The Beginning and the End (8 page)

“Now I have come by myself, and Hussein will come after me, so that our time will not be wasted unnecessarily.”

“That is better,” Salem answered politely.

Each took his place. Before starting the lesson, Hassanein suggested, “It will be better if we close the balcony window and open the door.”

Salem rose and carried out the wish of his teacher, who noted that the silent hall was completely dark. But he did not lose hope. There was still time for tea and sugar. In his desire to be good to his teacher, Salem confided his thoughts to him. “Father and Mother,” he said, “have gone out to visit my grandmother.”

Hassanein's heart shook violently. He gave the boy a long look. “When did they go out?” he asked.

“In the afternoon.”

Anxiously, he sought to learn whether the girl had gone with them. “How could you stay alone in the house?”

“My sister Bahia is staying with me,” the boy replied.

This answer gave Hassanein relief, delight, and hope. Thoughts came to his mind:
Tea and sugar, especially sugar. Not sugar, but the sugar bowl. I shall find out today whether she deliberately appeared that other time.
He asked the boy to read, and the lesson was in progress. He listened to his pupil for a few minutes, but then his thoughts again rambled off.
Should I ask for tea? That would be too forward. But if they are late in bringing the tea, I must ask for it. I am too agitated. She and I are alone in the flat. Neither Salem's presence nor that of the servant will make any difference. She and I are alone. Let me enjoy being alone with her for a while, in my imagination. If life were as lusciously simple as it used to be in early times, I would take her in my arms and ask her with no hesitation to
uncover her legs. What stops me from doing so? It is the folly of the world, which killed my father and caused the sufferings we have been undergoing.
He became aware of Salem only when the boy asked him the meaning of a word. He explained it to him and ordered him to proceed with his reading. Before the youngster's voice faded away, he heard the sound of approaching footsteps. He turned his eyes in the direction of the open door. He saw the tea tray before he could distinguish who was carrying it. His eyes fell on her arms holding the tray. His heart beat violently and he rose like a man obsessed. While he was moving toward the door, he heard her soft voice, speaking almost in a whisper: “Salem.”

Hassanein appeared before her, his eyes ravaging her.

“Thanks a lot,” he whispered.

Her almost pale complexion flushed. Perhaps she did not expect to see him. She lowered her eyes in confusion. Hassanein stretched his hands to take the tray from her. In so doing, his right hand clutched the fingers of her left hand. At once, something akin to an electric current flowed through his hand, arm, body, and soul. His daring had no limit. He pressed her fingers in a manner that could not be mistaken. Resentfully she withdrew her hand, and a frown darkened her face. Very angrily, she walked away from the door. He was extremely perturbed when he returned to the table carrying the tray. Confused, he addressed the boy. “Continue,” he said.

His thoughts rambled:
Was I too hasty, not waiting for things to develop naturally? How impatient I am! I am always like that. What a frown came upon her face! She frowned and went away. If shyness is the reason, nothing will be dearer to my heart. But if its indignation, then it is the end of everything. Never shall I retreat. Never shall I know hesitation. Why did she come in person? Why didn't she ask the servant to carry the tray? She came particularly for me. This is obvious. There is nothing to fear.

He was intermittently aware of Salem, asked him some questions, then fell into worry and distraction, wavering between
apprehension and pleasure. When the lesson was over, an idea occurred to him. He rose up, determined and unflinching, to put it into effect. Salem left the room to make way for his teacher. In this interval he took a handkerchief from the pocket of his coat, dropped it on the seat, and left the flat. But he did not budge after the door had been closed. Before knocking at the door, he listened attentively until the boy's footsteps died away. His heart was pounding with extreme agitation.
If the servant opens the door for me, my plan will be foiled. But probably she will come. I have to be resigned to whatever happens.
The light in the hall was turned on, approaching footsteps were heard, and the door was opened. It was she. He did not like the astonishment that appeared on her face. But he wasted no time.

“I am afraid I have angered you,” he said tenderly and sympathetically. She withdrew a step without uttering a word, and he said hurriedly, “I can never bear to see you angry.”

As though she could not endure being spoken to, she whispered resentfully, “No, no, no. That is too much!”

He could not answer, because Salem appeared on the threshold of the room on the left to inquire, “Is Mummy back?”

“I forgot my handkerchief in the room,” Hassanein said aloud.

Salem ran into the room, and the girl hastened inside the house. The boy brought him the handkerchief. He took it and went away. He forgot to thank him.

Hussein raised his head from the desk. Scrutinizing his brother's face, he said, “What is the matter with you?”

Hassanein answered with only a short laugh. In a meaningful tone, his brother asked, “Did you give your lesson?”

Hassanein threw himself on the bed. “Do I look changed?” he inquired.

“Certainly.”

