The Beginning and the End (36 page)

Despite the sorrowful look in her eyes, Samira could still smile. “It's strange,” she said, “how you thrust yourself into serious trouble without being prepared. Suppose they had approved your marriage, what would you have done? Didn't you think of this? Didn't we all warn you of its consequences?”

About ten days had passed since Hassanein's conversation with his friend al-Bardisi. Whenever Samira observed Hassanein's absentmindedness as they sat together in the afternoons on the balcony overlooking the road, she started talking to console his sad heart. Nefisa joined in with mingled levity and seriousness.

“Tomorrow doesn't seem much better than today,” Hassanein said in a bored voice.

“Rubbish,” Nefisa said, and Samira added, “In time you'll discover that it is mere nonsense, and you'll find a better wife.”

He wondered why he seemed to be the only pessimist in the family. Was it he or they who were stupid? Wasn't the role the devil played in this world more serious than the roles of all angels combined? Why didn't they see this? He had sent Hussein a letter, telling him the news of his rejected engagement. His brother's reaction had been similar to that of his mother and sister. Were they all as they appeared? Alive—or dead? Had the idea of a decent, luxurious life ceased to have any meaning for them?

His train of thought was suddenly interrupted by the continuous ringing of the doorbell and by screams of “Master…mistress,” uttered by the agitated servant who opened the door. Hassanein, followed by Samira and Nefisa, rushed into the hall to find out what the matter was. In the open doorway he saw
two strangers supporting a third man, whose neck reclined on one of their shoulders. That he was injured was clear from the dirty bandage on his head, dripping with blood. Stunned and uncomprehending, Hassanein approached the two newcomers until he was only a few steps away. He fixed his eyes on the wounded face under the receding bandage; its pale white complexion was tinged with a blueness that suggested death. The face, covered with hair, bore marks of swelling and inflammation. The closed, tired eyes blinked. Through the eyelashes appeared a wan, familiar glance which shocked Hassanein's memory suddenly back to life like an exploding bomb. Before Hassanein could speak, his mother's voice behind him confirmed his growing suspicions, as suddenly she cried, in a voice full of fear and compassion, “Hassan! It's Hassan!”

“Hassan!” Hassanein repeated in amazement.

Supporting Hassan's neck with his shoulder, one of the men who helped carry him growled, “We must put him to bed at once.”

Astounded, Hassanein advanced toward them. Bending over his brother's feet, he grasped and gently raised his legs and helped the two men carry Hassan to his bedroom. There they laid him on the only bed in the flat. Followed by Hassanein, the two men hurried out of the room, while Samira and Nefisa rushed in indescribable fear toward the bed. On reaching the hall, one of the men, in gallabiya and skullcap, was the first to speak.

“Excuse me,” he said, pointing to the other, who was dressed as an Effendi, “this is the taxi driver.”

Realizing that he was hinting at the unpaid taxi fare, Hassanein walked out with him to the taxi. He paid the driver and dismissed him, but he held the other man.

“What happened?” he asked in fear and confusion.

“Master Hassan is my brother and friend,” the man said. “Perhaps you know he's a fugitive from the police. Seizing this opportunity, some of his enemies hid themselves in a spot they
knew he was accustomed to pass, treacherously ambushed him, robbed him of his money, and fled. Suffering from his injuries, the poor man arrived at my house and begged me to take him to his family. We took a taxi to Nasr Allah alley, and the neighbors told us you had moved to this flat. So we came here immediately.”

Hassanein listened absentmindedly. Though his heart was charged with emotions, fear and worry predominated. When the stranger finished his story, Hassanein muttered, “Thank you, sir, for your kindness. Would you be so good as to stay with him for an hour until he gets some rest?”

But raising his hand to his head in an expression of thanks for the invitation, the man said, “I must go at once. I've got to tell you something more before I go. You must take care of this wound at once. But I warn you, don't call the police or take him to the hospital, as this will lead to an investigation and the meddling of the police.”

