Khan Al-Khalili

41

On Sunday afternoon Ahmad was sitting with his parents, sipping coffee. A letter arrived, and Ahmad immediately recognized the handwriting.

“That’s strange,” he said. “It’s Rushdi’s handwriting.”

His parents both sat up and watched as Ahmad slit the envelope open. The letter was written in pencil and in a sloppy hand totally unlike Rushdi’s normal script:

8/3/1942

My Dear Brother

,

Greetings to you and my parents! I’m writing this at

2

a. m., but don’t be surprised at that; I’ve been robbed of the pleasure of sleep forever, and no sleeping pills have any effect. Just imagine, yesterday I took a dose of a well-known sleeping medicine; when it had absolutely no effect whatsoever, the doctor gave me a powerful drug and told me I’d sleep like a lamb. I’m still wide awake

.

This torture just goes on and on, and I’m actually sitting up — or rather resting my back against the pillows — because lying down aggravates my cough, which is now much worse. That means that I have to sit up in bed; the only way I can get any rest is to fold the pillow, put it in my lap, and then lean my head on it

.

Dear Brother, I hate to cause you any sorrow or pain, but there’s a bitter truth, one from which there is no escape, that I have to share with you. After all, you are my first and last resort. Well, dear brother, I now know the results of the X-rays that were taken the day after I arrived here. I have a new spot on my right lung, and the old one on my left lung has created a cavity the size of a quarter. My general health is grave. Here’s the report of the resident physician: “Absolutely no tolerance for food, no sleep at all, clear cough, breathing continuously impaired.” I’m going to die, there’s no doubt about that, none whatsoever. As I write these words to you, tears are pouring down my face, and I can’t even see the words I’m writing to say good-bye to you. Every time I think of you all, I burst into tears

.

So that’s the way things are. The only thing I beg you to do now is to bring me home so I can spend my final days at home with all of you until I die. This time please don’t raise any objections. Once again, I’m sorry to cause you so much grief, but what am I supposed to do? Don’t tell our parents about this. God’s blessings and peace upon you

.

Your ever-loyal brother

,

Rushdi

Ahmad read the letter in a kind of stupor, then reread parts of it over and over again. When he had finished, he felt almost dizzy, unwilling to accept what his brother was telling him. Even so, by the time he looked up he had managed to recover some of his self-control and could face his mother calmly enough to tell her an outright lie. His consideration for his mother’s feelings and the fact that she was sitting so close to him allowed him to forget about himself for a while and keep a firm grip on his nerves. He looked at his parents and saw that they were both anxiously waiting for him to say something, like a person waiting to be shot by a firing squad with no blind over their eyes.

“Rushdi’s insisting on coming home,” Ahmad said, feigning exasperation. “What’s the matter with him?”

“But he’s doing fine!” his mother said.

“All’s well and good,” Ahmad went on, “but he loathes the sanitorium.”

“Bring him home to me, Ahmad. There’s no point in keeping him at the sanitorium against his will.”

Ahmad stood up. “I’ll go to Helwan tomorrow and bring him back,” he said.

With that he gave his father the letter and went to his own room, with his mother behind him.

Next day he went back to Helwan without delay or hesitation. All the way there he felt conflicted and agitated. For the first time in ages he was contemplating the prospect of death as an imminent reality, considering its direst aspects and feeling the pain, despair, and fear that came with it. He could envisage the family tomb far away, the one that had swallowed up his baby brother and that would now pile up its earth again to create a hole to envelop his dear brother, Rushdi, someone without whom he had no idea how to live his own life. As he drew ever closer to the sanitorium, he became more and more depressed. Terror now had its heavy foot planted firmly on his chest. Good God, he wondered, how would he find Rushdi today, when he hadn’t been getting any sleep at all?

The sun was slowly setting as he walked out of the train station. Taking a taxi to the sanitorium, he went up to the third floor without paying attention to anything else. As he approached the door to Rushdi’s room, his heart was pounding. He went in and looked straight at the bed. There was Rushdi, exactly as he had described himself in his letter, sitting up, with his head leaning on a cushion folded in his lap.

“Rushdi!” he exclaimed, swallowing hard.

His brother looked up quickly. Ahmad noticed how very pale his face was and how hard he was finding it to breathe. A glimmer of happiness showed in Rushdi’s eyes.

“You’ve come,” he said in a quavering voce. “Take me out of here, please.…”

“That’s why I’ve come, Rushdi,” Ahmad said to calm himself down a bit.

He turned to Anis Bishara, and they exchanged greetings.

“Poor Rushdi!” Anis said in a tone of voice that clearly showed how worried he was. “He never gets any sleep. Last night was terrible. It’ll really be better for him to spend this next week at home. But he should come back here later!”

Ahmad nodded his head in agreement. “Do you know what the procedures are for requesting to take him home?”

“Go and ask the doctor immediately,” he replied in the same serious tone of voice.

Ahmad encountered no difficulties in getting permission; in fact, he was not a little scared by the alacrity with which the doctor agreed to the request.

He went back to his brother’s room and collected his things. Rushdi could not take his pajamas off and put on outdoor clothes, so he made do with a dressing gown. They brought a wheelchair to take him to the elevator. Anis Bishara accompanied him to the outer door of the sanitorium to say farewell and shook his hand warmly as he uttered a prayer for his recovery. Ahmad watched as his brother submitted meekly to the arms of the people carrying him; his eyes rolled and he looked so incredibly thin. Ahmad could not help remembering how fresh and handsome his younger brother had always looked, and how elegant, witty, and energetic he had been. Ahmad was so devastated that he could not avoid biting his lip, sensing as he did so a huge sob rising from the very depth of his soul.