The Beginning and the End (22 page)

His room at the hotel was small, containing a single bed, a wardrobe, a wooden chair, and a peg. There was only one window, overlooking a narrow back alley and facing the wall of an old house that shut out the sun. The room's atmosphere betrayed a latent humidity. Other rooms in the hotel overlooked Al Amir Farouk Street, but since the price was exorbitant, he had chosen to live in this modest room.

It's only right that I should live at the same standard as my family in Nasr Allah alley,
he thought,
with old houses on both sides.

In his new lodging, the first thing he did was open the window. Driven by curiosity, he looked out. He saw a mean blind alley with old houses on both sides. He wondered at the vast difference between this and the street from which it branched off. Glancing at the wall of the house which shut out the open air, he felt annoyed. He was certain that his life, lonely as it was, would be devoid of entertainment, too. Turning from the window to the mirror in the wardrobe, he saw a bizarre reflection of his image. His face appeared long and his features distorted in the mirror's pale flyspecked surface. Laughing, he said to his own image, “With God's mercy and grace, I'm handsomer than you are.”

He proceeded to take off his clothes and put on his gallabiya. Then he put his few clothes in order inside the wardrobe, which, small as it was, still looked nearly empty. In fact, he owned only one suit, two gallabiyas, and two pairs of flannels and pants. These were not only old but also darned and patched. For reassurance, he thrust his hand into the jacket pocket, taking out a packet of pound notes. After counting them, he returned the money to its place with painful memories.

He squatted on the bed, not knowing how to spend the rest of the day. With no one to talk to and nothing to do, he became totally absorbed in his thoughts and dreams. He felt lonely and surprised, realizing that he would suffer bitterly from the boredom of ample leisure time. He loved reading, but even if he were able to buy whatever books he liked, he would still find leisure time oppressive. He was not accustomed to heavy silence. In his mute loneliness he felt like a lost, trivial person for whom nobody cared or had the slightest consideration.

Where is Hassanein's sharp, hysterical voice, always bursting out laughing or complaining?
he thought.
Where is Nefisa's thin one, and her daily satirical comments on neighbors and events?

He refused to surrender to his feelings, and decided to work out his budget and calculate his expenses. His salary was only seven pounds. In his precarious circumstances, this sum would not have been inadequate. He would spend one pound and fifty piasters on the room, and not more than two pounds, under any circumstances, on his daily meals of beans for breakfast, a plateful of vegetables with meat, a plateful of rice and a loaf of bread for dinner, and Tahania sweets or cheese for supper. In emergencies, he could even forgo his supper, as he and his family often did during the past two years. Whatever his circumstances, he would never allow his stomach to give him trouble or play havoc with his budget. He should rise above such mundane matters. Now, immune from Hassanein's opposition, he could resolve this question. This austerity was not only tolerable but more satisfying than gluttony. He would also give two pounds to his mother. He was well aware that this was far too little and wished he could give her double the sum. But he could not help it, for after deducting the taxes due, only one pound and fifty piasters would remain of his salary to meet incidental and clothing expenses. Bewildered, he thought of saving up even a tiny sum. To him, life was unbearable without economizing, no matter how little. Reared by a mother such as his, he could not possibly conceive of living without economizing.
In fact, in political terms, his mother's position was analogous to that of Germany in relation to the other countries, in her ability to turn even garbage into grist for her mill. She would patch trousers; then despairing of patching them any more, she would turn them. Despairing again of turning, she would cut them up and use one part of the cloth as a skullcap and the rest as a cleaning cloth. Any remaining cloth was thrown away only when it was reduced to frayed tatters. And so he felt the need to economize. The cruelty of life, assaulting his family mercilessly, made these thoughts a sort of creed. At this stage of his thinking, he became prey to the same poverty-generated fears that had hounded his family. Since occasions for extra expenses were innumerable, they always dreaded that they might exceed the limits of their income if one of them fell ill, or the school authorities asked them to pay fees for one reason or another, or if Nefisa should stop earning money for a period of time; the list of potential disasters was endless. In these ruminations, he experienced a gnawing pain, as he remembered his mother's dry face with its bulging veins, an incarnation of patience and sorrow. Miserable and ugly though it was, hers was of all faces the dearest to his heart. Curiously enough, now that he was conscious of his ability to relieve his mother's burden, he felt a breeze blowing upon him. As of tomorrow he would be a government employee. Sooner or later Hassanein, too, would become an employee of higher rank. All his life he would say with pride that he had been content with an intermediate certificate to help his brother obtain a higher one. Would Hassanein remember this sacrifice? Hassanein seemed to be self-engrossed, though undoubtedly intelligent and industrious. But he…! Away from home, Hussein felt he should not be critical of his brother. How great was his longing to see Hassanein! And how much greater was his longing to engage in argument with him.

