The Beginning and the End by Naguib Mahfouz
He gave his brother a meaningful look, which Hassanein received with suppressed indignation. He felt so restless that he went out onto the balcony, forgetting that only a few moments earlier he had suggested closing the window. Facing the dark, he felt as melancholy as the murky clouds of the sky, which made the darkness outside more profound and desolate. Not a single star shone on the horizon. The light of the lamps was dimly perceptible under a thick envelope of mist. A silence, as heavy as lead, fell on the universe, and a mute coldness almost suffocated him. A puritan. A puritan, he thought. He wishes prematurely to be a dignified man. He does not want to help me. Who knows! Perhaps if she had a sister, he might have behaved differently. He is as serious and as stern as our mother. I must solve this problem in my favor. He kept pondering until he heard Salem calling him, then he entered the room.
“Have a cup of tea,” the boy said.
He saw two cups on the table, and as he took one of them, he felt his tension relax. Before a minute passed, they heard the doorknob grating. They looked toward the door. It opened a little and Bahia appeared. She was carrying the sugar bowl, which she gave to Salem. “Take this,” she said. “Perhaps there’s not enough sugar in the tea.”
She wore a brown dress, the hem almost touching the upper part of her ankle. The length of the dress lent charm to her rather short figure. The two brothers stared at her face, but her eyes remained on the boy. Stunned, Hussein lowered his eyes, but Hassanein kept staring at her face, as though he had lost the power to turn his eyes away from it. He watched the boy bring the sugar bowl. His beating heart was filled with consternation when he saw the girl shut the door. It was painful for him to see her disappear while his astonishment was still unyielding, all-absorbing, and from his depths sprang an irresistible desire to express himself. “Thank you,” he said, hurriedly. “There is enough sugar in the tea.”
Her eyes turned to him in embarrassment, then she disappeared without uttering a word. Perhaps her eyes revealed a suppressed smile. He avoided looking at his brother and fixed his eyes on the cup of tea. This is a surprise which I did not expect, he thought. A happy dream. In spite of the closed door!
He took a big sip of the hot liquid. It burned his tongue and palate, and made him gasp. But temptation soon made him forget the burning effect of the hot tea, and his mind contemplated her again. What a soft body, and what fascinating eyes. Even that long dress could not hide the image of her legs, particularly her knees. Neither the long dress, closed door, nor darkness can conceal such an image. Ones greatest duty in this world is to flirt with a beautiful girl whom one loves. I wonder how a shy girl, who dares not look into the face of her lover, can one day carelessly take off her clothes in his arms!
Such a girl is apt to infuse delightful hopes even in dead souls. Perhaps this is due to the force of habit. Yes. The force of habit, which has rendered supperless nights quite a familiar thing to us. What right do I have to think of love under the present circumstances of our life! “Thank you. There is enough sugar in the tea!” I did well when I thanked her! My disposition dislikes cowardice and hesitation. Thus I can seize upon the opportunities of love in the midst of the desolation of poverty. If poverty were a man, I would kill him. But poverty is a woman. It kills us all and we do not resent it. Does my father suffer for our condition? What shape does he assume now? Alas! My father! True, life is a big lie. But she came in person, carrying the sugar bowl. In fact, she came especially for me. I wish I were the Charlemagne of my age. If one day I returned to Nasr Allah in the full majesty of knighthood, she would unconditionally surrender to me. He recovered from his reverie only when he heard Hussein speaking.
“Come. It is your turn.”
Ah yes. The English language. He took his brother’s place. He gave a lesson replete with kindness and affection for the boy in whose veins ran the same blood as that of his sister…the blood which he detected in the delicate back of her knee. At last he finished. But he was so absorbed that he was unaware of the passage of time. Then the two young men left the flat and climbed down the dark stairs. He was no longer able to contain his feeling.
“Her appearance today was a wonderful surprise,” he said.
Hussein spoke in a suspiciously critical tone. “Take care. Don’t be insolent. This is a respectable house.”
“What did I do to deserve that reproof?”
“Do not do anything you would not dare to do if Farid Effendi was with us.”
So delighted was Hassanein that he said as if to himself, “She came in person! Oh God! How nice she is!”
“She did nothing wrong by coming.”
“Do you think that her father asked her to bring the sugar bowl?”
“How could I possibly know?” Hussein answered, sounding bored.
“Did she come of her own accord?”
“What difference does it make?”
“If she came of her own accord, did her father know about it?”
There was no answer from his brother, who nevertheless paid close attention to his words.
“Did she come surreptitiously?” Hassanein persisted.
“Surreptitiously?!”
Hassanein pressed his brother’s arm. “Do they not say in proverbs, ‘Between lovers there is discreet communion’?” he said as they reached the last stair.
SEVENTEEN
“Now I have come by myself, and Hussein will come after me, so that our time will not be wasted unnecessarily.”
“That is better,” Salem answered politely.
Each took his place. Before starting the lesson, Hassanein suggested, “It will be better if we close the balcony window and open the door.”
