The Beginning and the End by Naguib Mahfouz
A faint smile appeared on Nefisa’s face. Her lips opened without uttering a word, and she thought: Perhaps she told you that I was a skillful dressmaker. Well, is that praise or disparagement? I don’t know. I wonder if she told you about the situation of our family. I had a father like yours, and I was as much of a lady as you are. I had waited long for a bridegroom to come. But he never did and he never will.
The bride asked her tenderly, already knowing the answer, “Why are you in mourning?”
“My father died two months ago,” she answered sadly. “He was, may the mercy of God be upon him, an official in the Ministry of Education.”
“Mrs. Zeinab told us about it. My condolences.”
“Thank you. We come from Benha. My aunt lives there with her husband, who owns a ginning factory.”
At that moment a servant entered carrying a bundle, which she placed beside her mistress and departed. The bride untied the bundle, which contained a pile of silk cloths of different colors. Nefisa realized immediately that it was material to be made into underwear. Perhaps she had sent the dresses to another, more capable dressmaker. This made her feel relieved, because she was afraid of harming her professional reputation by putting it to such a difficult test. She was content to undertake what lay within her abilities in return for a fair price. She moved to the place where the bride sat, examined the cloth, and felt it with her hand.
“Congratulations,” she said. “How precious this silk is.”
A happy smile appeared on the bride’s lips. “Now,” she said, “we start by taking measurements. By the way, do you mind coming to work here in our house? We have all the things you need for your work. There are no children in the house to disturb you. Besides, you do not live far away. So it will be easy for you to come every day.”
“As you wish, madam,” Nefisa found herself obliged to reply.
The girl rose and stood before her, and Nefisa started to take her measurements. The smell of new silk filled her deprived nostrils, and when she touched the fabric, she experienced a strange feeling of both desire and pain as it glided between her fingers. Surrendering to her confidence in the skill of her hands gave her a sense of mastery and the hope of consolation, but hope very soon died and gave way to dark despair. She thought: A bride and silk. Am I really making these clothes for the bride? In fact, I am making this underwear for the bridegroom more than the bride! His fingertips will playfully touch its relaxed fringes, its softness. So I am taking part in the preparation of this marriage, and I shall also participate in so many marriages, without getting married myself, to be left to my burning dreams. What a beautiful and happy girl she is! Happiness almost radiates from her eyes. Today the silk is prepared, and tomorrow the lover is awaited. A waft of warm maternity blows on her from a rosy horizon. I have been dreaming of that for so long; and my father used to tell me that a sweet temper was more precious than beauty. Time passed between solicitude and hope until I reached the age of twenty-three. Why was I born ugly? Why wasn’t I created like my brothers? How handsome Hassanein and Hussein are! Even Hassan! I am as dead as my father. He lies dead in Bab el-Nasr, and I lie dead in Shubra.
Then the voice of the bride came to her. “Would you like to receive part of your fees in advance?”
“No need at all,” she hastened to reply.
She regretted this injudicious reply, which doubled her resentment and despondency. She heard the creak of approaching shoes and raised her head in the direction of the door to see a young man merrily enter the room. He quickly came to the bride, their hands clasped, and they exchanged a happy smile.
“Where is your mother?” he asked.
“In her room.”
He turned to Nefisa, and the girl introduced the young man.
“Hassan, my fiancé.”
Bending her head toward him, she said, “Miss Nefisa, the dressmaker.”
TWENTY
Nefisa was tired when she left the bride’s house, just before sunset. Nasr Allah was only a few steps from the house, so she wended her way through the passersby leisurely and relaxed. The cold air refreshed her, and she quickened her pace. Memories of what took place in the bride’s house rushed to her mind in a mixture of pain and pleasure. She was sitting on a sofa, and the couple was sitting on one opposite her. They sat close to each other, speaking sometimes audibly and sometimes so quietly that their voices became lovers’ whispers. How great was her desire, then, to raise her head from the sewing machine and have a look at them. But fear and shyness stopped her from meeting their eyes.
