The Beginning and the End by Naguib Mahfouz
SEVENTY-THREE
It was about five o’clock in the afternoon when he reached the Britannia Hotel on Al Amir Farouk Street in Tanta. A boy showed him the way to his brother’s room, and he knocked on the door and stood smiling, waiting for the pleasant surprise. The door opened and Hussein appeared in a gallabiya. At once his eyes opened wide with astonishment and, welcoming his brother, he exclaimed, “Hassanein! I don’t believe my eyes!”
The two brothers embraced warmly. As they entered the small room, Hussein, with love and admiration, cast a scrutinizing glance at his brother. “What a happy surprise!” he exclaimed with delight. “Do military men thus attack without an ultimatum? Congratulations. I sent you a cable of congratulations.”
“I received it and thought of coming in person to thank you.”
“How are Mother and Nefisa?”
“Very well. With still a few days’ leave before starting my assignment, I thought of spending them with you.”
“Well done. What about Hassan? Do you have any news about him?”
Hassanein’s face darkened. But so as not to spoil the pleasure of their meeting, he said, “For now, at least, let’s forget about him.”
Hussein guessed the reason for his brother’s sadness. No less eager than his brother to avoid spoiling their meeting, he invited Hassanein to sit on the only chair, while he himself sat on the bed. They looked at each other carefully, each observing the signs of health and vigor in the other. Hussein had put on more weight than his brother might have expected. His new mustache, as broad as his lips, lent him a dignified, manly appearance, making him look older than his years. “You’re born to be a good father,” Hassanein remarked.
His brother’s words stirred sad memories, but Hussein made no reply. “I’m proud of you,” he said, pointing to the star on Hassanein’s shoulder.
Hassanein was touched. “I’m indebted to your noble sacrifice,” he said.
Soothed by these words, Hussein murmured, “Don’t mention it. You deserve it.”
There’s nothing about this brother to be ashamed of, Hassanein thought. But for Nefisa’s past and Hassan’s present, I’d have been the happiest man on earth.
“Cheer up,” he said to his brother, with a feeling of delight. “I’ve begged Ahmad Bey Yousri to try to get you transferred to Cairo, and he promised me he’d do something about it.”
“Splendid! By the way, I have my annual leave now, so I’ll go back with you to Cairo.” He got off the bed. “Now go wash your face,” he said, “and brush off your suit; it’s covered with dust from the train. Why stay in this room? Let’s go into town.”
Hussein dressed in his suit and the two brothers set out for the streets of the town. They continued their conversation in a coffeehouse. Speaking at length of his life in Tanta, Hussein complained of his loneliness, how it had brought him to frequent this place, to spend no less than two hours on backgammon or conversation, before he returned to his room to read for an hour or so before falling asleep. The last book he had bought, he told Hassanein, was Socialism, by Ramsay MacDonald, translated into Arabic from the English, in which the author claimed that the socialist system did not run counter to religion, family, or morality.
Lonely and bored, he found pleasure, he said, in dreams of social reform, imagining the emergence of a better society than the present one and improvement in living conditions. The prospect of realizing his dreams without jeopardizing the religious creed he had imbibed early in childhood made his heart overflow with exuberance.
Hussein wondered whether his mother had divulged to his brother the secret that had driven her to pay him a visit nearly a year and a half ago, but since Hassanein made no mention of the matter, Hussein was confirmed in his early conclusion that his mother had said nothing about it. The thought, now reminding his calm and peaceful heart of past suffering, would have entirely ceased to trouble him but for a general feeling of longing for love and companionship. When he asked his brother about his fiancée, Hassanein answered vaguely. “She’s well, thanks be to God.” Hassanein wondered whether he should speak frankly to his brother about his change in attitude toward Bahia. Shying away from the revelation, he postponed it for some future time, for he knew in advance that Hussein would never approve of his motives and intentions. But their amiable, lengthy tête-à-tête induced him to broach the grave subject which preoccupied him most.
“Imagine how marvelous our life would have been,” Hassanein sighed, “but for Hassan and our family’s past.”
