The Beginning and the End (6 page)

“I will not pay one millieme more than three pounds,” said the furniture dealer, casting a last look on the bed of the deceased. Samira's bargaining became futile. She had decided to sell the bed and its accessories because of the grief its presence provoked and because she was desperately in need of money. She had hoped for a higher price, which would meet her urgent needs; however, she had no choice but to accept the price the man offered. She said to the dealer, “You have been too sharp; God forgive you. But I have to accept.” Swearing that it was she who had been too clever, the dealer paid her the three pounds and ordered two of his men to carry away the bed.

The family assembled in the hall to cast a farewell look on the bed of their beloved father. The deceased vividly appeared before their eyes, and Nefisa was overcome by grief and burst into tears. Samira tightened her lips, subduing her pain, controlling her tears before her children lest their own grief be revived. As the only person in this world the whole family could rely upon, she had to behave stoically. Had there been another person to depend upon, she could have found refuge in tears, as other women do. She felt it was incumbent upon her to be solid and patient. Besides, the worries and burdens of their new life allowed her no opportunity to give vent to her grief. She found that for the most part she had to forget her own anguish to combat the menace of poverty that confronted the family.
My dear dead husband and master,
she thought,
it grieves me that I don't have even the time to mourn for you. But what is to be done? To us poor folk grief is a luxury we cannot afford.
It had never occurred to Hassanein that they would dispose of his father's belongings, but he did not think of objecting. In fact, the family's difficult
condition had become known to everybody. The dealer left, taking the bed with him, and the door was closed behind him. An unspoken sadness fell upon them. Hoping to dispel this hovering sorrow, Samira told her two younger sons, “Go to your room and study your lessons.”

Before they could make a move to depart, Nefisa was overcome by emotion. “Never,” she said, “will I let anyone touch my father's clothes.”

Hassan agreed. “Selling them would be of no use.”

They were silent for a while. He continued as though there had been no quiet interval of silence. “Furthermore, it won't be long before we need these clothes!”

“Is it possible,” Nefisa asked in fright, “that you would wear my father's clothes?”

No one dared to object. Samira's heart softened and she spoke tenderly. “There is no harm in that…nothing to offend the memory of the deceased. He himself would approve of it. But I shall keep these clothes myself until they are really needed.”

Encouraged by her words, Hassan said with relief, “You spoke wisely. May I remind you that I am the only one who is almost exactly my father's height and breadth.”

His two brothers forgot their grief. Hassanein protested, “Sure, I'm taller than you, but the trouser hems can be unfolded and extended.”

“Or they can be folded again to make them shorter,” Hussein said.

The mother was annoyed. “No need to wrangle,” she said. “There is more than one suit in good condition, and I shall distribute them according to need.”

A knock at the door interrupted their conversation. Nefisa hurried to open it. The servant of Farid Effendi Mohammed entered carrying a basket with a white cover and placed it on the table.

“My mistress sends you her regards, madam,” she said, “and she sends you mourning pastry.”

The mother accepted the basket from the servant and sent her back to her mistress with greetings and thanks. Hassan went up to the basket and uncovered it. The pastry appeared in its rosy colors, its delicious aroma filling their nostrils. Because of the mother's caution and determination to economize, the family had not tasted such delicious food for the past two weeks. Temptation was reflected in the brothers' eyes, but grim thoughts crossed their mother's mind. In fact, these days had nothing good in store for her. Even the little good that came to her was not free from disappointments. Thoughts formed wrinkles on her face.

“We are most thankful for this present,” she said, “but we have to return its equivalent when we come back from our visit to the graveyard. What are we to do, then?”

The brothers felt disappointed. Hussein wanted to comfort his mother. “Let's thank them and send it back to them,” he suggested.

Their mother was perplexed. “Such an act,” she said, “would be considered disgraceful and unfriendly.”

“It might even be considered an act of hostility,” said Hassan, enthusiastically supporting his mother.