The man saluted and departed. As if he were groping his way through the murky dark on shaky ground, Hassanein returned to the room where Hassan had been placed. He found his brother lying senseless, as before. Obviously worried, the women bent over him, and at the sound of Hassanein's approach, they turned to him for help. For a long time, he looked closely at his brother.

“Didn't he speak?” he inquired in a strange voice.

Swallowing hard, the mother said, “He muttered a few meaningless words before he fainted. Go get a doctor!”

The injured man moved his hand with a strenuous effort. When there was need for it, he seemed able to overcome his weakness. With a feeble voice, devoid of its usual vigor, he said, “No doctor. The doctor…informs…the police.”

Hassanein studied his brother. The bloodstained bandage covered his head, his forehead, and parts of his cheeks; beneath it nothing appeared except his wan, tired eyes and an unshaven chin. His mouth was agape, his breathing heavy and rattling.
His necktie and jacket pocket were torn. He moaned from time to time, and his right hand kept opening and closing. Stunned at the sight, Hassanein forgot his fears in a powerful upsurge of pain and compassion. For a moment he forgot everything; he had to do something for his prostrate brother, something to save him at whatever cost. But the feeling of fear and anxiety which had pursued him in recent days emerged from his depths and floated on his consciousness, threatening his career and reputation. Shame for such sentiments and remorse for entertaining them now cut him to the heart. Talking offered an escape from this heavy weight upon his conscience, and Hassanein spoke gently to the wounded man. “Let me get you a doctor. Your life is much more important than anything else.”

“Yes, Hassan,” Samira and Nefisa entreated him. “Let's get a doctor.”

Raising his heavy eyelids, Hassan said in a tired, muffled tone, “No. Don't be scared. This is a trifling wound.”

When he tried to take a deep breath, he had to rest for a while. With his eyes closed, he said, “They betrayed me and I'll punish them. If I survive, I'll punish them. But don't call a doctor; a doctor will inform the police.”

Conflict still stirring within him, Hassanein replied, “We must get a doctor. It won't be difficult to persuade him to keep quiet.”

“Hassan, have mercy upon me and allow us to get a doctor,” his mother begged him.

Snorting, Hassan murmured impatiently, “Have mercy upon me and leave me in peace! Oh!”

Their mother kept turning her eyes from Hassan to Hassanein in his inner struggle. All ambivalence resolved, Hassanein became aware of his true feelings. He realized that his sympathy for his brother was nothing compared with the fear that weighed heavily upon him.
We're done for,
he thought.
My heart tells me no lies, at least not when I expect evil to occur. Now we're done for in Heliopolis as we were done for in Shubra. The police will pursue us all like criminals. I can almost see the officer searching the rooms
and arresting this fleeing culprit. Is there no way out? But should I deny my brother? Despite everything, he's still my brother. But he is trampling down my life while he moves on his own thorny way. Oh! How sick I am of this!

He heard his mother shouting at him, “Help me, Hassanein! Can't you see that he's dying?”

No, he won't die,
Hassanein thought.
It is I who will die a slow, cruel death. My dignity is mortally wounded. Now, if he dies here, a doctor will come to examine his body. Soon the police and prosecutor will follow. While they can't hurt him after he's dead, the rotten stench from his decaying corpse spreading throughout the place will be scandalous in itself.

Suddenly he turned to his mother; her frightened, distracted eyes moved from the prostrate man to Hassanein. Silent though she was, her glances seemed to him as vocal as heartrending screams. He wondered about himself. At first he had hated his mother; then, attacked by quick, vague flashes of memory, he softened and his attitude changed abruptly. As once more he focused his attention on the bloodstained bandage, he recovered his vigor of mind. A bright idea dawned on him. “Why didn't I think of this before?” he murmured. He spoke hurriedly to his mother. “I'll go get a friend of mine,” he said, “a doctor at the Army Hospital. Wait, I won't be long.”

He rushed to his clothes, dressed quickly, and having determined on a course of action, left the house.