Once, when she raised her eyes, she saw their legs touching. So absorbing was that sight to her that she regained her awareness only when the bride slapped the bridegroom on the hand, saying to him half coyly, half threateningly, “Be careful!”
Nefisa was so absorbed in her fancies that she almost collided with the others who were walking in the street. A burning desire for love overcame her. Throughout her life she had not found a single heart with love and compassion for her. Her strained nerves found vent only in laughter, mocking herself, her brothers, and others. Thus she became known for her light-hearted laughter, although it concealed a profound bitterness. She could not avoid such feelings. In fact, her female instinct was the only part of her that was free from blemish; it was ripe and warm. A captive urge, imprisoned by her upbringing, by dignity and family, tortured her. But the scene she witnessed in the bride’s house was enough to shake her violently and cruelly. When she thought of Nasr Allah, a fresh, tantalizing hope revived in her breast. There she saw Amm Gaber Soliman’s grocery, which lay a short distance from her house. There also was Soliman Gaber Soliman, Gaber’s son and apprentice. Since her family had dismissed their servant, Nefisa frequently went to the grocery to buy what they needed. Thus began her acquaintance with the young man, and it became closer as time went on. She conjured up before her the image of the young man, tall and stout, rather dark, with an oval face and narrow eyes. She asked herself: Did he really show interest in her or did she imagine it? It seemed that he had smiled at her hesitantly many times. Perhaps he could not forget, despite their circumstances, that she was the daughter of the late Kamel Effendi. Although she wasn’t pretty, she still looked like a respectable girl, while Soliman was only the son of a simple grocer, and he was only an apprentice in his father’s shop. She was aware of all this, but she could not afford to reject any man, whoever he might be, who seemed interested in her. She couldn’t afford not to love anyone who loved her. All of a sudden, resentment and a kind of lukewarmness returned to her, and her old despair engulfed her. Her heart said: Don’t deceive yourself and allow false hope to make you lose your head. Be contented with despondency. It will give you relief, which is the sole consolation for a girl like you, without money, beauty, or a father.
But she knew that she would not listen to her heart or obey the voice of her fears. The closer she approached the blind alley where she lived, the greater became her surrender to hope and tenderness. She thought: God is omnipotent. Inasmuch as He ordains my sorrow, He can, be it His will, grant me hope and comfort. He is my sole hope and He will never let me down. I have not done anything wrong to deserve humiliation. Neither has our family. So this anguish is bound to be dispelled. But Soliman is an obscure person. Will Hassanein accept him? My brothers are all proud, and I do not think our poverty will diminish their pride. Hassan behaves like an outsider. Oh! To think of Hassan. I wish he could change his attitude and save us from our distress. My father’s pension and my work are not enough. And what has Hassan done? Nothing. None of them will accept Soliman, and nobody better than Soliman will ever come to me. How can I make sure that he is really interested in me? With her eyes fixed on Amm Gaber Soliman’s grocery store, she continued until she reached the alley. She thought of going to the grocery to buy something…anything. Without hesitation, she went to it. The old Amm Gaber Soliman was sitting at his small desk, busy working on his ledger, while his young son Soliman Gaber Soliman stood behind the
Blinking in confusion, she replied, “Give me one piaster’s worth of Tahania sweets.”
He took a knife, cut an ample portion, and, slicing a little extra piece, he said to her in a low voice, “This slice is for you alone, Miss Nefisa.”
He wrapped up the sweet in a paper and handed it to her, then took the piaster, watching his father out of the corner of his eye. Noting that his father was busy working on his ledger, he became encouraged.
“I shall keep your piaster for good luck.”