He took a pie, smelled it, and then said lightly, “Don't worry. This kind of present is to be returned on certain occasions. When, after a long life, Farid Effendi passes away, we can present his family with a basket of pastries. We shall be able to afford to do so, by God's will.”

Hassan started to devour the pie. Exchanging a look, his two brothers stretched their hands to the basket. Even Nefisa, hearing them chewing, could no longer resist.

Bent over the sewing machine, Nefisa sat on the sofa in the room in which she slept with her mother, the floor littered with scattered scraps of cloth. Her mother was working in the kitchen, the two younger brothers were in school, and nobody knew where Hassan was. In her innermost heart, the girl bitterly blamed her elder brother; had he taken a job she would have been spared this situation. Nobody believed that he was serious in his protestations that he was searching for a job. He was away from home all day long, returning at midnight as penniless as ever. Now only misfortunes were to be expected. Today her mother had been forced to dispense with the servant to economize on her wages. Under the circumstances, two daily duties devolved upon Nefisa: to do the shopping for the house in the absence of the servant and, then, to devote most of the daylight hours to her work at the sewing machine. Two days earlier Samira had personally seen to it that her daughter was provided with work. Addressing the landlady, who came to her with a piece of cloth to be tailored, she said, “Do you mind paying Nefisa for her work?”

Without hesitation the woman replied, “Not in the least, Umm Hassan; to be fair, this is her due. We cannot possibly repay our debt to Miss Nefisa.”

The echo of these two sentences still resounded in her ears. Never before in all her life had she found herself in such a situation. Her pallid face turned red as blood gushed to it, and she felt as though she were tumbling down from great heights, and that she had become a different person. The demarcation line between dignity and humiliation is easily crossed. She had been a respectable girl but now she had become a dressmaker.
Curiously enough, there was nothing new in the work she performed. She had made dresses on many occasions for the landlady, for Farid Effendi's wife and her daughter, and for other neighbors as well. Dressmaking to her was a hobby in which she distinguished herself, so much so that her neighbors and friends often asked her to make dresses for them. But now how tremendously her feelings changed! She was overcome by shame, humiliation, and degradation. Her sorrow over the death of her father doubled. She wept bitterly for him and in so doing she was actually weeping for herself. Now her dear father was dead, and with his death the dearest part of her ceased to be.

Depression overwhelmed her while she sewed, and she neither laughed nor sang as she had in the past. Now she awaited the landlady, who would arrive at any moment. She would make her some underwear with the cloth she had received that morning. The cloth had reached her only two days after her mother's conversation with the landlady. This made Nefisa think that the landlady sent it out of charity. She confided her thoughts to her mother, who chidingly silenced her. “Do not allow such fancies to clutter your mind; otherwise all that we are striving for will be frustrated.”

She dared not object to her mother, for lately she had begun to feel an inward pity for her.
How stupid I am,
she thought,
to imagine that my mother is pleased about my condition. She is undergoing a murderous kind of bewilderment, and, of all of us, she is the one who really deserves pity. Misery pierces our flesh as a needle pierces a piece of cloth. Had my father been alive, he would not have allowed anything like this to happen. But where is he now? My sorrow over his death increases day after day, not only because of its injury to us but also because this injury fell on the heads of those he loved and wished well. I feel his pain. He must be suffering for us now. To think how much he loved me, as if he anticipated intuitively the misery in store for me. He used to say to me whenever he heard my ringing laughter, “Laugh, my girl! How dear your laugh is to my heart!” He also told me that a sweet temper was more precious than beauty, as though he
sought to console me for my ugliness. Oh God! How nice, how sweet he was, and he among men was powerless. Alas! Now he is dead, dead. Until I die I shall never forget him motioning to his chest as he lay on the sofa. Poor father, asking for help, and nobody there to help him. Let mountains fall and destroy the earth. What an abhorrent and tragic thing life is. Father dead and I a dressmaker! Soon the landlady will arrive, not a guest as she used to be, but a customer. How should I receive her? Enough. Enough. My head spins!