Hassanein leaned on the windowsill, watching the doctor as he carefully went about his delicate work. Samira and Nefisa had left the room, their breathing almost audible from behind the closed door. At first frightened and deeply agitated, Hassanein gradually calmed and became self-absorbed. In a fight with a member of the family, he had told the doctor, his brother received an injury in the head. He begged him to aid his wounded brother and keep silent about the incident so as to spare the family a public scandal. With some reservations, the doctor accompanied him. After a preliminary examination of Hassan's injured head, he said, “It's a deep fracture with profuse bleeding. I don't understand why you refuse to inform the police.”

“We've got to avoid that,” Hassanein entreated.

“You don't seem to understand the gravity of the situation,” the doctor replied as he prepared himself for the operation. “However, for the time being, let's postpone any discussion.”

During the surgical operation Hassanein was neither calm nor reassured. The doctor's last words had uprooted all his tender emotions. This mission of mercy when he went to the hospital to get the doctor aroused in him deep feelings of compassion for his brother, stirring up memories of the days when Hassan had been their sole haven from misery and their only resort in time of need. But fear and anxiety soon hardened his heart toward Hassan, driving out all compassion. Now, in the image of the wounded man he saw instead an evil portent that threatened both his career and his reputation. Here Hassan lay, completely unconscious, unaware of the delicate surgical tools that cut into his flesh. All his life he had been insensitive to pain; a deep cut
that would have shattered the nerves of others, bothered him far less. Hassanein remembered his own tears and entreaties, begging Hassan to change his way of life. And Hassan's only response had been bitter sarcasm. If only he had died in a foreign land!

Fixing his eyes on the face as it began to disappear under the bandages, Hassanein shuddered in gloom and despair. At last he heard the doctor address him: “I've done all that I can possibly do now. Come out with me.”

He waited for the doctor to wash his hands and put on his jacket before showing him to the sitting room. In deep thought the men remained standing.

“I don't think his case is very serious,” he said with unexpected calm. “But he'll need treatment for a long time. What a brutal attack! Why don't you inform the police?”

Though the doctor's words helped to restore some of his power to reason, Hassanein remained stricken with fear. “To avoid a scandal. After all, we're members of the same family.”

Disapprovingly, the doctor shook his head. “Tomorrow morning I'll come to see him,” he said firmly. “If he's O.K., I'll forget about it. But if he isn't, I'll be compelled to inform the police.”

“I hope this won't happen,” Hassanein replied as if, overcome with worry, he was talking to himself. Then addressing the doctor, he added, “Thank you for your help and all the trouble you've taken.”

Hassanein accompanied the doctor to the door and gratefully shook his hand. But before departing, the doctor repeated emphatically, “I'll be back in the morning.”

Hassanein watched him get into his car and zoom off with a roar. He sighed as if to clear away an immovable weight from his chest, and then, with heavy, melancholy steps, he returned to the room. At once his worried mother rushed up to him.

“What did the doctor say?” she asked him anxiously.

He loathed her worry and anxiety, but he answered her calmly. “He's optimistic about the case and will be back in the morning. How is Hassan now?”

“He hasn't recovered consciousness yet,” Nefisa replied.

Flinging himself into the only chair in the room, he closed his eyes.
I'm the one who's really injured,
he thought.
As for him, he's sound asleep in a happy state of unconsciousness, which I wish would overtake me. “I don't think the case is very serious.” That's what the stupid doctor says. No, it's very serious; recovery would be more serious than death. If his condition becomes worse, the police will be informed. And if it improves, his existence will continue to weigh heavily upon me until his enemies inform the police. So scandal is inevitable. Is there no escape? I loathe this wounded man, I loathe myself and even life itself. Isn't there a better life, aren't there better creatures?

As he thought, his features contracted with agony and resentment. Deeply moved, his mother turned to him.

“Get over it,” she said gently. “Your brother is all right. May God preserve him and us!”