Salem rose and carried out the wish of his teacher, who noted that the silent hall was completely dark. But he did not lose hope. There was still time for tea and sugar. In his desire to be good to his teacher, Salem confided his thoughts to him. “Father and Mother,” he said, “have gone out to visit my grandmother.”
Hassanein’s heart shook violently. He gave the boy a long look. “When did they go out?” he asked.
“In the afternoon.”
Anxiously, he sought to learn whether the girl had gone with them. “How could you stay alone in the house?”
“My sister Bahia is staying with me,” the boy replied.
This answer gave Hassanein relief, delight, and hope. Thoughts came to his mind: Tea and sugar, especially sugar. Not sugar, but the sugar bowl. I shall find out today whether she deliberately appeared that other time. He asked the boy to read, and the lesson was in progress. He listened to his pupil for a few minutes, but then his thoughts again rambled off. Should I ask for tea? That would be too forward. But if they are late in bringing the tea, I must ask for it. I am too agitated. She and I are alone in the flat. Neither Salem’s presence nor that of the servant will make any difference. She and I are alone. Let me enjoy being alone with her for a while, in my imagination. If life were as lusciously simple as it used to be in early times, I would take her in my arms and ask her with no hesitation to uncover her legs. What stops me from doing so? It is the folly of the world, which killed my father and caused the sufferings we have been undergoing. He became aware of Salem only when the boy asked him the meaning of a word. He explained it to him and ordered him to proceed with his reading. Before the youngster’s voice faded away, he heard the sound of approaching footsteps. He turned his eyes in the direction of the open door. He saw the tea tray before he could distinguish who was carrying it. His eyes fell on her arms holding the tray. His heart beat violently and he rose like a man obsessed. While he was moving toward the door, he heard her soft voice, speaking almost in a whisper: “Salem.”
Hassanein appeared before her, his eyes ravaging her.
“Thanks a lot,” he whispered.
Her almost pale complexion flushed. Perhaps she did not expect to see him. She lowered her eyes in confusion. Hassanein stretched his hands to take the tray from her. In so doing, his right hand clutched the finger
His thoughts rambled: Was I too hasty, not waiting for things to develop naturally? How impatient I am! I am always like that. What a frown came upon her face! She frowned and went away. If shyness is the reason, nothing will be dearer to my heart. But if its indignation, then it is the end of everything. Never shall I retreat. Never shall I know hesitation. Why did she come in person? Why didn’t she ask the servant to carry the tray? She came particularly for me. This is obvious. There is nothing to fear.
He was intermittently aware of Salem, asked him some questions, then fell into worry and distraction, wavering between apprehension and pleasure. When the lesson was over, an idea occurred to him. He rose up, determined and unflinching, to put it into effect. Salem left the room to make way for his teacher. In this interval he took a handkerchief from the pocket of his coat, dropped it on the seat, and left the flat. But he did not budge after the door had been closed. Before knocking at the door, he listened attentively until the boy’s footsteps died away. His heart was pounding with extreme agitation. If the servant opens the door for me, my plan will be foiled. But probably she will come. I have to be resigned to whatever happens. The light in the hall was turned on, approaching footsteps were heard, and the door was opened. It was she. He did not like the astonishment that appeared on her face. But he wasted no time.
“I am afraid I have angered you,” he said tenderly and sympathetically. She withdrew a step without uttering a word, and he said hurriedly, “I can never bear to see you angry.”
As though she could not endure being spoken to, she whispered resentfully, “No, no, no. That is too much!”
He could not answer, because Salem appeared on the threshold of the room on the left to inquire, “Is Mummy back?”
“I forgot my handkerchief in the room,” Hassanein said aloud.
Salem ran into the room, and the girl hastened inside the house. The boy brought him the handkerchief. He took it and went away. He forgot to thank him.
EIGHTEEN
Hussein raised his head from the desk. Scrutinizing his brother’s face, he said, “What is the matter with you?”
Hassanein answered with only a short laugh. In a meaningful tone, his brother asked, “Did you give your lesson?”
Hassanein threw himself on the bed. “Do I look changed?” he inquired.
“Certainly.”
Hassanein sighed. “I have to thank God that our mother is sitting in semi-darkness,” he said.
“What happened?”
Would he tell him what happened? But what would he get from him but reproof? “Nothing happened,” he replied.
“But you look confused! And when you are confused, your nostrils twitch like a donkey’s.”
After saying this, Hussein paused to ask himself if the nostrils of a donkey actually twitched. How did such a smile come to his mind? His brother laughed.
“Just a bit of excitement. That is all,” he said.
“So what?”
“Nothing.”
Then Hussein said in earnest, “I want to understand your intentions.”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“Don’t feign ignorance. You understand everything. Why don’t you leave her alone? Aren’t you afraid that Farid Effendi will discover your forwardness, or that the girl herself will tell him about it? That will put us in a difficult situation.”
“My brother,” Hassanein said, smiling, “if they place the sun on my right hand and the moon on my left and ask me to leave her, I won’t. I’d rather perish.”