She heard her mother speaking to someone in the hall. Her hand stopped working on the machine and she listened intently. The endless bargaining of the furniture dealer resounded roughly in her ears, while her mother, in a voice both solicitous and reproachful, was doing her best to defend herself against his haggling.
Mother is not a fool,
she thought.
Nobody in any similar situation could have taken her in. But it is merciless need which weighs so heavily upon her. When will we get the pension? I don't know. Nor does Ahmad Yousri know. How inadequate the pension is! Only five pounds! What a catastrophe! The man has come to carry away the big mirror in the sitting room. Only two weeks before, my beloved father's bedclothes were sold. The man will come tomorrow and the day after tomorrow until he leaves the flat utterly bare. Why are we brought into this world only to become obsequious slaves of food, clothing, and shelter? This is the root of our trouble.

She hurried to the door of the room and opened it. Through the open door of the sitting room, she saw her mother standing at the threshold and the merchant with his men carrying the long mirror outside. The man carrying one end of the mirror was shorter than the other; thus the mirror was being carried in a slanting position. On the surface of it, she could see a reflection of a corner of the hall ceiling, swinging, as the legs of the carriers moved, as though the house were shaken by an earthquake. Unconsciously, the memory of her father's bier struck her again. As she cast a last look on the mirror which she had known ever since her birth, she became even more depressed than before. She went back to her sitting place, thinking:
The mirror should be the last thing I should feel sorry for. It will not reflect a pleasant face for me. “A sweet temper is more precious than beauty.” You are the only person to say so, Father. But for me, you would have never said it. I have no beauty, no money, and no father. There were only two hearts that were concerned over my future. One is dead and the other is engrossed in its worries, and I am terribly lonely, desperate, and suffering. I am twenty-three years old. How dreadful! When our circumstances were much better, no husband put in an appearance. How is it possible, then, that a husband will turn up today or tomorrow?! Suppose that such a husband agrees to be married to a dressmaker, who will pay my marriage expenses? Why should I think of a husband and marriage? No use. No use. I shall remain as I am as long as I live.

There was a knock on the door, and the landlady came in as merry as ever. She embraced Nefisa and kissed her. They sat side by side. The woman spoke to the girl tenderly and affectionately. Perhaps she made a point of being more tender and affectionate than was her custom. To hide her shyness and confusion, Nefisa pretended to be pleased and at ease, but actually the woman's exaggerated show of affection not only hurt her deeply but also doubled her shyness and confusion. The woman tried on the dress and the underwear Nefisa had finished. Then she sat close to Nefisa and placed silver coins in her hand.

“It is impossible for me,” she said, “to pay off my past debts to you.”

After remaining with her for some time, the woman said goodbye and departed. Nefisa unfolded the palm of her hand to find two ten-piaster pieces. With storm and agitation in her heart, she stared at the coins. Overwhelmed by shame and humiliation, she thought:
This is painful, but I should not think of it. What use is there in breaking my heart over it? I have to train myself to accept the inevitable. This is my life, and there is no alternative to it.

Her mother came in while she was still staring at the money and took it from Nefisa's hand.

“Is this money for all the clothes or only for the dress?”

“I don't know.”

The mother swallowed with difficulty. “They are good wages anyhow,” she said, taking care that the expression on her face should not betray her feelings.

Some weeks passed. The curtain of the night fell; melancholy and a kind of silence permeated the flat. The two brothers sat at the desk facing each other, busy studying their lessons. To economize, Nefisa and her mother sat in the hall in semi-darkness, seeing only with the aid of whatever light emerged from the boys' room. Mother and daughter, as was their habit every evening, spoke quietly. Most of their conversation revolved about the troubles of life. Since poverty was still their major preoccupation, the older woman was fear-stricken. She viewed the future with profound worry and sadness. However, they were getting accustomed to their circumstances. Austerity in food was no longer as disturbing as it had been at the beginning. Nefisa began to adapt herself to her new occupation, yearning, with some humiliation and a great deal of hope, for new customers. Hussein and Hassanein had gotten used to relying on the school meal as a substitute for dinner and, stoically, went to bed as a substitute for supper. The force of habit overcame their initial humiliation, and Samira's dominating firmness helped to keep the nerves of her afflicted family in check.

