The Beginning and the End (26 page)

That afternoon, Hassanein paid a visit to Ahmad Bey Yousri's villa in Taher Street. He was, in fact, vigorously heading for the realization of his life's dream, to join the War College or perish. He had climbed the stairs and now sat waiting in the drawing room, glancing absentmindedly about the garden. He saw it enveloped in mystery. His eyes moved among the elegant palm trees growing amidst tastefully arranged circlets of grass interspersed with rosebuds and surrounded by hedges of camomile. To relieve himself for a while of worry and preoccupation, he focused his attention on a wide circle of grass in the center of the garden between the entrance to the villa and the drawing room. In the middle of this circle stood a short, young palm tree, with a white trunk, rosebushes profusely covering the top, their branches touching it and the intertwining roses merging in a vast halo, whose red, green, and yellow hues blended in peace and harmony. He smiled without realizing it. An evening shadow crept over the garden area and part of the road behind it. Traces of the setting sun fell on the top story on the other side of the road, and the warm air was filled with the fragrance of the jasmine which mounted the fence. He wondered whether it would be possible one day for him to own such a villa! He imagined life there, the bedroom and the garden, the car and the respectable family that living in such a place usually involved. This was his second visit to Ahmad Bey Yousri's villa, and in both cases the lava of frustrated ambition, discontent, and desire for life's clean and respectable pleasures erupted from his volcanic breast. Most of all, he feared that his life would be as confined as that of his brother Hussein, and that, lacking any flowery prospect, he would spend the rest of his life striving for
menial promotions from the eighth to the sixth grade. He felt he must have his full share of the world's pure air and higher pleasures. Suddenly his thoughts were interrupted by the sight of a girl riding a bicycle through the left side of the garden. The girl was so absorbed in warily weaving her way on the mosaic paths between the circular flower beds that she paid no attention to anything around her. She was sixteen years old, slender, with a pure complexion and a blossoming bosom. She wore a long white dress, her head demurely bound with a small kerchief. Hassanein was so attracted to the movements of her legs pedaling up and down under the cover of her dress that he hardly made out her face. She disappeared behind the right wing of the villa before he could see what she looked like. His eyes glowed in watchful interest. He wondered who this girl might be, if she were not Ahmad Bey's daughter. The image of Bahia with her soft, plump body and moonlike face came to him, beautiful and delicious but with nothing approaching this girl's elegance. Remembering his sister, Nefisa, he wondered at the vast differences between creatures of the same species. The compassionate ache in his heart brought him back to himself with the realization that the sight of the cycling girl, the garden, the villa, and the chandelier of the reception room combined to stir in him ambition, revolt, and discontent.

How wonderful it would be to possess this villa and lie with this girl!
he thought.
It's not mere lust. It would be a symbol of power and glory to have this girl of good birth lying in my arms naked and surrendering, her eyelids closed, as though all the organs of her passionate body were clamoring, “My master.” This is life. Mount it, and you'll mount a whole class!

Again recalling Bahia, his pain intensified, mingled with something akin to remorse and shame. Then his thoughts were interrupted by the sound of footsteps from the direction of the stairs. Turning, he saw Ahmad Bey Yousri approaching in a white silk suit, a red rose in the lapel of his jacket. Hassanein stood up, went politely up to him, and bowed, greeting him
with veneration. Smiling, the Bey welcomed him. He inquired, as they took their seats, “How is your family, my son?”

“Remembering your favors, they kiss your generous hand,” Hassanein answered ingratiatingly.

“You need not mention it,” the Bey murmured.

The Bey was certain that shortly this young man would beg him to find him a job or transfer his brother to Cairo. This was the routine of his life every day. Though such requests irritated him, he actually liked them, and could not bear to see his house empty of people seeking his help.

“What's the matter, my son?” he said.

“Your Excellency, I'm appealing to you for help, to intercede for me in joining the War College.”

Astonished, the Bey seemed to have expected anything but this aristocratic request. Without hiding his surprise, he inquired, “But what made you choose this narrow gate?”

