The Beginning and the End (16 page)

Some weeks later, the two brothers sat for the promotion examination at the end of the scholastic year, and both passed. Hussein was promoted to the fifth year, and Hassanein to the fourth. Failure in their case was not possible; success was their only alternative. Working hard and with great determination, the two boys achieved their goal. But their success confronted their mother with a new problem related to their dinner meals. Usually Samira and her daughter were content with the cheapest food. They often depended on ready-made food from the market to save the expense of meat, fat, and paraffin oil. Now, despite her frugality, the mother found herself obliged to change this rigorous regime, and thus the boys' success brought the family little pleasure. With the passage of time, its life seemed grimmer and gloomier than ever.

One evening Hassan arrived after being gone for three weeks. He came home laughing as usual; he frequently resorted to laughter to conceal his embarrassment and confusion.

“Good evening, Mother. Good evening, children. I have missed you so much,” he said.

Looking at him with astonishment, his brothers greeted him. Samira kept staring through her fingers, making her resentment felt by remaining deliberately silent and ignoring his presence. However, she had given up her former habit of scolding him, settling accounts with him, or persuading him to search for a job; she had realized how futile it was. She felt the same sadness that usually overcame her whenever she thought of him or laid eyes on him. She knew his standard answers. He would tell her in a touching voice that he had left home to relieve her of the expense of feeding him, and that he had never stopped searching
for a job, on and on. As for his brothers, they were genuinely pleased to see him after his long absence. They loved him as much as he loved them.

“
Bonne arrivée.
Where have you been all these weeks?” Nefisa asked him.

Hassan took off his coat, tossed it on the desk, and sat on the bed.

“One has to toil to earn one's living.” Turning to his mother, he said, “Rejoice, Umm Hassan. Our troubles are coming to an end.”

Raising her head, Samira looked at him with suspicious interest.

“Is this true?” she said quietly, somewhat hopefully.

He laughed, delighted to have aroused her interest, especially after she had ignored him. “I've already told you that Mr. Ali Sabri has enlisted me in his band,” he said.

“I don't believe this is a serious job,” Samira sighed.

“A week ago, Ali Sabri was asked to sing at a wedding party in Bulaq. I took part in it in return for twenty piasters, plus my supper of course. I know that this is a trivial sum of money. But earning a living is always difficult in the beginning.”

“For the thousandth time, I beg you to look for a serious job,” his mother said with irritation. “For your own good, if not for ours. What should I say to you, Hassan? Don't you realize that we never get enough to eat?”

Hassan lowered his eyes in confusion. His love for his family was the only noble feeling still alive in his heart. Perhaps it was his mother's sole influence in the formation of his character.

“Be patient,” he murmured. “I haven't yet finished what I want to say…”

But Hassanein interrupted, inquiring, “Do you think that the so-called Ali Sabri will ever be a worthwhile singer?”

Hassan raised his thick eyebrows in disapproval. Hoping to wipe out the effect of his mother's words, he said merrily, “Damn this country which doesn't appreciate talent! Ali Sabri
is a great artist. There is healing and therapy in his singing of ‘Ya Lil.' Have you ever heard him shift his tune from Biati to Hijaz and return again to Biati? Only the great singers, Abdu al-Hamoli and Salama Hijazi, were able to achieve this feat once or twice. As for Mohammed Abdul Wahab, once he uses Biati, he finds himself unable to sustain it in the same performance, and if he ever does, it will be in his next performance. It does not degrade Ali Sabri that he charges only a few pounds for his performance, for he is still at the beginning of his career. History tells us about several great artists who took the first humble steps in their careers singing for a few loaves of bread.”

His brothers laughed at his frivolity. But their mother sighed.

“In everything connected with you, I am resigned to God,” she said.

Casting a superior look at his mother, he replied, “Let's stop talking about art. The important thing for you to know is that I shall be singing at a wedding party tomorrow.”

“As a member of Ali Sabri's band?”

“No. I shall sing alone.”

His mother looked at him with disapproval.

“Have you really become a singer?” Nefisa asked him.

“It happens sometimes that a distinguished member of a band is chosen to sing at a party, which is the first step he takes on the way to success.”

“Who asked you to sing at his party?” his mother asked in a rather sarcastic tone.

“Amm Gaber Soliman asked me to sing at the wedding party of his son, Soliman.”

Nefisa lowered her eyes, her enthusiasm extinguished. She underwent a feeling of suffocating anguish.

Samira was astonished. Nodding at Nefisa, she asked, “Did he ask you after what happened?”

Hassan laughed. “We had agreed to it before Lady Nefisa's fight at the bride's house, and the man dared not break our agreement.”

