The Beginning and the End

TEN

Carrying their books, they silently crossed the courtyard of the house. “The Shubra Club football team will soon be starting its training for the next match!” said Hassanein as they went upstairs. Hussein did not answer. He kept imagining the playground and the players, and he mentally heard the voice of the captain telling the others of their withdrawal from the team “on account of the recent family circumstances.” There would be no play, no joy, and no escape from Hassanein’s continuous complaints. They knocked and were let in. Inside they stopped in astonishment at the strange, unexpected sight that met their eyes. They saw all the furniture of the house piled into the hall in complete disorder, the chairs on the sofa, the carpets rolled up, and the wardrobes undone. There stood Samira and Nefisa, their sleeves rolled up, covered with dust and sweating in spite of the mild weather.

“What’s the matter?” cried Hassanein.

“We are leaving this flat,” their mother answered.

“But where to?”

“Downstairs. We shall exchange flats with the landlady.”

A ground-floor flat, on the same level with the dusty courtyard and with no balconies! Its windows, which overlooked a side blind alley, all but exposed the rooms to the people passing by; no sunlight, no fresh air.

“But why?” asked Hassanein discontentedly, although he had already guessed the answer.

“Because the rent is only one pound and fifty piasters,” their mother replied in a clear voice.

“The difference in the rent is less than fifty piasters. It doesn’t match the difference between the two flats!” the young man complained.

“Would you undertake to pay that little difference?” the mother asked indignantly.

“Why, then, did we allow Nefisa to become a dressmaker?”

His mother gave him a fiery look. “So that we can eat!” she cried. “To keep you from dying of hunger!”

Trying to keep his face pleasant and not show any resentment, Hussein asked his mother, without a trace of objection, “When did all this take place, Mother?”

“I suggested it to the landlady, and did not hide anything from her,” the woman replied as she wiped her forehead with the sleeve of her black dress. “She was good enough to agree without hesitation.”

“If she were really good, she would let us stay in our flat without asking for the difference in the rent!” Hassanein grumbled.

“People have other things to attend to than your welfare!” His mother answered sharply.

“How are we going to sleep tonight?”

In a downcast voice, which indicated that she had not yet recovered from the shock of her father’s death, Nefisa answered, “We shall sleep in the new flat.”

At that moment Hassan emerged from his dead father’s bedroom carrying the peg, the last piece of furniture. “Stop bickering,” he said quickly, “and let’s take the furniture downstairs. We have only two hours before dark.”

Wishing them to follow his lead, he lifted one side of a sofa, saying to his brother Hussein, “Lift the other end.”

Nefisa opened the door wide, and the two brothers passed through with their load. Going carefully downstairs, Hussein wondered if anyone in the family of their good neighbor Farid Effendi Mohammed, who lived on the third floor, would see them.

Separation, he thought, is not the worst part of death. It is only secure people who experience sadness on account of their separation from the ones they have lost. But as for us, our troubles succeed one another so fast that they leave us no time to be sad. How our condition deteriorates! But we have to be patient or at least to pretend that we are. The worst thing we can do is increase, through our anxiety, the misery of our mother. I shall speak more firmly to Hassanein! Their mother and sister followed with whatever pieces they could carry. Hassanein could not bear to stand there as a spectator, so he joined them. The members of the family climbed up and down the stairs, moving in. The landlady had emptied her flat and all her furniture was lying in the courtyard. Her porters were standing nearby awaiting their turn to start working. All the members of the family, whether or not they showed their emotions, shared the same feelings of sorrow and pain. Samira’s face was not easy to decipher, but Nefisa’s eyes were filled with tears. Hassan was working hard as if to ingratiate himself with his mother through his labor, lest she criticize him for his idleness. Being used to a vagabond’s life, it was natural that, of the three brothers, he should be the least affected by the radical change that had been visited upon the family. Panting with exertion, Hassanein whispered to Hussein, “Don’t you see that we will never make up for the loss of our father?” Two tears rolled down his cheeks.