Hussein understood the sorrow and discontent underlying his brother’s sigh. “I believe our troubles are over now,” he said simply. “Besides, there’s nothing to be ashamed of in our family’s past. As for Hassan, it’s a pity, but he can do harm only to himself.”
Hassanein shook his head in disapproval. “I’ve learned that, as time went on, Hassan degenerated into a thug and a dealer in narcotics.”
Although Hussein’s view of his brother was negative, indeed, he could not possibly have imagined this fall into such an abyss. “No! Don’t say it!” he exclaimed in horror.
Disregarding the shock to his brother, Hassanein related what he had seen and heard on his latest visit to Hassan. Silent and sullen, Hussein listened. To break his brother’s protracted silence, Hassanein inquired, “What do you think?”
Hussein extended the palms of his hands as if to say, “What can we do about it?” “Alas!” he muttered. “Hassan was the victim of our father, and our father was the victim of his own empty pockets.”
“Can’t you persuade him to renounce his way of living?” Hassanein asked in fright.
“Whatever we do or say, he’ll never change it,” Hussein sighed. “The only possibility would be to provide him with enough money to start a new life. Can we afford it? That’s the question.”
The answer being too obvious, the two brothers exchanged despondent glances.
“Should we,” Hassanein asked sharply, “allow him to destroy our hopes by his wicked behavior?”
“He’s destroyed only himself.”
“And destroyed us, too. With a brother like him, how can we face the world? One day our names will appear in newspaper stories about arrests and crimes.”
Hussein sighed sorrowfully. His brother’s words revived thoughts that had often tormented him in his loneliness. “We aren’t to blame,” he said. “And we shouldn’t allow exaggerated fears to fill our hearts. Sooner or later we may be exposed to the slanders. But we won’t be able to face life unless we develop a measure of indifference.”
To Hassanein, his brother was either unaware of what he was saying or indifferent to the family’s good reputation, which he considered the foundation of all his hopes in life. But Hussein’s circumstances were different. He knew none of the friends of Hassanein, whose discovery of the family secrets his younger brother dreaded. Moreover, Hussein, not being ambitious, did not fear people who told tales. Offended at this lack of a sympathetic hearing from his brother, Hassanein regretted that he had confided his fears. At the moment, he was not only indignant toward his brother; he despised his calm resignation.
“Do we have the right to consider ourselves honorable people?” he exclaimed in a flash of anger.
“Why not?” Hussein inquired with surprise.
“Because we’ve straightened out the difficulties of our lives with tainted money!”
His eyes emitting sudden sparks of fury, Hussein silently stared at his brother’s face. Grief, long buried, surfaced in his consciousness, evoking with it the most somber memories.
“We had to defend ourselves,” he said sharply. “And even murder is justified in self-defense.”
Secretly relieved at his brother’s anger, Hassanein began to wonder at his own motive in confronting him with this painful revelation. Now they were separated by a wide gulf of silence; as the two brothers tired of it, their conversation drifted to other matters. But it took some time before the strain wore off and amiability was restored.
The two brothers returned together to Cairo a few days later for an unforgettable day in the life of the family. Samira gave Hussein a long kiss and Nefisa embraced him warmly. In the afternoon Hussein talked for an hour about Tanta and his life there as the two women listened attentively. Gazing at his mustache and his growing obesity, Nefisa was surprised by the changes that had taken place in him.
“Why do you imitate men while you’re still a child?” she said disapprovingly.
“I’m no longer a child.” Hussein grinned.
“We’re men and you’re our elder sister,” Hassanein said, laughing.
“In the past,” the girl said sharply, “I was your elder sister but from now on you look older. Do you understand?”
Turning to her mother, she inquired, “How do you like his mustache, which makes him appear older than he actually is and, for no reason, makes us age, too.”
It was noon. Hussein took off his clothes. Strange though the house appeared to him, it aroused feelings of deep attachment to home and family, his heart overflowing with tenderness and total relief: shelter at last in a safe harbor after sailing on uncharted seas. His eyes searched the study: the same old desk, the same few chairs, the same windowpane, the sheet of newspaper replacing the broken glass, all stirred dear memories. His bed had disappeared; evidently it had been sold, as if, like Hassan, he had ceased to be a member of the family. He understood, yet he could not help feeling melancholy and depressed. At this moment he was awakened from his thoughts when Nefisa said, as she left the room, “Give me two hours to prepare a good meal for you.”