For a while silence prevailed. Everyone gazed at him incredulously. It was true that there was a touch of sweetness in his voice, but it was not enough to make him a singer.

Perplexed, his mother at last asked him, “Do you really mean what you say?”

“Yes. I swear by God's mercy upon my dead father.”

“How much would you charge?”

“Five pounds. Of these five pounds I shall give you one whole pound.”

He kept silent to allow the effect of his words to sink in.

“What do you think of joining my band as Sannids, to sing choruses? Your voices are good enough,” he asked, looking at his brothers.

The two burst into laughter.

“You're fools!” Hassan exclaimed. “This is a rare opportunity for you to feast on the sumptuous food and drink at the buffet.”

The two brothers continued to laugh sarcastically; yet in their minds they saw the table loaded with appetizing food. Various delicious plates promptly and most temptingly presented themselves to their hungry imaginations. Sensing the strong temptation swaying their minds, Nefisa cried with indignation, “What shame! Do you want to reduce your brothers to beggars in the grocers' houses?”

Hassan laughed. “Lady Nefisa,” he said, “I understand the reason for your anger. Your attack on the bride made it impossible for you to be invited to the party. But what have these two poor chaps done to be deprived of it? This party will be a real event. There will be meat, pastries, fruits and vegetables, and desserts. You'd better think twice about it.”

Finding that his words had no effect, Hassan shrugged his shoulders and dropped the matter. His offer was well-intentioned, in thoughtful consideration for his brothers. But because of their own folly, he thought with sorrow, they would lose the good he intended for them. Though his two brothers did not share his sorrow, their hearts fluttered at the mention of all the
food—the meat, pastries, fruits and vegetables, and desserts. They were pained at the thought of missing such delicious things, and their regret increased as the time for supper approached. Since Samira considered this meal superfluous, the family usually went to bed without it. They concealed their hunger so as not to increase her misery and discontent. And so, without uttering a word, the two young men imagined the delicious meals. Meanwhile, Nefisa was engrossed in her own thoughts, which rambled away from the pleasures of life in general and food in particular. Hassan's talk evoked her sorrows, despair, and fears. In surprise she wondered whether it was really true that her brother Hassan would sing at the wedding party.

At about nine o'clock on the morning after the wedding, Hassan was crossing Al Khazindar Square on his way to Clot Bey Street, where Ali Sabri had asked to meet him. He was tired after the previous night's party, the memories of which were still fresh in his mind. What a night it had been! He was peerless in his daring. With steady steps, he had cut his way through the crowd to the pavilion constructed on the roof of Amm Gaber Soliman's house, until he reached the dais amidst applause and shouts of welcome for the new singer. Solemnly greeting his audience, he took a seat in the middle of his band, which consisted of a lute player, a
kanum
player, and a violinist, who also repeated the refrains. He sang a song entitled “I Am Angry with You as Much as I Love You.” After a while he observed that his audience had become indifferent. Nevertheless, without a care, he continued to sing. He drank a great deal of liquor. At the beginning of the second set many people clamored for a song entitled “In the Forlorn Night.” Since he did not know the song, he began instead to sing another, called “The Garden of Your Beauty.” Very soon, any relationship between the singer and his audience was severed, the singer straining his voice with useless vocalizing, his audience busy with drink and laughter. This embarrassing situation reached its climax when a drunken man stood and addressed the singer, his speech thick from the effects of alcohol.

“I swear by God,” he said, “that if you weren't a bully I'd ask you to shut up.”

Hassan recognized the man. He was a blacksmith whose shop stood at the opening of Nasr Allah alley. Under his breath Hassan
swore to punish him. However, he continued to sing “Gone are the days; the days are gone.”

Quickening his pace, he remembered all that had happened and laughed.
What is done cannot be undone,
he thought.
There's no reason for me to regret it since I've managed to grab the five pounds.

Besides, recollections of the buffet were still lingering in his mind. He proved invincible in the battle over the buffet. He was at his greatest when he swallowed an entire pigeon, bones and all. He was not eating, but devouring, snatching, looting, and quarreling. The battle reached its zenith when the plate of beef was emptied. Seizing the hand of the guest next to him, Hassan forced him to relinquish the meat he had in his hand. But his real feat came after the party was over. Surrounded by the members of his band, who were claiming their pay, he said to them simply, “The food you have eaten is enough.”

When they asked him, “What about the money due to us?” he answered brutally, “Take it by force if you can.”

