Khan Al-Khalili

33

Ahmad made up his mind not to repeat this adventure. Boss Nunu did his best to reassure him and convince him his reactions that night were due to the fact that he hadn’t eaten something sweet directly after smoking hashish. Ahmad refused to accept these explanations, tempting though they were.

“It’s very clear,” he told himself in his normal tone of self-pity, “that the intellectual mind is simply not equipped to enjoy these types of pleasure.”

Even so, he told himself that he would not need these drugs in order to forget his miseries. If his younger brother married to the girl fairly soon, he would be free to forget. However, the problem was that Rushdi continued his reckless ways and refused to put an end to his irresponsible behavior. He had not even fully recovered his health; in fact, it had deteriorated. No one could ignore any more how thin he looked, added to which was the fact that his paleness had now turned a sickly yellow color. He began to cough violently and lost his appetite. Ahmad was horrified by his condition.

“It sounds to me,” he told his brother in a tone that brooked no argument, “as though the way you’re neglecting your health has put a monkey wrench into your hopes and plans. Why don’t you straighten out so you can get your health back? That’s why you haven’t recovered from your first illness, and now you’ve got this violent cough. From now on, you should give up going out regularly at night and drinking. What on earth are you doing to yourself?”

For a change Rushdi did not object since the coughing fits were already weighing him down. “Okay,” he said, “I agree.”

“You’ll need to get well, Rushdi,” said his brother who was used to self-torture, “before you can fulfill your promise to Nawal’s family.”

The sick young man now started to display some genuine resolve. He stopped going to the Ghamra Casino and only left the house in the afternoon in order to give his private lessons to his two pupils, that being an obligation that was dear to his heart and a source of much pleasure. For the first time since he had left his childhood behind, he made a point of going to bed at ten o’clock, something that aroused in Ahmad a sense of total amazement at the magical workings of love. However, Rushdi refused to give up his morning walk out to the hills even though it exposed him to bone-chilling cold; after all, it, too, was something dear to his heart and nourishment for his fondest dreams. For several days he endured this utterly respectable way of life, but there were no signs of any improvement in his state of health; in fact, the cough went down into his larynx, and his voice turned hoarse. As a result he could no longer sing his favorite songs.

The celebration of the Eid al-Adha was about to happen, and, as usual, the family was busy making preparations. The sacrificial sheep was brought in, and, since there was nowhere else to put it, they tied it to the kitchen window by the neck. Sitt Dawlat, the mother of the family, busied herself making the bread loaves. As usual Ahmad had complained about the rise in the cost of a sheep and suggested that they might well not be able to afford one next year, a thought that appalled his mother.

“I spit on the very notion!” she laughed. “Don’t even mention such dire thoughts.”

The feast arrived during the very first days of January 1942. The family, indeed the whole neighborhood, gave the occasion a joyful welcome. The table was piled high with meats of various types and sizes. What was amazing was that Rushdi stuck to his new regime even for the feast; truth to tell, he would not have had the strength to match his desires even if he had wished to do so. Ahmad spent most of the holiday at the Zahra Café, but he did not succumb to the temptations that Boss Nunu put in his way, namely cajoling him bit by bit into paying a return visit to Aliyat al-Faiza’s house. How could he ever forget the way that hellish night had ended?

The fourth morning of the feast came, and something happened that Ahmad would never forget. He had woken up at eight-thirty and made his way to the bathroom as usual. There he found Rushdi bent over the sink, coughing so violently that his entire skinny body was shaking. Ahmad moved forward and stood beside him. As he stretched out his hand to clasp his brother’s shoulder, he happened to look down into the sink. There was a red smudge! His hand froze where it was, and his heart leapt violently.

“O my God!” he exclaimed, his voice quavering.

He stared at his brother in a panic. Rushdi had stopped coughing, but he still seemed in a daze; his chest was moving up and down, he had trouble breathing, and his eyes were red.

Ahmad waited until his brother had recovered his breath somewhat.

“What’s that, Rushdi?” he asked, pointing at the red smudge in the sink.

Rushdi gave him a desolate look. “It’s blood,” he replied in his hoarse voice.

“O my God!”

Rushdi looked utterly depressed. Totally losing control, he burst into tears. “I’m ill,” he said in a barely audible voice, “and now it’s all over!”

“Don’t say such a thing!” replied Ahmad pleadingly.

“That’s the bitter truth, brother,” Rushdi said despondently.

Ahmad turned on the faucet to wash away the blood, grabbed his brother by the arm, and took him back to his — that is, Rushdi’s — room. He went over to the window and shut it. Rushdi sat down on the bed, and his brother brought over a chair and sat directly facing him.

“What can you tell me, Rushdi?” he asked, swallowing hard. “Tell me the absolute truth!”

“Finally I went to see the doctor,” he replied softly. “He told me that I have incipient tuberculosis in my left lung!”