Hassanein sighed. “I have to thank God that our mother is sitting in semi-darkness,” he said.

“What happened?”

Would he tell him what happened? But what would he get from him but reproof? “Nothing happened,” he replied.

“But you look confused! And when you are confused, your nostrils twitch like a donkey's.”

After saying this, Hussein paused to ask himself if the nostrils of a donkey actually twitched. How did such a smile come to his mind? His brother laughed.

“Just a bit of excitement. That is all,” he said.

“So what?”

“Nothing.”

Then Hussein said in earnest, “I want to understand your intentions.”

“I don't know what you mean.”

“Don't feign ignorance. You understand everything. Why don't you leave her alone? Aren't you afraid that Farid Effendi will discover your forwardness, or that the girl herself will tell him about it? That will put us in a difficult situation.”

“My brother,” Hassanein said, smiling, “if they place the sun
on my right hand and the moon on my left and ask me to leave her, I won't. I'd rather perish.”

Hussein laughed in spite of himself. Reassuming his seriousness and solemnity, he inquired, “What do you want from her?”

What a question. Too simple, yet unanswerable. Had he asked himself that question, he would have found no answer. He was motivated by his impulses and instincts, without need for thinking. He said in bewilderment, “In my case there is no distinction between cause and effect.”

“I don't understand what you mean.”

“Neither do I.”

“So leave her alone, as I told you.”

“I shall keep chasing her until…”

Hussein pressed on. “Until what?”

“Until she falls in love with me as I have with her.”

“Then?”

The young man replied, perplexed, “That's enough.”

Hussein shook his head angrily. “You are mistaken,” he said. “She is a decent girl of a good family, and your conduct will displease her.”

“She is that and even more; but I shall never give up hope.”

He stood up and went to the desk. He put his books on the sill of the closed window immediately adjacent to his bed. He sat cross-legged before the sill, as though he were sitting at a desk.

“Why don't you sit at the desk?” his brother asked.

“I want to sit cross-legged to warm my legs.”

He was preoccupied with an important matter. He opened a copybook, cut out a page from it, and took up a pen. Intense with love and deep distress, he thought:
I shall write to her. There is no alternative. I shall not have another opportunity to speak to her again. But what should I write?

The silence in the room, punctuated only by the sound of Hussein turning pages in his copybook, helped Hassanein to
concentrate. His ears began to distinguish the sound of a wireless stealthily murmuring through the closed window from one of the houses in the alley. He knit his brows, pretending to be annoyed, but he actually felt relieved to hear it since this helped him to escape his perplexity. He listened to the melody of “Happy Nights Are Here Again,” which completely swept him away. Tenderness gushed into his breast. His heart overflowed with affection, yearning, ecstasy, love, and life. Engulfed in his enthusiasm, he was filled with energy, he wanted to go free into the open air, concealed by the dark. He gradually became oblivious to the song, once it had opened up before his soul the gates of a paradise full of visions and dreams.
I must write a few words,
he thought,
just two sentences on a small piece of paper that nobody will detect if I throw it at her feet.
He started to write:
“Dear Bahia, I am extremely sorry for making you angry.” Is it not better to say, “Do not be angry, my dear”? Both are the same. What, then? I should confess my love to her? I want to write a decent sentence. Oh, God! Help me.

Hussein interrupted his thoughts, inquiring, “What are you writing?”

“A composition subject.”

“What is it about?”

“The influence of music on the renaissance of countries,” he replied without hesitation.

“Dear Bahia. I am awfully sorry for making you angry. Do you have the right to get angry because I love you?” That is enough, as there is nothing better than to be brief and significant. No, that is not enough. Something is missing. Shall I quote a line of verse? No, it usually sounds ridiculous when people do that, and if she laughs once, the whole letter will misfire. Let me write another touching sentence. Oh, God! I implore you to help.

A fairly good sentence suddenly came to his mind. He started to write:
“I swear by God that I have done what I have done…”

But once more he was interrupted by Hussein. “Did you finish the points you plan to tackle in the subject?”

Hassanein was disturbed and in suppressed anger he said, “Almost. Excuse me for a second.”

He returned to the letter, determined to complete it.

“I swear by God,”
he wrote,
“that I have done what I have done only because I love you, and shall go on loving you as long as I live. To please you gives me reason to live.”

He carefully reread the message and heaved a deep sigh of relief. He folded the paper, tucked in its edges, and put it in his pocket.
When she comes near the door, or passes by me in the hall, I shall seize the opportunity to throw this paper at her feet, come what may.