Hussein smiled with satisfaction. He had not tasted sumptuous food for a long time, probably since his father’s death. While it was obvious from his physical appearance that, compared with his days as a pupil, his diet had improved, the mere act of eating failed to excite him. His happiness in returning to the scenes of his early life far outweighed any joy in food itself. His longing for the atmosphere of his early boyhood days pervaded his senses with a strange sweetness—even the familiar, unhygienic air of the alley now seemed invigorating. As he conversed with his mother, his eyes wandered about the small room, resting finally on the star fixed on Hassanein’s jacket, which hung on a peg. Year after year Hassanein would be promoted to a higher rank, while throughout his own period of service, he would remain a mere clerk in the seventh or, at best, the sixth grade. Yet he was entirely free of rancor and jealousy toward Hassanein; on the contrary, his brother’s success filled his heart with great happiness. But in silent sadness, as he contemplated the vast distinction that segregated the different categories of employees, unconsciously he began to think of distinction in society at large. Once he was transferred to Cairo, he wondered if he could enroll in an evening institute so as to improve his social status. Inwardly smiling at this happy thought, he cherished it as a recourse to rescue himself from the fate of Hassan Effendi Hassan, who would not have been promoted to the sixth grade but for the minister of the Wafds! Recalling conversations in Tanta, he asked his brother, “Is it true what we hear of a cabinet change?”
“Officers aren’t allowed to mix in politics,” Hassanein said with a laugh.
“Why should there be a cabinet change,” Hussein replied good-humoredly, “since the British have stopped interfering with our internal politics?”
“Will we have demonstrations again?” their mother asked.
“Who knows?”
“Doesn’t the army have something to do with demonstrations?” she inquired again, this time with concern.
“If a revolution breaks out,” Hassanein said quietly, “the army must take action.”
Hussein laughed. Understanding the insinuation in this laughter, their mother looked askance at Hassanein, and shrugged her shoulders indifferently. Nefisa returned to report that a delicious dinner was in preparation and to ask them what they wanted for a salad. Then, her forehead covered with perspiration and her sleeves rolled up, she left the room. In the ensuing silence Hussein became absorbed in thoughts about how he would spend his vacation. His colleagues in Tanta called him the Jew because he neither gambled, drank, nor spent more than one piaster in a coffeehouse. But they were ignorant of his circumstances. True, he was frugal by temperament, but his many responsibilities left him with nothing.
His mother soon brought him out of his reverie as she revived the conversation. It struck him that she looked at him with an unusual tenderness which she rarely showed. Did she remember, he wondered, how cruel she had been to him one day? True, she had been cruel, but certainly fate itself had treated them all with even greater cruelty. How would she deal with Hassanein and his lack of enthusiasm about his marriage? Why did Hassanein avoid speaking about it?
At two o’clock, Nefisa brought in the dinner tray and put it on the desk. “Today,” she said, “we’ll take our meal at the desk, as it does not become government employees to have their dinner on the floor!”
For the first time in two years the family was reassembled for dinner; later they would retire to their seats on the bed and resume their conversation. At about half past three there was a knock on the door, and Nefisa went to open it. A strange idea occurred to Hussein: was Farid Effendi’s family paying them a visit on the occasion of his return from Tanta? But wasn’t this unusual at this time of day? Nefisa returned on the run, stopping to stare at them with wide, worried, and astonished eyes.
“An officer and policemen!” she exclaimed.
SEVENTY-FIVE
Astonished, the two brothers rose to their feet. Hurriedly, Hassanein put on his jacket.
“What do they want?” he inquired.
Nefisa turned her eyes from the members of her family to the newcomers. Fear-stricken, she blurted out, “Oh, God! They’ve entered the hall.”
Rushing out of the room, the two young men encountered an officer, two policemen, and another man, apparently an informer. Hassanein advanced to the officer.
“May I respectfully ask what you want?” he inquired.
“Excuse me,” the officer said. “We’ve orders to search this flat.”
