah alley. Hassanein had passed the baccalaureate examinations. Calm and serene, Samira, Nefisa, and Hassanein gathered to spend a peaceful hour, their tired hearts overflowing with joy. Farid Effendi Mohammed and his family came to congratulate Hassanein on his success. In his fiancée’s presence, Hassanein experienced a complacent feeling of innocent pride, as though the baccalaureate had lent him further manliness, deserving both her respect and sympathy. Merry and pleasant as usual, he spoke with animation, ecstatically triumphant, and volleys of laughter rocketed from his mouth. The sight of Bahia filled his heart with a mixture of happiness and sorrow. It delighted him furtively to meet her clear, serene eyes and to read in them evidence of profound and refined love. However, the serenity he derived from her glances was slight, for it soon gave way to the flames of passion flaring up in his heart. When these arose, he grew indignant as he remembered his long deprivation and looked back with regret and sorrow over the past two years. Casting surreptitious glances at her during the conversation, his amorous eyes fixed intently on her moonlike face and plump body. As was his frequent custom, he formed a mental picture of her completely naked, with only her hair flowing down her back. As he pictured her thus, he felt his boiling saliva scorching his mouth. Mutely he wondered whether her attitude toward him could possibly change now that he had obtained the baccalaureate! Would it not be fair to grant him a kiss by way of congratulation? As his thoughts shifted from one object to another, his mind flitted from the girl to his mental image of her naked body, then to the people gathering around. Though the general atmosphere was pervaded with complete happiness, his own was tainted with the relentless torture imposed by her presence.
The guests departed. Left to themselves, the mood of pure delight now was gone, and the family was assaulted by a new sense of responsibility. Life had taught them that obtaining the baccalaureate was a source of transient happiness to be followed by troubled reflection. They were already agreed that Hassanein should continue onto higher education, but they were still undecided about the kind of education he should pursue.
“Now you have to choose the profession you want for yourself,” Nefisa said.
Hassanein had thoroughly probed this matter. “Higher education,” he said, “is a long, arduous process, and its prospects are vague.”
The two women eyed him with surprise.
“I’ve thought this matter over for a long time,” he added. “I have come to the conclusion that I should choose either the Police College or the War College.”
“How wonderful!” Nefisa exclaimed happily.
Preoccupied with the obstacles standing in the way of his hopes, he paid no attention to Nefisa’s delight. “After only two years of study, I’ll become an officer,” he said. “Since the course of study is like playing games, success is almost certain. Eventually there will be a secure job waiting for me. These are advantages to be reckoned with.”
“A two-year study after which you become an officer!” Nefisa exclaimed with the same enthusiasm. “How dreamlike this is!”
“What about the fees?” his mother inquired fearfully.
Rather bewildered, he stared at her. “The Police College is very expensive,” he replied. “But the fees of the War College are reasonable, only thirty-seven pounds.”
Stunned, the two women stared at him.
“There is some possibility of exemption from paying the fees,” he hurried to say, “or at least half the fees. In this case, we have to appeal to Ahmad Bey Yousri, whose intercession will carry a great deal of weight.”
In her anxiety his mother still looked stunned.
“Farid Effendi Mohammed told me about the Primary Education Training Institute,” she said. “I find that it has certain advantages worth considering. No fees, and after finishing the three-year course, you get a teaching job.”
“I would hate working as a teacher and I would hate even more to enroll in a free institute,” the young man said resentfully.
“But you don’t object to joining the War College gratis.”
“There is a vast difference between an institute designed to be free and another which exempts me from all the fees or half of them. If I joined the former institute, people would say that I received my education gratis. But if I joined the latter, nobody would ever know about it except the college clerk.”
Unconvinced, the mother shook her head. “Our situation,” she muttered, “is too grave to consider such a thing.”
“Nothing can be more grave than this. Not only do I loathe poverty but I hate the mere mention of it. I can’t bear to walk with my head lowered among people with their heads raised.”
This was not his only reason for preferring an officer’s career. In fact, his motive in joining the War College was a thirst for domination, power, and a dazzling appearance. His mother remained anxious, unconvinced.
“And if you are unable to obtain an exemption from the fees?” she inquired.
He became grimly thoughtful. “As a start, I need the first installment of the fees, which I hope to get from Hassan,” he said. “I don’t think he will let me down, since he didn’t let Hussein down. As for the rest of the fees, these can be managed if you give me the money Hussein sends, plus whatever Nefisa will be generous enough to offer.” He looked at his sister. “I don’t think she will be miserly with me, especially because her earnings are good enough.”
He looked from his mother to his sister to observe the effect of his words. Seeing no sign of encouragement, he continued tenderly: “We’ll have two more lean years, after which there’ll be comfort and happiness!”
He directed his hopeful glances from one to the other, and added cajolingly, “You’ll become the mother and sister of an officer! Imagine it! Imagine that we’ll leave this alley for a respectable flat on the main street!”
Touched by his entreating glances, Nefisa was overcome by a generous, altruistic impulse.
“Don’t worry as far as I’m concerned. I’ll give you whatever I can,” she said.
There was a look of gratitude in his eyes. “Thank you, Nefisa,” he said. “Mother won’t be less generous than you are. Thus everything will be all right.”
His mother wished him good luck. She had no great expectations from him. Her maximum hope was that after getting a job, he would postpone his marriage for two years to give her the opportunity to get her family back on its feet. However, she gave him the rescue money provided by Hussein, wishing him the best of luck from the bottom of her heart. Still under the sway of her generosity and altruism, Nefisa had reached the lofty peak of eagerness, peace, and happiness. Only for a few precious moments did she enjoy real delight, for assailed by a cloud of dark memories, her happiness soon disappeared. No longer did it flow abundantly; instead, it was strangled and smeared with the mire of those memories. Her enthusiasm subsiding, she lowered her eyes, dispirited and feeling that she had no right to unalloyed joy. Anyhow, what could happiness do to console a miserable, disfigured, tainted soul?
FIFTY-EIGHT
As he left Al Khazindar Square for Clot Bey Street, it occurred to Hassanein that Hassan would mention that they visited him only when they needed money. Though the thought distressed him, he tried to alleviate his discomfort by arguing that it was Hassan who did not want any of his family to visit him at home. Inquisitive, he started to wonder what he might find in this forbidden place! Sensing something unnatural about it, he thought it was perfectly in keeping with Hassan’s character.
Remembering the mone
The man asked in his turn, “You mean Hassan the Head?”
“I mean Hassan Kamel Ali, the singer,” Hassanein said.
“This is the house of Hassan the Head, who works in Ali Sabri’s coffeehouse in Darb Tiab,” the man replied.
Shamefully lowering his head, Hassanein became terribly upset. When he heard the mention of Ali Sabri, he was sure that he was approaching his brother’s house. But he could not have imagined his brother working in such a darb, the name fulminating against his ears like a charge of explosives. Hassanein also wondered at the epithet “the Head” attached to his brother’s name and what it meant. Extremely reluctantly, he entered the house. The putrefying smell of the staircase filling his nostrils as he climbed the spiral stairs, he experienced a feeling that he was descending into a bottomless abyss. When he knocked on the door, a woman’s voice reached him, shouting vulgarly, “Who is it?” As the door opened, he saw a short, plump, dark-complexioned woman whose features exhibited an insolent sort of beauty. Casting a piercing look at him, she inquired, “What do you want?”
Hassanein was so confused that he answered in a low voice, “Hassan Kamel.”
“Who are you?”