She smiled faintly and went away. She had smiled deliberately as if she wanted to encourage him. That cost her a great effort. He is no longer content with the language of the eyes, and he did well when he spoke, she thought, and in spite of his humble position and appearance, her heart beat with delight and she was overcome with excitement. Before it actually happened, she had played the scene over in her mind while she was engaged in her work for the bride. Reality turned out to be only slightly different from her imagination. She had imagined herself standing before him to buy Tahania sweets, and he, devouring her with his eyes, had said to her, as he was taking the piaster, “You are sweeter than sweet.” He hadn’t actually said that, but he’d said something similar. She sighed with relief and her imagination flew to the memories of her past loves! Her first was a minister whose picture she had seen in Al Musawar magazine, and she had embroidered around his picture some rosy daydreams in which she imagined herself begetting a unique child by him. The second was Farid Effendi Mohammed himself, and because of her love for him, she quarreled with his wife and family. As for Soliman, he was the worst of the lot. Yet he was the only one who actually existed.
When she reached the middle of the courtyard, she began to fear that her mother would scold her for spending the whole day outside the house. This aroused her resentment and she imagined herself replying: “Stop scolding me, I can no longer bear it. What I am suffering from is enough.”
Her voice rose, ringing in the staircase. Cautiously, she looked around her, and with her fingers suppressed a laugh that almost escaped her lips.
TWENTY-ONE
Hassanein left Farid Effendi Muhammed’s flat and closed the door behind him. He was extremely depressed. He walked toward the stairs, suffering with despair and frustration. But he stopped, putting his hand on the banister. He raised his head to follow the rustle of a dress. He saw the hem as the wearer climbed the last flight of stairs leading to the roof of the house. Who was it? He knew all the occupants of the house very well. Which of them was it, dressed in that red color? His heart beat violently, and he felt some power urging him to climb upward. He cast a wary look at the closed door and listened with attention and anxiety. On tiptoe, he crossed the corridor in front of the flat and walked toward the last flight of stairs leading to the roof. Perhaps it was she. He had seen her no more, either in the room or in the hall, since he threw his folded letter at her feet. She had disappeared in anger, and was, undoubtedly, indifferent to his letter and emotions. Thus the teaching hours became tedious and a torture to him. Noiselessly he climbed up the stairs until he reached the last flight. He saw the slanting rays of the setting sun level with his eyes. Waves of gentle breezes blew on his forehead. He looked all over the roof, from its front ledge overlooking the alley to its back ledge; but he found no trace of a human being. There was nothing on the roof but two wooden chicken houses. One of them faced the door to the roof, and the other, which belonged to Farid Effendi’s family, stood in a corner beside the back ledge. He silently approached the second chicken house and stood near the door, pricking his ears. At first, he heard only the cackle of chickens. Then he heard a voice clucking to the chickens. He could not tell whose voice it was. Afraid that the girl’s mother might be inside, he retreated a step. He was about to flee. But the door opened, and on its threshold appeared Bahia in a red overcoat. Her blue eyes widened in amazement, and they were fixed dumbfounded on him. She blushed so intensely that her face resembled the red velvet of her overcoat, but her blush lasted only for a few moments. Then, controlling her feelings, she crossed the threshold and closed the door. She went away from him, walking toward the door of the roof. But he did not allow her to escape, leaping to block her way. She gave him an angry look and indignantly straightened her head.
“This is too much!” she exclaimed.
In a mixture of daring and tenderness, he replied, “Always angry! I wonder at my bad luck, always finding you angry.”
She looked annoyed. “Let me pass, please,” she said.
He stretched out his arms as if to block her way altogether. “This is an opportunity I couldn’t dream of,” he said. “So I can’t allow it to slip from my hands. After your deliberate disappearance which caused me the most painful torture, I have the right to keep you for a while. Why do you disappear? Let me ask you: How did you like my letter?”
She frowned. “You mention that paper!” she said sharply. “How brazen of you! I don’t approve of it.”
His look at her wavered between hope and fear, and he thought: Should I believe this anger? My heart tells me that it is exaggerated. Perhaps it is a symptom of shyness. Surely it is. If she had really wanted to force her way, I couldn’t have stopped her. I don’t want to believe it. But why did she insist on disappearing?