The officer produced a search warrant. Hassanein looked at it with unbelieving eyes.
“Perhaps there’s a mistake about the flat,” Hussein asked. “Why our flat?”
“We’re searching,” the officer answered, “for a man by the name of Hassan Kamel, commonly known as Mr. Head.”
Dumbfounded, the two young men cast desperate, worried glances at the officer; terror-stricken, they stood transfixed at the entrance of the room.
“We’ve already arrested some of his accomplices,” the officer continued, “but he disappeared before we could catch him. Certain persons informed us of his former residence, and this information was confirmed by Sheikh al-Hara. He’s well informed about every quarter, and operates as a link between the residents and the government.”
“But he doesn’t live here,” Hassanein said in an agitated voice. “He left our house many years ago, and we know nothing of his whereabouts.”
“At any rate,” the officer replied, shaking his head, “I’ll carry out my orders and search the flat.”
The search began. One of the two policemen withdrew to the door, while the officer and the two other men swept into the rooms. Never in my life, Hassanein thought, shall I forget this moment! He mentally followed the officer as he searched one bare room after another, turning their contemptible, decaying furniture inside out. It was not merely a search for Hassan, since he could not possibly conceal himself in the drawer of a desk or inside the intestines of the bedclothes. The scandal seemed hideous beyond description. The officer’s searching eyes exposed the humbleness and destitution of the flat, which in this terrifying moment gave Hassanein a profound sense of social shame and degradation. Stunned though he was, Nefisa’s sobs struck his ears. He raised his head. “Shut up!” he shouted madly at her in a shrill voice.
The search was over and the officer ordered his men to le
Raising his hand in salutation, the officer departed, leaving a depressing silence behind him. In the silence of the room, the brothers looked absently at each other. Pale as death, the two women approached them. Suddenly recovering from the shock, with a sigh Hassanein leaped to the door and, craning his neck, glanced around the courtyard of the house: at the farthest end, the policemen were carving their way with difficulty through a crowd of men and children, including the grocer, the blacksmith, and the tobacconist. Beating his chest with his fist, he exclaimed, “The whole neighborhood is witnessing our scandal. We’ve been exposed, and now we’re finished!”
Nefisa continued to weep. Their mother turned to Hussein as if for help. But he did not know what to say and seemed shattered by the blow. Still violently beating his chest, Hassanein stamped back and forth across the hall. “I feel like murdering somebody,” he exclaimed. “Nothing less than murder would get this out of my system!”
His mother was disturbed at her son’s violent self-torture. “Calm down, my son,” she muttered. “What good is it to beat your chest?”
“Let me kill myself since I can’t find anyone else to kill,” he cried with fury.
Hussein broke his silence. “Let’s think this over calmly,” he said in a strange voice.
With feverish eyes, Hassanein cast a fiery glance at his brother. “What is there to be thought over?” he demanded. “We’ve been exposed, and now we’re finished.”
“This disaster is beyond our power,” Hussein replied, “but we’re not finished. Let’s think the matter over.”
Finding this conversation intolerable, Hassanein retired to his room and flung himself on the bed. Choked by shame and burnt by fury, he loathed his guilty brother from the darkest recesses of his heart. He wished Hassan were dead. His mind wild with hallucinations, he surrendered to his thoughts. Hussein followed him into the bedroom and sat silently on the chair, waiting for his brother to respond. For his own part, Hussein was in a pitiable condition. Never before in his whole life had he felt so saddened. He was fully aware of the seriousness of this blow to their reputation, the troubles awaiting them now and in the future, and the consequences of this final blow to Hassan, his elder brother. What had his family done to deserve this fate? Accumulated memories of past sorrows were linked in his mind to those of the present; together they suddenly assumed the appearance of a poisonous abscess, developing serious complications at the very time he thought it was cured. As usual, associating his family’s misfortunes with those of other people, he found himself contemplating the universality of human sorrow. Sad though his contemplation was, it frequently inspired him with a measure of patience and consolation. Searching for a gleam of hope in the surrounding darkness, he looked furtively at the angry face of his brother, waiting for an opportunity to speak to him.