Khan Al-Khalili

38

Rushdi’s health went from bad to worse, and he became even thinner and paler. Even so, he refused to change his behavior, as though the whole thing had nothing to do with him. From this point on, he was no longer content merely to take his early morning walks. Whenever he felt like seeing his friends at the Ghamra Casino, he would rush over there and spend a riotous evening with them.

“Are you trying to commit suicide?” Ahmad would rail at him.

The truth is that he was on a downhill slide toward suicide without even intending it. He was utterly incapable of resisting his natural inclination to indulge in life’s pleasures and surrendered to a frightening new instinct created by the disease itself, while his propensity for risk-taking and optimism shielded him from the dire outcome involved. He never gave up hope, or rather only occasionally; and remained the daredevil he had always been, contemptuous and always smiling.

Then suddenly his cough came back; in fact, it came back much worse than it had ever been before. Now it was almost continuous, and once again his sputum had blood in it. His fellow workers in the bank noticed how badly he was coughing and began to get suspicious. Work now became pointless, and his parents began to be aware of how dangerous the condition that threatened their son actually was. They advised him to stop working until he had recovered, and yet he still crazily insisted on pretending he was well. Ahmad could take it no longer; one day he called him into his room.

“Are you ignoring how dangerous things are?”

“What are you implying?” his brother asked him in a resigned tone he had not been expecting.

“You can’t keep working any more. Let alone going out at night and carousing!”

“So the scandal is out, is it?”

“This illness isn’t a scandal!” Ahmad responded emphatically. “Necessity has it own rules.”

Rushdi looked at the floor. He had lost all will to resist. “It’s all in God’s hands!” he said with a sigh.

The way Rushdi had given way so suddenly was a sign of exhaustion, not of conviction. No sooner did the bank’s doctor establish the real cause of his illness and give him sick leave than his strength completely collapsed. He retired to his bed, feeling utterly weak and wracked by coughing fits. Ahmad still kept the true facts from his parents, but Rushdi’s condition deteriorated with frightening speed. His mother noticed the blood in his sputum, and his father heard about it. Both of them were terrified. Rushdi’s condition demanded a consultation with the doctor. Ahmad suggested inviting him to the house, but Rushdi decided they should both go to his clinic. He got dressed, helped by his mother who was now deeply concerned about her younger son. They took a taxi to the doctor’s clinic, and Ahmad went with his brother into the consulting room. The doctor had not seen Rushdi for a couple of weeks.

“What on earth have you done to yourself?” he asked in his usual loud voice as soon as he set eyes on Rushdi.

“I’m coughing a lot and feel very weak,” Rushdi responded with a wan smile.

The doctor examined him. There was a long pause. “Just one word to you,” he said. “The sanitorium now!”

Rushdi’s sallow face showed a frown. “Is it worse?” he asked softly.

“Undoubtedly,” the doctor replied with raised eyebrows. “You clearly haven’t been taking my advice. But if you get to Helwan as soon as possible, there’s no need to worry. Get there today if you can. You’ll find me there right beside you.”

“Will he need to stay in Helwan for long?” Ahmad asked.

“Only God knows the answer to that,” the doctor replied. “I’m not a pessimist, but it has to be done now.”

The two of them returned home to find their parents waiting impatiently.

“What’s the matter with him?” the father asked Ahmad.

Ahmad realized there was no point in lying any more.

“He needs to go to the sanitorium,” he replied with deliberate terseness.

There was silence. Sitt Dawlat’s eyes turned red, a sign that she was about to burst into tears.

“God be kind to us!” their father muttered.

“There’s no need for alarm,” said Ahmad trying to reassure them. “But he must go to the sanitorium.”

Rushdi still did not want to go there, but he did not dare refuse now that his condition was so bad. He called his brother over. “Okay then, so be it: the sanitorium,” he said in his mother’s hearing. Then pointing to the window he went on, “but please don’t tell them the truth!”

Ahmad was overwhelmed and felt utterly depressed. “Don’t worry,” he said. “I can easily say that you’ve some fluid in your lungs and you need to go to the sanitorium.”

“Will that be enough, do you think?” Rushdi asked sadly.

“Getting rid of fluid in your lungs takes a long time,” Ahmad replied. “Whatever the case may be, it’s more important now to look after your own health than anything else.”