Astonished, he looked at her curiously.

The next morning the doctor left the house, declaring himself reassured about his patient. Although now he was safe from impending danger, worries continued to torture Hassanein's mind day and night. Yet for a brief period, the family enjoyed relative peace. Gradually the wounded man recovered his consciousness and vitality and, with his restoration to life, became preoccupied with certain thoughts of the past which soon infected the rest of the family. At first he smiled sadly with unusual resignation. “I've given you a lot of trouble,” he said somewhat apologetically. “It seems that God has created me for trouble. May God forgive me!”

The pleasant and affectionate smiles of his family flashed about him, but he was not deceived. “Sure, you're angry,” he said, turning his eyes to Hassanein. “Perhaps you'd like to remind me of your previous sermons.”

“I only want to see you safe,” Hassanein murmured.

At first a mysterious smile crossed the wounded face, but soon it grew grim, overpowered by his thoughts. The calmness disappeared from his voice. “They robbed me of my money. I'll get even with them. I intend to escape, and I must escape.”

He felt his head with his hand, and closed his eyes. As if speaking to himself, he murmured, “What has God done to Sana'a? Will they leave her alone? She won't surrender to any of my enemies. But she can't escape with me. It's too late now. Besides, we've lost our money.”

Hassanein listened in silence to his brother's delirium. Looking furtively at his mother and sister, Hassanein saw them exchanging anxious glances.

“I must disappear,” Hassan continued, with the same agitation.
“The man who brought me here is a faithful friend. But he's not smart enough to keep a secret. He'll get a lot of satisfaction out of telling his mistress all about his kindness. Then she'll have to tell it to someone else, until it finally reaches those who wish me ill. Then without warning the police will come sweeping into this house.”

Hassanein sighed in despair. Turning to his mother, his eyes met hers briefly before she lowered them. Fired with indignation, he mentally placed the blame on her.
Why did you bring us into this world?
he thought.
Why did you commit this heinous crime?
Then he heard his brother shouting violently.

“I must disappear. I'll leave this house as soon as I'm able to walk. Perhaps I'll leave the country entirely.”

For the first time since this man of evil destiny had been carried into the house, a glimmer of hope struck Hassanein, as refreshing as a soft breeze.
Could this possibly happen, before the catastrophe occurs?
he thought.
Could he really disappear into some unknown land without leaving a single trace behind? In that case, let him stay here and get well. Then my life will be secure.

As time passed, they became used to the melancholy atmosphere of the house. Almost recovered, Hassan began to think seriously of leaving the flat and escaping from the country. In continuous, silent meditation, he worked out plans to achieve his purpose. Nefisa no longer stayed at home; she resumed her regular daily visits. Returning to normal life, Hassanein spent his time in his office, his home, and his club. But he continued to worry about his brother's presence and its threat to their reputation. He hesitated to discuss this delicate point with his mother. He said to her one day with concern, “It's a divine miracle that the police haven't yet discovered where he is, and the miracle can't last forever!”

In response she threw him a glance which, at first, he couldn't interpret. Was it mute reproach? Or was it helpless resignation to fate? Or was it a sort of disapproval which she couldn't express? Perhaps it was all of these combined. But the mystery
was unraveled when he saw a slow, shy tear that painfully wavered before it glistened in her eyes. This was disturbing in the extreme, for in spite of all their frequent predicaments and misfortunes, he found it difficult to remember ever having seen his mother in tears. The thought vanished as in pain and astonishment a stream of images of her stoicism and self-control passed through his mind. Now, he thought, she's like a ferocious lioness in the pangs of death. But once alone, Hassanein was concerned only for his own pains and fears; the others didn't matter. As his anger increased, he cursed both himself and his mother.

The following afternoon he received a further shock. He was sitting on the bed conversing with his mother and brother. Nefisa was out. Suddenly the bell rang and the servant went to the door. Returning in obvious confusion, she addressed Hassanein.

“Master, a policeman wants to speak to you!”