Distressed at the Bey's astonishment, the young man at this moment developed a blind hatred for him, yet he continued to address him in the same polite and ingratiating manner. “Your Excellency, the government's decision to enlarge the army affords me a golden opportunity this year that had never presented itself before. Furthermore, your intercession will be more important than anything else.”

“What about the fees?” the Bey asked curtly.

Once more he felt detestation for the Bey. He soon forgot about his request for exemption from the fees, or decided instead to put it off until some other time.

“I'm ready to pay the entire fee,” he said, confident and reassured.

The Bey pondered the matter.

“The Under Secretary of State for the Ministry of War is an old friend. I'll talk to him about it,” he said.

Hurrying forward, Hassanein took the Bey's hand to kiss it to express his gratitude. Withdrawing his hand, the Bey stood up, perhaps to end the interview. Hassanein bowed low over
the man's hand, saluted, repeated his thanks, and left the room, full of cheer and hope. Crossing the garden, he remembered the cycling girl. As he looked at the traces of the wheels on the path, her image flashed before his mind, but absorbed as he was in his hopes for the future, the vision soon passed away.

At the same hour, Nefisa was in Station Square. In supplication, the sky waited for the darkness of evening to fall, while the square bustled with hurrying human beings, animals, trams, and motorcars. On the pavement next to the statue of the Renaissance of Egypt, the girl stood waiting for a break in the traffic so that she could cross the street to the tram stop. She observed a man standing a few arm's lengths away, looking curiously at her. She had learned to understand the real import of such looks. But overcome with astonishment, she wondered:
Even this man!

He was sixty, age lending to his body a sagging yet dignified appearance. In spite of the hot weather he wore a woolen suit; he carried an elegant fly whisk with an ivory handle, and his eyes were shielded by blue spectacles. His tarbush, slanting backward, revealed a broad forehead, the lower part of which was scorched by the sun, while above the marks left by the fringes of the tarbush, his skin was a brilliant white. His whiskers and the hair at the back of his head were likewise pure white. Held by curiosity and greed, she remained where she was, although the traffic had stopped. Turning her eyes, she found him still gazing at her. As though encouraged by her glances, he walked toward her with heavy steps. As he passed her, he whispered, “Follow me to my car.”

He walked to a car as old and dignified as himself, parked very close to the pavement. The step was almost two inches above the level of the pavement; at the door stood a driver, motionless as a statue. He climbed into the car without closing the door behind him; on instruction the driver immediately took his place behind the steering wheel. Thinking that she was lagging behind, the old man took off his spectacles and motioned
to her with his hand. She could hardly restrain a smile. Then casting a scrutinizing look around her, urged for the first time in her life by sheer greed, she walked to the car. He moved a bit to give her room, and she sat down beside him. But anxiety soon overcame her when her nostrils filled with the strong smell of liquor on his breath. “I can't be late,” she said.

“Nor can I,” he said, his tongue thick with intoxication.

He gave his instructions to the driver, and the car started off at high speed. A sense of alienation came over her. Sorrow and fear struck her heart, in a feeling of absolute degeneration. It was the first time in her life that she had gone with a man without any preliminary acquaintance, whether brief or protracted. Urged on partly by her sexual appetite, she had previously accompanied men she had met only once, twice, or three times. But this time, out of pure greed, and feeling no desire at all, she surrendered to a passerby. How complete was her degeneration! And how dreadful her end! She wondered how the man could single her out as a bed companion. Did her face, ugly though it was, betray her degeneration? Torn now by her old confusion, she was uncertain whether to keep her seductive makeup or to abandon makeup altogether, thus revealing her ugliness.

He placed his palm on her hand. “You're as beautiful as the moon,” he stammered.

“I'm not at all beautiful,” she said.

“No woman is devoid of some sort of beauty!” he replied disapprovingly.

Was this man a liar or a fool? She marveled how lechery blinded men's eyes. “Except me,” she said simply.

Rapping his fingers on her bosom, he said, “But for your beauty, I wouldn't have felt this desire!”

