The Beginning and the End

ELEVEN

Hassan left early in the morning immediately after his brothers’ departure for school. There was no need for him to go out so early, but he wanted to avoid friction with his mother so as to spare her a quarrel which, in her grim and unfortunate circumstances, she could very well do without. He left Nasr Allah behind, and walked on aimlessly and hopelessly. “Find yourself a job.” That’s what she is telling me all the time. Where am I to find that job? As an apprentice in a grocery? But that will end in a quarrel, an ambulance, and the police. Yet, he did not feel as hopeless as he should have. He was too self-confident and optimistic for that. He could not, however, ignore his precarious position and he kept talking to himself: Your father (God be merciful to him) is dead now. You’ve lost your shelter. True, you’ve always made your living through quarrels and rows, and you had to put up with insults and abuse, but, anyhow, that was a sure living. Even this suit you’re wearing, which makes you look not too bad an Effendi, comes with his money. Yes, at first he refused to buy it for you, but you threatened him that you would walk along the streets in your underwear, and burst almost naked into the palace of Ahmad Bey Yousri, where he usually spent his time, and so he gave in and instructed the tailor to make this suit. Now, if you go around completely naked, nobody will mind except the police!

The suit was nice, though slightly stained at the knees. He put on a bow tie, which showed off his dilapidated shirt. His hair was the most peculiar feature of his appearance, for he had let it grow so long, thick, and frizzy that it looked almost like a second head set upon his real one. His face was as handsome as the faces of his brothers, and besides, his body was tall and muscular with broad bones. He went on his way with these thoughts until suddenly he regained his self-confidence and said to himself: Don’t worry; only fools worry. You will live long and experience life, be it sweet or bitter. I’ve never heard of any man who died of hunger. There is always plenty of food, and you’re not greedy; all that you need are some morsels of bread, clothing, a few glasses of cognac, some hashish to smoke, and a few women to sleep with. And all these are available in more abundance than one can ever conceive of. Well, my boy, depend on God and stop worrying. He wasn’t penniless, for he had managed his father’s funeral and in the process garnered forty piasters which no one knew about. He wondered whether to give the money to his mother. Oh no! Mother will not make much use of it, whereas there is no doubt that losing this money would be a great setback to me. I don’t know when I shall ever find so much money again. With his sharp eyes, he saw the Al Gamal café and he hurried to reach it. It was a café of no distinction, but it overlooked the street. At that early hour, there were only two people there, sitting at a table placed on the pavement, basking in the sun and drinking coffee. Inside, in a corner, sat three youths whose appearance and bemused looks indicated idleness and desperation. It was not strange, then, that the young man should walk up to them and join their group. Presently, one of them asked for a pack of cards, and they all got ready to play. Each one of them hoped to win his bread for the day from his friends; five piasters would be more than enough. Hassan was often the winner, for he was clever at cards and quick with his hands and eyes. Thus before they started to deal, one of them said, “No cheating.”

“Of course not,” answered Hassan.

The young man said, “Let’s recite the opening Exordium of the Koran.”

They all recited Al Fatihat audibly; it was possible that Hassan had learned it at that gambling table. They played for an hour. After paying half a piaster for his cup of coffee, Hassan’s net profit was four and a half piasters. One of the players suggested that they continue. But just then a young man entered the coffeehouse. No sooner had Hassan seen him than he stood up and approached him, addressing him with warmth and respect.

“Good morning, Master Sabri!”

The newcomer self-importantly stretched forth his hand. “Good morning.”

They sat face to face at a table. Hassan succumbed to a sudden generous impulse. He summoned the waiter and ordered coffee for Master Ali Sabri. Before the waiter went away, Master Ali Sabri added, “And bring a nargileh, too.”