The whistle of a train shattered the prevailing silence and interrupted his thoughts. His heart quivered. The hotel was not far from the railroad station, so every now and then the bustle
of the trains was bound to remind him of Cairo and its people. Memories of the last farewells returned to him, and his aching heart overflowed with an intense yearning to see his family. A cloud of loneliness and melancholy darkened his heart.

Perhaps this is the price I have to pay for my first day of separation. However, gradually I shall get accustomed to it,
he consoled himself. He was at a loss as to what to do. Should he spend most of the day in this room, or should he go out and have a look around this new town? The idea of writing a letter to his brother rescued him from these conflicting thoughts. He began writing, describing his journey, the hotel, Kustandi its owner, his room, and his longing for the family. He sent his regards to his mother and Nefisa. Then he paused, wondering whether it was good form to send his regards to Bahia, too. Here he felt uncertain. Should he mention her by name or refer to her as his brother's fiancée, or should he be content to send his general greetings to Farid Effendi's family. Finally, after much hesitation, he chose the latter course.

He left his room early in the morning. But he found Al Khawaga, the foreigner, Michel Kustandi, sitting at his old desk at the bottom of the staircase. The hotel owner asked him if he kept anything valuable in his room. Hussein smilingly said, “I keep my valuables in my pocket.” Then he hurried out into the street and went to a restaurant that served beans, which he had discovered the day before at the farthest end of town. As he ate his breakfast, his attention was particularly drawn by a salad of roasted peas, the likes of which did not exist in Cairo.

He continued to walk around town until nine o'clock, when he went to the secondary school to introduce himself to the chief clerk and begin his official assignment. The sight of the school filled him with agitation, and recent memories returned to him as if in a dream.

Once Hussein had introduced himself at the gate, the porter accompanied him to the chief clerk's office, asking him to wait until the official arrived. Sitting in a chair close to the desk, Hussein looked through the open door at the school playground, enveloped in heavy silence. In a week the scholastic year would start, and the school would be teeming with life. He remembered how only a few months earlier he had been spending his happiest hours at school in a similar playground, and how the sight of any of the school employees had filled his heart with awe. Now he had become one of these employees. Yet he did not surrender to conceit. As a schoolboy, he might have dreamt of becoming a counselor or a minister, but appointed to the government service, he would not be more than an eighth-grade employee. Before long, his ears were struck by a rough
cough and a deep clearing of the throat, followed by a vehement expectoration. Immediately he saw a short man with a delicate body, round-faced and bleary-eyed, his bald head shining as he swept hurriedly into the room. Seizing his tarbush with one hand, he used the other to dry his bald head with a handkerchief. No sooner did he see the young man than he shouted at him, “How, in the name of God, the Benevolent and Merciful, did you get here? Did you spend last night in my room? Are you a new pupil?”

Hussein stood up, embarrassed. “Sir, I'm the new clerk, Hussein Kamel Ali,” he said.

The man burst out laughing. But soon the cough and the throat clearing returned. His mouth filled again with spittle. Looking around in perplexity, he rushed out of the room and was absent for half a minute, then returned, his condition improved.

“Damn this cold,” he said apologetically. “I catch cold at the beginning of every season of the year. Thus you find me always torn between the seasons of the year and the seasons of the school. Excuse me, Hussein Effendi. I should have greeted you first. Peace be upon thee.”

Smiling, Hussein extended his hand, greeting him more warmly. Sitting at his desk, the man asked him to have a seat. Hussein complied.

“My name is Hassan Hassan Hassan,” the chief clerk began. “It is the custom in our family for the father to call his elder son by his own name. Haven't you heard of the Hassan family in Beheira province? You haven't? It doesn't matter. These curs of pupils call me Hassan cubed—see? Hassan
³
!”

Hussein laughed heartily. The man stared at him critically with bleary eyes.

“Why are you laughing?” he said. “Haven't you got rid of your schoolboy mentality? By the way, I should like to tell you something about myself. Though I'm a very nervous man, I'm very good-hearted. Many a time, without meaning any harm
and being fully respectful, I curse people, no matter how high their position may be. Please understand me and don't forget I'm as old as your father!”

Hussein was very confused.

“By God's will, nothing will happen between us to make you angry.”