She would have liked to believe him, but she knew it was a lie. No man's love for her lasted more than a few hours. Perhaps he was dissipated, or, like her, suffering from bitter despair. Men
had given her enough pain to make her spiteful. Nevertheless, the flames of desire which engulfed her body were never extinguished. Her body degraded her so much that she came to hate it as bitterly as she hated poverty. A captive of her body and her poverty, she knew no way to rescue herself. Swept away in the current of life and bruised on its rocks, naked, injured, unprotected and unpitied, she realized the futility of searching for a safe refuge. She heard him say with a sigh, “We've arrived.” Looking out, she watched the car move around a circular road with huge trees, like the shapes of giants, on one side. On the other the Nile ran its course through a vast area shrouded in darkness, decked with flickering lamplight at its remote fringes.

“Is this the island of Gezira?”

“You know it of course!”

Waiting until the driver left his seat and disappeared in the dark, he took off his glasses. “Now,” he said, “show me your skill, for everything depends on it.”

He was a decayed maniac, soaked with liquor. He thrust his body upon hers, roughly petting her, biting her brutally and pinching her until she was about to scream. The whole business was about to end in a pathetic fiasco. He soon became exhausted. His bizarre, fruitless exertions were almost laughable. At last, lying back drunkenly, he said to her coarsely, “Reach over to the driver's seat and get me the bottle.”

Uncorking it, he took several gulps. Then as he leaned back against the seat, his breathing became rough and heavy. Unable to bear waiting any longer, but having learned from experience that nothing more was to be feared, she entreated him ingratiatingly, “It's time for us to return.”

As if soliloquizing, he said, “I wish I would never return.”

She did not grasp the meaning of his words, but summoning up her courage, she murmured, “Please!”

Putting his hand in his pocket, he sluggishly took out a twenty-piaster piece, letting it fall in her lap. As she picked up the money, she stared at him in disapproval.

“What is this?” she asked, infuriated.

Suddenly aggressive, his eyes glistening with intoxication, the old man said, “It's plenty! If you refuse it, I'll put it back in my pocket.”

“I think you're a man of too high a position for this,” she said resentfully.

He took another big swig from the bottle and smacked his lips, frowning. “True enough,” he replied. “But a twenty-piaster piece is too much for a person like you. I'll bet no woman with a nose like yours would hope to get this sum!”

This wounding insult pierced her breast. Allowing her fear to overcome her anger, she said, “Why do you speak to me in this way?”

“First, because you're greedy, and second, because the female sex is responsible for what happens to me. For your information, I only keep change on me. When I return home, my wife questions me even about this change. So I prefer to beat you rather than be beaten by her!”

Shaking with anger, she kept silent.

“One day,” he continued, “I was pestered by a woman in a similar situation. I slapped her on the face and threw her half naked out of the car. What do you think she did? Nothing. Sure, she knew that a policeman would do her more harm than I. I know she's unjustly treated. So are you. But so am I. The real oppressor in this case is my wife.”

Sighing resentfully, she muttered, “Please, let's go back.”

“It's up to you,” he said with a yawn. “Open the window and call the driver.”

The car sped on its way back. Her eyes dim as she huddled absentmindedly in a corner of the car, she stared out into the darkness.

Hassanein's admission to the War College was the happiest event of his life. As he always took the fulfillment of his wishes for granted, he had mistakenly imagined that his enrollment would be rather easy. But later he realized how extremely difficult it was, so much so that eventually he became convinced that, of all his troubles, his arrangement for obtaining the first installment of the fees was the easiest. He paid frequent visits to the villa of Ahmad Bey Yousri, who, almost despairing of his admission to the War College, advised him to turn his attention elsewhere. But the “miracle” of acceptance (as the difficulties of enrollment caused the young man to call it) occurred, thanks to his determination, an advanced place on the list of applicants, his good appearance, his outstanding ability in football and running sports, and above all to the intercession of Ahmad Bey. He was nearly put out of his mind with joy. In fact, he had pinned his hopes so much on his admission that had he failed to get into the War College, he would have been incapable either of doing anything else or of turning his attention elsewhere. His ambition to join this college burst from the depths of his soul, for he was desperate to climb out of his miserable, humble life.