“My brazenness is the result of exhausted patience!” he said to her beseechingly.
She shook her head with annoyance. “Patience,” she muttered. “Do not play with such words, and let me go, please!”
“I have told you nothing but the truth,” he said with warmth and sincerity, “and it was my true feeling alone which urged me to write that short letter. Every word in it is true. So I am terribly offended to find that you recoil so angrily at my feelings.”
Panting, he swallowed hard, then corrected himself. “Yes,” he said with a sob. “I love you.”
She turned her head away, still frowning, her brows closely knit and her lips tight. But when she kept silent for a while, a fresh gleam of hope revived in him. Then she said in a voice that was softer than before, “Let me go. Aren’t you afraid someone may come up to the roof and find us?”
Oh God! Is she annoyed only that someone may come up to the roof?! He was filled with ecstasy; his shining brown eyes radiated with delight.
“Let me express my feelings to you,” he exclaimed. “I love you. I love you more than life itself. Not only that. The only good in life is that I love you. This is what I wrote, what I am saying, and what I will repeat. Believe me, and don’t keep silent, because I can’t bear it.”
He could read seriousness and solemnity on her pure face as she turned it to him. But he thought he could perceive in her some sort of tender feeling which, perhaps, she found it hard to suppress.
Then he heard her say in a whispering voice, “That is enough! Now, allow me to go!”
She was adamant in wearing that mask. How easily she yields to shyness. He heaved an audible sigh. “I do not want to go back to my tortures without a gleam of hope,” he said quietly. “I have opened up the secrets of my heart to you. And I do not hope to get from you more than one word to infuse life into my dead soul.”
But she seemed unable to utter that word. In her extreme confusion she said only, “Oh, God! How can I leave this place?”
He was touched. But hope rendered him more stubborn and persistent. “Don’t be so scared,” he said warmly. “I love you. Does this confession only arouse annoyance in you? I won’t go back to desperate torture. Never. Never.”
“So what?”
Observing her flushed face in the quiet and the waning light of the dusk, he was swept by an uncontrollable u
“Say just one word! If you can’t, only give a nod. Again, if you can’t even do that, then your silence—if I can perceive contentment in it—is enough for me.”
Her lips moved without uttering a word; then they closed. Her face flushed more deeply, and she turned away from him. His desire mounting, his heart leapt ecstatically inside his breast. “Is that the silence I want? I love you. I give you my word that I shall be yours unto death.”
She inclined her face more without breaking her beloved silence. A sweeping ecstasy overcame his body until his eyes were intoxicated. Unconsciously, desire made him move toward her, but she shrank away as if she were awakened from a profound dream by a sudden shake; she almost leapt away from him. Then she fled. He remained transfixed, looking with mad love at her back until she disappeared behind the door. He sighed heartily. Looking far away into the dusk at the embroidered phantoms of the horizon, he felt that his soul was dissolving into the universe and singing in its splendor. Then he moved slowly, drunk and glowing, until he almost reached the door. As he passed the other chicken house, a magnetic power seemed to attract him to it. Looking to his left, he saw his brother Hussein standing behind the wall of the chicken house.
TWENTY-TWO
“Hussein,” he said with surprise.
Hassanein observed a change in the color of Hussein’s face, who, though livid with anger, was exerting his utmost effort to control himself and keep his anger in check. Hassanein wondered why his brother had come up to the roof. Probably Hussein had followed him. On his way to give his lesson, he may have seen Hassanein warily climbing up the stairs to the roof and become suspicious. This was the only rational explanation. However, it was out of character for Hussein to hide himself, to eavesdrop and spy. It did not occur to Hassanein to ask his brother why he had done it. On the contrary, he was overcome by shyness and confusion. Despite his anger, Hussein’s shyness and confusion were no less. Perhaps Hussein sought to conceal his own feelings by exaggerated anger.