Hassan’s heart sank. He was afraid he would also have to pay for the nargileh and lose all that he had won at cards with his luck and quick hands and eyes. But soon he forgot his worries and watched his visitor’s face. Ali Sabri was about twenty-five, of medium height, slim, and with delicate features. His hair was very much like Hassan’s, with whiskers that crept down to the middle of his cheeks. His general appearance showed how bad his condition was, but he covered it up with unlimited false pomp and self-conceit. Searching his face, Hassan said with regret, “We haven’t heard your voice for a long time.”

On several occasions he had broadcast songs for private companies, and it had seemed as though fortune was beginning to smile upon him. But when these private stations were closed down and an official national broadcasting station established, his performances came to a standstill, and his attempts to renew them failed. Hassan was a member of his unemployed band. Naturally, he earned no more than a few piasters from that kind of work; but he loved it and preferred it to a serious job, which, from his point of view, was hard, degrading labor, in which he had never achieved much success.

“I’ll be starting new work very soon,” said the master.

Hassan’s heart beat hard. “We are your men,” he replied, “always at your service.”

The master nodded with satisfaction, for he was never treated with dignity except when he was addressed by one of the tramps who constituted his band — especially the fierce and tyrannical Hassan, who turned into a gentle flatterer when he was speaking to him.

“Of course, of course. You’re good at singing refrains, and your voice is not bad,” came the answer.

Hassan’s face lit up. “I have memorized a lot of popular songs,” he said.

“Such as what?”

“Such as ‘He Who Loved You,’ ‘Why Are You Unjust to Me?’ and ‘When I Was Burnt with the Fire of Love.’ ”

Belittlingly, the master shrugged his shoulders. “Chanting and Laiali are the cornerstone of true art,” he replied. “But what do we hear on the wireless nowadays? Nothing of value. Just yelling, not singing. If the station were really aware of art, I should stand next to Um Kalthum and Abdul Wahab. Even Abdul Wahab himself is often afraid that his voice might fail him. So he avoids the kind of singing that requires long breath, and, under the guise of innovation, divides up what he is singing into short parts. Then he uses musical instruments to camouflage the weaknesses of his voice. Here is how he sang ‘Ya Lil’ in his last performance.”

He coughed before he started to imitate Abdul Wahab’s singing of “Ya Lil.” When the waiter came with the nargileh and coffee, he was busy singing. So he held the sucking pipe of the nargileh, and did not stop singing until he was done.

When he finished, Hassan’s companions cheered. He inhaled a puff of smoke from the nargileh without paying attention to them. Then he whispered to Hassan, “They admire my voice and not my art. Now, listen to the same Laiali as it should be sung.”

His singing filled the small café. The proprietor raised his head from the till, half smiling, half objecting. Master Ali Sabri finished singing and returned to his nargileh. This time he intended to thank the company for admiring his singing. But silence prevailed, interrupted only by the gurgling water in the phial of the nargileh. The master frowned.

“This,” he said confidently, “is the way of true art.”

“No doubt about that,” said Hassan enthusiastically.

“Train your voice and continue practicing. Sing more Laiali and never stop sucking candy,” was the man’s advice.

“You don’t say!”

“That’s very useful. It is also advisable that you wake up at dawn and chant the summons to prayers. This is the best practice for the throat. It’s what the great singer Salama Hijazi used to do.”

Hassan laughed and said, “But usually I sleep just before dawn.”

“Then do Al Aza’n before you sleep.”

“In a mosque?”

“It does not matter where; in a mosque or a tavern. What matters is Al Aza’n itself at this early hour.”

“Excuse me. But if one is under the effect of alcohol or hashish?”

“So much the better, for when you become sober you can make sure that you will do much better than when you are unconscious.”

“We must occasionally meet so that God will help us to earn our living.”

He turned to the three comrades and asked them, “What were you doing?”

“Playing cards — a game of komi.”

The master Ali Sabri said with interest, “Let’s try our luck.”

The company got up and moved toward them without any hesitation. They sat around the table; their hearts filled with greed. However, Hassan was worried and uneasy about the possible consequences of such a game. He thought: What can I do with this son of a bitch! If I win, I shall antagonize him, and if I lose, then my day has been wasted.