The College seemed like a magic wand, capable of transforming him from a feeble, obscure nonentity into a highly envied officer in only two years' time and with hardly any effort. A friend of his had once observed, “Army officers are pompous and highly paid, and their work, like play, is good for nothing.” This description had turned Hassanein's head and intensified his dream of becoming such an officer. When he learned he had
been admitted, he refused to acknowledge the great importance of the role played by Ahmad Bey Yousri; it was primarily due, he told his mother, to his physical fitness and distinction in sports.
As of this moment I can consider myself an officer,
he thought proudly. In the fancy of his conceit, he happily began to form a mental picture of the people on whom his military uniform would exert its magical effects: soldiers, girls, the rank and file, even Ahmad Bey Yousri himself. Hassanein in person broke the pleasant news to the family of Farid Effendi Mohammed, and they welcomed it enthusiastically. Farid Effendi saluted him. “We're honored by your visit, young officer,” he said with a laugh.

For Bahia's benefit, Hassanein remarked, “I'll have to stay away from you for forty days, until we're permitted to leave the College once a week.” At the moment, he hoped to get what he had been deprived of for two years. But there was opportunity to be alone with the girl for only a few minutes; had she acquiesced, this would have been enough. But the girl insisted on chastity. Overcome by her usual shyness, she shrank at bidding him farewell, her heart throbbing with pain and anxiety. Almost inaudibly he said to her hurriedly, “I want a hot kiss from your lips!” But her shyness and immobility persisted.

“Even at a moment like this,” he said, “you deny me. I can't imagine that you love me.”

Breaking her silence, the girl replied, “I refuse because I do.”

He mused inquiringly, “I don't understand you.”

With touching courage, she spoke more frankly, “I refuse you because I love you.”

This was the first time he had heard her open and candid confession, and he was so deeply moved that he was about to come too close to her. But nodding her head toward the open door of the room, she signaled a warning.

Farid Effendi and his wife soon returned, and he spent the rest of the time torn between mixed feelings of ecstasy, anxious
longing, and torment. Bidding Farid Effendi's family goodbye, he went down to his flat.

This is wise love,
he thought.
Love governed by firmness and foresight, as if she had devised a careful plan to make sure that I will marry her. But does true love know this kind of frigid logic?

But these thoughts were, in effect, provoked by his overwhelming feeling of irritation and regret. He considered the farewell scene the worst a lover could ever have experienced. He spent part of the night with his mother and sister. Unable to control her feelings, Nefisa as usual shed tears. Depressed, she said, “We're doomed to live alone.”

Hassanein himself experienced the sinking feeling of a person parting from his family for the first time in his life. But his yearning to lead an independent life in a different place and milieu alleviated his depression. As for Samira, she preserved her apparent calm, bidding Nefisa not to allow grief to carry her away. Sharply she said to her daughter, “Don't cry like a child. We'll see him frequently. It gives us happiness enough to see that he has realized his hopes.”

But her heart actually spoke a different language. The imminent parting from her son evoked her sorrow and brought back to her mind memories of grief long past. She remembered Hussein's farewell scene. She imagined what her home would be like when her last son was gone. In spite of herself, the memory of her departed husband was revived; she wondered at her own life, which would not allow her any measure of happiness unless it was associated with the pains of partings and farewells. Was she doomed to remain alone for the rest of her life? And was it for such an end that she had patiently and stoically suffered and struggled?

But summoning up her latent strength, she prevented herself from being carried away by grief. She drew on the success of her son to dispel the melancholy that beset her. However, she now believed that her patience and strivings had not been in vain, and that the tossing ship of her life was heading for a
secure harbor. She felt she had the right to rejoice, for she had sacrificed every drop of her heart's blood to cause the fruits of her family life to bloom and flourish.

Next morning, Hassanein bade his mother and sister farewell and went off to his college.