That evening Farid Effendi and his wife came to visit them. Samira and Nefisa welcomed the visitors and led them to the sitting room. The two felt quite at home as they entered, Farid Effendi wearing an overcoat over his gown, and his wife a dressing gown. To accommodate his obesity, the man sat on the sofa. He spoke softly, affectionately, and entertainingly. Um Bahia, his wife, was rather short and as plump as he; yet because of her blue eyes and pale complexion, she was considered the most beautiful woman in the building. Gently reproaching
Samira, she asked her, “Why do you stay at home the way you do? Why don't you get some relief by visiting us as you used to?”

“The cold of the winter assails us,” the mother replied. “In the evening, we grow lazy, and in the course of the day the burdens of managing the house never leave us an hour's rest.”

“We are one family,” said Farid Effendi, “so we ought to spend most of our leisure time together.”

Farid Effendi was the type of man who never left his home except in cases of emergency. He spent his leisure time squatting on the sofa, surrounded by his wife, his daughter Bahia, and his younger son Salem. They told stories, chewed sugarcane, and roasted chestnuts. Samira felt genuine affection for his kind and generous heart. She never forgot his care and thoughtful assistance on the day of her husband's death. In addition, he had lent her some money until she received her husband's pension. He never failed to go to the Ministry of Finance to inquire about the pension and give the papers a push. But contrary to her flattering notion of his position, he was just a minor official, promoted only recently to the sixth grade when he reached the age of fifty. His neighborly relations with the dead man's family went far back, and ties of friendship between the two families were strengthened by their mutual good-naturedness and similar standards of living. Theirs was not a bad life, nor was it devoid of entertainment. The family of the late Kamel Effendi had enjoyed new prosperity when he had been promoted to the sixth grade, five years before his death. Farid Effendi had entered on a new era two years earlier when he inherited a house in El Saida Zeinab, which brought a monthly rental of ten pounds. Thus his income had amounted to twenty-eight pounds a month, which was considered very substantial in 1933. Farid Effendi became master of Nasr Allah alley, grew fatter than ever, and if not for his wife's insistence on saving for the future of their daughter and young son, he
would have satisfied his desire to move into a flat on Shubra Street.

Their conversation ranged widely, and then Farid Effendi expressed a wish which was probably the chief reason for his visit.

“Madam, I ask you to do me a favor.”

“Anything you wish, sir,” Samira replied.

“My son Salem, who is in the third year of primary school, is weak in English and arithmetic. Teachers being greedy, as you know, I have thought, with a view to economizing, of asking Hussein and Hassanein to undertake the job of tutoring him for an hour a day or every other day. This is the favor I am asking, Um Hassan.”

Samira realized what the man was offering: a face-saving means of assisting her sons by providing them with a monthly supply of pocket money. This was as clear as broad daylight, and in keeping with the man's gentle, kindly character. “Hussein and Hassanein are your sons, and both are at your disposal,” she said softly and shyly.

“They will really be helping me out. I hope they can start next Friday,” he replied happily.

They went back to their conversation, and the man and his wife left at about nine o'clock.

Nefisa hurried to her brothers' room with this happy piece of news. Regaining some of her former disposition, she told them merrily, “There's a surprise for you!”

They raised their heads inquiringly.

“Farid Effendi,” she continued, “wants to choose a tutor for Salem.”

“What has this got to do with us?”

“He will choose from you.”

“For what subject?”

“English.”

“He will choose me, of course,” Hassanein cried.

“And arithmetic, too,” she said with a smile.

“Me.” Hussein heaved a sigh.

“He wants to employ both of you, gratis, of course,” she added slyly.

Understanding her insinuations, both shouted with delight, “Of course!”