Hussein laughed in spite of himself. Reassuming his seriousness and solemnity, he inquired, “What do you want from her?”
What a question. Too simple, yet unanswerable. Had he asked himself that question, he would have found no answer. He was motivated by his impulses and instincts, without need for thinking. He said in bewilderment, “In my case there is no distinction between cause and effect.”
“I don’t understand what you mean.”
“Neither do I.”
“So leave her alone, as I told you.”
“I shall keep chasing her until…”
Hussein pressed on. “Until what?”
“Until she falls in love with me as I have with her.”
“Then?”
The young man replied, perplexed, “That’s enough.”
Hussein shook his head angrily. “You are mistaken,” he said. “She is a decent girl of a good family, and your conduct will displease her.”
“She is that and even more; but I shall never give up hope.”
He stood up and went to the desk. He put his books on the sill of the closed window immediately adjacent to his bed. He sat cross-legged before the sill, as though he were sitting at a desk.
“Why don’t you sit at the desk?” his brother asked.
“I want to sit cross-legged to warm my legs.”
He was preoccupied with an important matter. He opened a copybook, cut out a page from it, and took up a pen. Intense with love and deep distress, he thought: I shall write to her. There is no alternative. I shall not have another opportunity to speak to her again. But what should I write?
The silence in the room, punctuated only by the sound of Hussein turning pages in his copybook, helped Hassanein to concentrate. His ears began to distinguish the sound of a wireless stealthily murmuring through the closed window from one of the houses in the alley. He knit his brows, pretending to be annoyed, but he actually felt relieved to hear it since this helped him to escape his perplexity. He listened to the melody of “Happy Nights Are Here Again,” which completely swept him away. Tenderness gushed into his breast. His heart overflowed with affection, yearning, ecstasy, love, and life. Engulfed in his enthusiasm, he was filled with energy, he wanted to go free into the open air, concealed by the dark. He gradually became oblivious to the song, once it had opened up before his soul the gates of a paradise full of visions and dreams. I must write a few words, he thought, just two sentences on a small piece of paper that nobody will detect if I throw it at her feet. He started to write: “Dear Bahia, I am extremely sorry for making you angry.” Is it not better to say, “Do not be angry, my dear”? Both are the same. What, then? I should confess my love to her? I want to write a decent sentence. Oh, God! Help me.
Hussein interrupted his thoughts, inquiring, “What are you writing?”
“A composition subject.”
“What is it about?”
“The influence of music on the renaissance of countries,” he replied without hesitation.
“Dear Bahia. I am awfully sorry for making you angry. Do you have the right to get angry because I love you?” That is enough, as there is nothing better than to be brief and significant. No, that is not enough. Something is missing. Shall I quote a line of verse? No, it usually sounds ridiculous when people do that, and if she laughs once, the whole letter will misfire. Let me write another touching sentence. Oh, God! I implore you to help.
A fairly good sentence suddenly came to his mind. He started to write: “I swear by God that I have done what I have done…”
But once more he was interrupted by Hussein. “Did you finish the points you plan to tackle in the subject?”
Hassanein was disturbed and in suppressed anger he said, “Almost. Excuse me for a second.”
He returned to the letter, determined to complete it.
“I swear by God,” he wrote, “that I have done what I have done only because I love you, and shall go on loving you as long as I live. To please you gives me reason to live.”
He carefully reread the message and heaved a
NINETEEN
Nefisa found herself in a medium-sized room. There were two big sofas, a few chairs on either side of the room, and an Assiut carpet on the floor. The wall facing the entrance led to a balcony on the fourth story overlooking Shubra Street. The furniture was old, and judging by the placement of the wireless close to the door, the room was arranged so that the members of the family could sit there in their leisure time. The moment Nefisa entered, it was readily apparent to her that the family occupying it was quite prosperous. This was evident from the small hall, furnished as an entry to the house, as well as from the large, luxurious hall used as a dining room. After all, she was right to believe the words of her landlady in Nasr Allah, who had said, “I have brought a rich customer to you, a bride from a good family. I hope you will take great care in making her dresses, for this might encourage other well-to-do people to come to you.” Nefisa was excited to enter a strange house for the first time. She sat on a chair close to the door, and waited. She was dressed in mourning, her black hair falling down her back in a short plait. Thus her face, free as it was from makeup and beauty, looked pale and despairing. She thought about her situation: A strange house and strange people. A new step in the practice of my job. I am just a dressmaker. Oh, Father, I am not sorry for my humiliation so much as I am sorry for the loss of your dignity. She did not have to wait long, for soon a twenty-year-old girl, both beautiful and graceful, entered the room. Nefisa rose to greet the girl, who cast a scrutinizing glance as she shook Nefisa’s hand.
“Welcome,” she said. “You are Miss Nefisa, whom Mrs. Zeinab asked to come?”
“Yes, madam,” Nefisa shyly replied. “Are you the bride?”
The lady smilingly nodded yes and sat down.
“Mrs. Zeinab praises you highly,” she said. “You strike me as being a good dressmaker.”