“I hope so, by God's will. I just wanted to give you an idea about myself. That's all. Many a time I curse myself, too! Cursing is often a relief. But for that, many people would have suffocated to death in anger. Soon you'll learn what it means to work at a school.” He sighed. “The ministerial letter concerning your appointment has arrived.” He ruffled through his papers until he found it. “It's Number 1,175, dated September 26, 1936. You've come at the time when we need you most. For now, we shall start revising the lists of names and fees. The former clerk married the daughter of an inspector at the Ministry and all of a sudden was transferred to Cairo. Are you married, Hussein Effendi?”

“I was only a pupil last spring,” Hussein answered with a smile.

“Do you think that being a pupil prevents one from getting married? I was married when I was a secondary school pupil. This is another custom in our family, like calling the elder son by his father's name. We also had other great customs, but they were uprooted by Sidki Pasha, may God forgive him.”

Hussein glanced at him inquisitively.

“My father, Hassan Bey, was an outstanding Wafdist and a member of the higher circles of the Wafd party,” the man added sorrowfully. “When Sidki Pasha came to his ill-omened office, he asked him to sever his relations with the Wafd. When he refused, as expected, Sidki Pasha deprived him of the assistance of the Loan Bank during the crisis. As a result, he was forced to sell his land and so lost his wealth.”

“But Nahas was returned to office?” Hussein inquired.

“Yet the land was lost. Most ironically, Sidki went over to the patriots' side. At the beginning of this year, he gave an address at Disouk in which he conveyed the greetings of ‘my leader Nahas,' as he then called him. Hassan Hassan Hassan, what a pity you have lost everything!”

Pretending to be moved, Hussein muttered, “May God compensate you for what you've lost!”

Shaking his head, the man remained silent for a while.

“You're lucky to be appointed at the school after the period of strikes was over. They almost burned us up inside the school during the latest demonstrations. May God curse the demonstrators, the students and Sidki Pasha. Hussein Effendi, where do you live?”

“In the Britannia Hotel.”

“Hotel! May God disappoint you! Sorry. I mean may God forgive you. The hotel isn't a suitable place for a long stay. You must search for a small flat immediately.”

“But I've no furniture.”

With a sudden interest, Hassan Effendi thought the matter over, biting his fingernails.

“Furniture for a single room doesn't cost you much. With my guarantee, if you like, you can buy it in installment payments,” he said.

He became thoughtful again, examining the young man's face. “There's a two-room flat on the roof of the house where I live,” he added. “The rent won't be more than a pound. What do you think?”

After hearing the amount of the rent, Hussein's interest was piqued for the first time.

“I'll think it over seriously,” he said.

“It's plain and axiomatic, just as one plus one equals two. Now let's start work. There are piles of papers left over since that son of a bitch got married and was transferred to Cairo.”

Hussein decided to stay at the hotel until he received his salary. As time passed, he became convinced of the need to move into a private flat that would give him a greater sense of security and stability. Hassan Effendi was always underlining the advantages of living in a flat of his own. At the beginning of the month, Hussein bought a bed, a small wardrobe, and a chair for about two pounds, for which he agreed to pay in four installments, with Hassan as a guarantor. The flat rental being only one pound, moving in involved no extra expense. The new flat occupied half the roof of the house, on the middle story of which Hassan Effendi lived. In addition to the lavatory and kitchen, there were two rooms. Since one of these was superfluous, the young man locked it up, furnishing the other with new furniture. The one window in the room overlooked Walei al-Din Street, where the entrance to the house was situated. The rooftop flat was higher than the surrounding buildings, and the unrestricted open air in front of its only window gave the young man a sense of freshness and relief which he had been denied at the hotel, and he was thus very pleased. The day he moved in was a happy one indeed. For the first time in his life, he found himself the master of his own house and proud possessor of a salary and furniture. His sense of relief and delight when he had received his salary that morning still lingered in his memory. Nor did he forget how he shyly hid the smile on his lips, reflecting the delight in his heart, lest it be detected by the cashier. But this happiness dwindled to insignificance when compared with his joy in sending two pounds to his mother.

In this great moment he realized that his long patience was at last rewarded. As soon as he was settled in at his new quarters,
Hassan Effendi visited him to congratulate him. He assured Hussein that he would feel at home among his family. Thanking him, Hussein, always disposed to acknowledge the kindness of others, felt grateful to him. He forgave Hassan's sharp temper and his maladministration and confusion in carrying out his functions at the school. In fact, he became accustomed to his eccentricity, consoled by his good-heartedness and sense of humor. Refusing to leave him alone, Hassan invited him to spend the evening on his balcony. Delighted at the invitation, Hussein accompanied the man to his quarters. As he sat with his guest, Hassan said, “You seem to dislike coffeehouses, so you can use this balcony as a nightclub.”