They went away discontented, angry, and desperate. Only one thing made him very sorry—the fact that his family had not shared the delicious food with him. He wanted to help his mother more than he actually did. But his protracted vagabondage had taught him to be careful, at least as long as his circumstances were bad. He was going toward Clot Bey, the courtesans' quarter, specifically toward a very narrow path called Darb Tiab, where Ali Sabri was waiting for him. Ali Sabri had opened before him prospects of a life that suited his taste and inflamed his imagination. They had agreed to meet in a coffeehouse in the middle of the
darb,
across from the house of a courtesan named Zeinab al-Khanfa, called the Twanger because she spoke with a nasal twang.

He climbed the stairs leading to the
darb.
He quickened his pace between two rows of closed houses, their occupants still asleep. The
darb
looked deserted. In the small cafés the workers were cleaning up the litter left over from the previous night.
Hassan reached the middle of the
darb.
He saw Ali Sabri sitting before the entrance of the café and walked up to him, greeted him, and sat in a chair by his side. It was no longer the same old café: it looked much newer to him. A few workers were whitewashing the walls, in an attempt to renovate it.

“Here, in this café, where we are sitting, we shall inaugurate a new project, and start a new life,” Ali Sabri said proudly.

Hassan was astonished, because, accustomed though he was to Ali Sabri's many projects, it was the first time he had heard of this new undertaking, the management of a coffeehouse.

“And what is to become of the band and wedding parties?” he inquired.

Ali Sabri spat with so much force that his spittle reached the walls of Zeinab the Twanger's house on the other side of the
darb.

“The band will be working in this coffeehouse,” he continued. “As for wedding parties, may God convert them into mourning assemblies. The days of true wedding parties are over. Instead of such parties, we now hear of small family gatherings to celebrate the occasion. And the wireless is monopolized by Umm Kalthum, Abdul Wahab, and a bunch of singers who specialize in producing discordant sounds. So it's impossible for us to earn a decent living in this country.”

Hassan pretended to be dissatisfied with this state of affairs and said, “You are right, Master.” He paused, then asked, “What will the band be doing here?”

Ali Sabri stretched out his legs, which reached the middle of the
darb.
He pointed to the coffeehouse. “It will be a café during the day,” he said, “and a tavern by night, in which Madam Zeinab's women will dance. By the way, she is my partner. I, too, shall sing from time to time, and as you see, this is an excellent opportunity to make a good living. If you are interested in working with us, you will have to study the songs of Abdul Wahab.”

“I know almost nothing about them.”

“You will have to learn them, and you will have to study the
takatiqs
of Umm Kalthum, too. That's the way things are, and we have to make the best of it.”

“May God be with us,” said Hassan, laughing.

“I'm optimistic,” Ali Sabri added. “This place is blessed. It is to this place that Mohammed al-Arabi is indebted for his wealth,”

Hassan wondered how Ali Sabri had obtained the money to start this new life. Had he gotten it from Zeinab the Twanger? At best, she was over forty. Except for her bovine body, her beauty was gone. But she was a godsend, and her arms were encircled with heavy gold. There was no need to envy Ali Sabri, since Hassan would have his share of the wealth. Now prospects were good, and perhaps the days of vagabondage and hunger would be gone forever.

“But your work as a repeater of refrains is secondary to what you're expected to do,” Hassan heard his companion say.

“And what am I expected to do?”

Hassan approached this matter with the confidence and pride of a man who really knows what is expected of him.

“You're thoroughly acquainted with this district. On every corner there is a thug, a man who is up to no good, or a debauched drunkard. And who is the right person to deal with them? You. There is also the important traffic in narcotics, which requires skill, strength, and daring. And who's the right person to deal with it? You again,” Ali Sabri said.

A broad smile appeared on Hassan's face, and remained there for a long time. He felt proud, pleased, and enthusiastic. This was real life, pulsing under breathtaking perils in the obscure
ghoraz,
the hidden shelters of hashish addicts, where cudgels and overturned chairs fell on the heads of brawlers. Here gold dropped from the sky, and the way of a man was strewn with thorns, leading either to pleasure and glory or to danger and death. Here, in the twisting
darb,
where the balconies of neighboring houses were intimately close to each other, coquettish
cries mixed with debauched screams, the smell of perfume with the odor of liquor, and the blows of combatants with the vomit of drunkards, here Hassan felt quite at home. Added to all this were singing, instrumental music, and just plain frolic. In such an atmosphere he could live indefinitely without growing bored, eating, drinking, earning money, taking hashish, singing. His face beamed with the light of hope. He cast a look around him. He heard the footsteps of newcomers dispelling the silence, and his ears were struck by the prolonged laughter characteristic of courtesans. He watched their swaying buttocks and the glaring, lascivious glances in their eyes. The doors of the houses opened, incense burned in the
darb,
chairs lined the coffeehouses, and lewd giggles and cackles were heard, marking the beginning of the morning's activities.