Nefisa found herself in a medium-sized room. There were two big sofas, a few chairs on either side of the room, and an Assiut carpet on the floor. The wall facing the entrance led to a balcony on the fourth story overlooking Shubra Street. The furniture was old, and judging by the placement of the wireless close to the door, the room was arranged so that the members of the family could sit there in their leisure time. The moment Nefisa entered, it was readily apparent to her that the family occupying it was quite prosperous. This was evident from the small hall, furnished as an entry to the house, as well as from the large, luxurious hall used as a dining room. After all, she was right to believe the words of her landlady in Nasr Allah, who had said, “I have brought a rich customer to you, a bride from a good family. I hope you will take great care in making her dresses, for this might encourage other well-to-do people to come to you.” Nefisa was excited to enter a strange house for the first time. She sat on a chair close to the door, and waited. She was dressed in mourning, her black hair falling down her back in a short plait. Thus her face, free as it was from makeup and beauty, looked pale and despairing. She thought about her situation:
A strange house and strange people. A new step in the practice of my job. I am just a dressmaker. Oh, Father, I am not sorry for my humiliation so much as I am sorry for the loss of your dignity.
She did not have to wait long, for soon a twenty-year-old girl, both beautiful and graceful, entered the room. Nefisa rose to greet the girl, who cast a scrutinizing glance as she shook Nefisa's hand.

“Welcome,” she said. “You are Miss Nefisa, whom Mrs. Zeinab asked to come?”

“Yes, madam,” Nefisa shyly replied. “Are you the bride?”

The lady smilingly nodded yes and sat down.

“Mrs. Zeinab praises you highly,” she said. “You strike me as being a good dressmaker.”

A faint smile appeared on Nefisa's face. Her lips opened without uttering a word, and she thought:
Perhaps she told you that I was a skillful dressmaker. Well, is that praise or disparagement? I don't know. I wonder if she told you about the situation of our family. I had a father like yours, and I was as much of a lady as you are. I had waited long for a bridegroom to come. But he never did and he never will.

The bride asked her tenderly, already knowing the answer, “Why are you in mourning?”

“My father died two months ago,” she answered sadly. “He was, may the mercy of God be upon him, an official in the Ministry of Education.”

“Mrs. Zeinab told us about it. My condolences.”

“Thank you. We come from Benha. My aunt lives there with her husband, who owns a ginning factory.”

At that moment a servant entered carrying a bundle, which she placed beside her mistress and departed. The bride untied the bundle, which contained a pile of silk cloths of different colors. Nefisa realized immediately that it was material to be made into underwear. Perhaps she had sent the dresses to another, more capable dressmaker. This made her feel relieved, because she was afraid of harming her professional reputation by putting it to such a difficult test. She was content to undertake what lay within her abilities in return for a fair price. She moved to the place where the bride sat, examined the cloth, and felt it with her hand.

“Congratulations,” she said. “How precious this silk is.”

A happy smile appeared on the bride's lips. “Now,” she said, “we start by taking measurements. By the way, do you mind coming to work here in our house? We have all the things you need for your work. There are no children in the house to disturb
you. Besides, you do not live far away. So it will be easy for you to come every day.”

“As you wish, madam,” Nefisa found herself obliged to reply.

The girl rose and stood before her, and Nefisa started to take her measurements. The smell of new silk filled her deprived nostrils, and when she touched the fabric, she experienced a strange feeling of both desire and pain as it glided between her fingers. Surrendering to her confidence in the skill of her hands gave her a sense of mastery and the hope of consolation, but hope very soon died and gave way to dark despair. She thought:
A bride and silk. Am I really making these clothes for the bride? In fact, I am making this underwear for the bridegroom more than the bride! His fingertips will playfully touch its relaxed fringes, its softness. So I am taking part in the preparation of this marriage, and I shall also participate in so many marriages, without getting married myself, to be left to my burning dreams. What a beautiful and happy girl she is! Happiness almost radiates from her eyes. Today the silk is prepared, and tomorrow the lover is awaited. A waft of warm maternity blows on her from a rosy horizon. I have been dreaming of that for so long; and my father used to tell me that a sweet temper was more precious than beauty. Time passed between solicitude and hope until I reached the age of twenty-three. Why was I born ugly? Why wasn't I created like my brothers? How handsome Hassanein and Hussein are! Even Hassan! I am as dead as my father. He lies dead in Bab el-Nasr, and I lie dead in Shubra.

Then the voice of the bride came to her. “Would you like to receive part of your fees in advance?”

“No need at all,” she hastened to reply.

She regretted this injudicious reply, which doubled her resentment and despondency. She heard the creak of approaching shoes and raised her head in the direction of the door to see a young man merrily enter the room. He quickly came to the bride, their hands clasped, and they exchanged a happy smile.

“Where is your mother?” he asked.

“In her room.”

He turned to Nefisa, and the girl introduced the young man.

“Hassan, my fiancé.”

Bending her head toward him, she said, “Miss Nefisa, the dressmaker.”