The balcony was adequately equipped. On the right were two big chairs made of cane with a table between them; on the other side was a big couch with a cushion at its back. On another table in the corner was a tray with two water jugs and a ewer, with several big lemons floating between them on the water gathered inside the tray. Hassan Effendi's tongue started to ramble almost incessantly. In his loose garment, he appeared very tiny, much smaller than in his suit, his tongue the only organ in his body worth reckoning with. Bored with his leisure hours in the past weeks, Hussein welcomed Hassan's company, for he did not know how to spend his time. Reading was not the answer, not because it bored him, but because with little money to spare he could afford to buy only those books which appealed to him most. Thus, in addition to his daily paper, he was compelled to confine himself to one book. He tried to frequent coffeehouses, but he found no pleasure in them and he was afraid they might lead him to squander his money. Frugal by temperament, he welcomed Hassan Effendi's invitation to spend his leisure time at his home. Hussein was resolved, under whatever circumstances, to find pleasure in this man's company. Their conversation turned to the new flat.

“Don't worry about cleaning your flat,” Hassan Effendi said. “I've already instructed the servant to clean it every morning. I
shall also recommend a washerwoman, known to my family, to go to your place every Friday.”

Touched, Hussein thanked him shyly. Yet he was somewhat annoyed because he could manage cleaning his room with his own hands and the servant's daily services would involve additional expenses which he would rather save.

“I've prepared a wonderful surprise for you,” he said. “Here is a backgammon board. Do you play it well?”

“Somewhat.” Hussein was pleased.

The man bounced up and left the balcony. Returning with a backgammon board, he put it on the table.

“Thanks be to God,” he said, filled with childish pride, “I'm the best player in Lower Egypt, and perhaps in Upper Egypt, too.”

Delighted with this unexpected entertainment, Hussein inquired, “Do you play it the usual way or the more restricted way?”

They started to play. It soon became obvious to Hussein that in talking Hassan Effendi tended to spray the face of a close listener with his saliva. He hoped to absorb this man in the game so as to divert him from conversation. But he continued to play and talk simultaneously. Since the game itself provided him with endless opportunities to chatter, he commented on whatever move was taken, proud of his own and critical of Hussein's. He beat the young man in the first round.

“Curse your bad luck that has made you fall into my hands,” he cried. “You'll never enjoy the taste of victory as long as I live!”

Zealously they resumed the game. So absorbed was Hussein that he became aware of his surroundings only when he heard the sound of soft footsteps approaching the balcony. Turning his head back toward the door, he saw a girl carrying a tea tray. Realizing from the first glance that she could not be a servant, he immediately withdrew his eyes in shyness and confusion. As she bent down a bit to put the tray on a bamboo chair, he had
a mysterious sense first of her presence and then of her departure. Though he had turned his eyes away, the image of her plump face, with its whitish complexion and two sweet-looking dark eyes—or maybe they were hazel, he was not quite sure—stuck in his memory. Confused, Hussein felt his face flush. All of a sudden Hassan stopped chattering.

“This is my daughter Ihsan. Since I consider you one of my children, I saw no harm in her bringing the tea to us,” he said in a low voice.

Hussein moved his lips as if speaking, but did not utter a single word. Hassan Effendi poured the tea.

“A girl is a great blessing to the home,” he said. “Her sisters are married, one in Cairo and two in Damanhour. She's the only one not yet married.”

“May God give you joy in her marriage,” Hussein muttered in confusion.

They continued to sip their tea in silence. Hussein's confusion was beginning to disappear, leaving behind it a sense of embarrassment which he could not clearly account for. Perhaps he was escaping the cause and deliberately ignoring it. Furthermore, he was conscious that he was still affected by the memory, vague though it was, of the girl's image. He knew this was typical of the effect a female presence had upon him. It had no particular significance; it was the usual reaction of chaste young men. This time, his excitement, occurring not as usual in the street or on a tramcar but in a home, had put him into a deep mood of perplexed delight. Away from Cairo, it was inevitable that he should think of matters more remote. Fear and weariness filled his heart. Hassan Effendi was watching him quietly, growing fed up with the young man's silence.

“Drink your tea,” he ordered, “and get ready for the next round. You've fallen into my clutches and you have no chance of escaping.”