The Beginning and the End

TWELVE

“I will not pay one millieme more than three pounds,” said the furniture dealer, casting a last look on the bed of the deceased. Samira’s bargaining became futile. She had decided to sell the bed and its accessories because of the grief its presence provoked and because she was desperately in need of money. She had hoped for a higher price, which would meet her urgent needs; however, she had no choice but to accept the price the man offered. She said to the dealer, “You have been too sharp; God forgive you. But I have to accept.” Swearing that it was she who had been too clever, the dealer paid her the three pounds and ordered two of his men to carry away the bed.

The family assembled in the hall to cast a farewell look on the bed of their beloved father. The deceased vividly appeared before their eyes, and Nefisa was overcome by grief and burst into tears. Samira tightened her lips, subduing her pain, controlling her tears before her children lest their own grief be revived. As the only person in this world the whole family could rely upon, she had to behave stoically. Had there been another person to depend upon, she could have found refuge in tears, as other women do. She felt it was incumbent upon her to be solid and patient. Besides, the worries and burdens of their new life allowed her no opportunity to give vent to her grief. She found that for the most part she had to forget her own anguish to combat the menace of poverty that confronted the family. My dear dead husband and master, she thought, it grieves me that I don’t have even the time to mourn for you. But what is to be done? To us poor folk grief is a luxury we cannot afford. It had never occurred to Hassanein that they would dispose of his father’s belongings, but he did not think of objecting. In fact, the family’s difficult condition had become known to everybody. The dealer left, taking the bed with him, and the door was closed behind him. An unspoken sadness fell upon them. Hoping to dispel this hovering sorrow, Samira told her two younger sons, “Go to your room and study your lessons.”

Before they could make a move to depart, Nefisa was overcome by emotion. “Never,” she said, “will I let anyone touch my father’s clothes.”

Hassan agreed. “Selling them would be of no use.”

They were silent for a while. He continued as though there had been no quiet interval of silence. “Furthermore, it won’t be long before we need these clothes!”

“Is it possible,” Nefisa asked in fright, “that you would wear my father’s clothes?”

No one dared to object. Samira’s heart softened and she spoke tenderly. “There is no harm in that…nothing to offend the memory of the deceased. He himself would approve of it. But I shall keep these clothes myself until they are really needed.”

Encouraged by her words, Hassan said with relief, “You spoke wisely. May I remind you that I am the only one who is almost exactly my father’s height and breadth.”

His two brothers forgot their grief. Hassanein protested, “Sure, I’m taller than you, but the trouser hems can be unfolded and extended.”

“Or they can be folded again to make them shorter,” Hussein said.

The mother was annoyed. “No need to wrangle,” she said. “There is more than one suit in good condition, and I shall distribute them according to need.”

A knock at the door interrupted their conversation. Nefisa hurried to open it. The servant of Farid Effendi Mohammed entered carrying a basket with a white cover and placed it on the table.

“My mistress sends you her regards, madam,” she said, “and she sends you mourning pastry.”

The mother accepted the basket from the servant and sent her back to her mistress with greetings and thanks. Hassan went up to the basket and uncovered it. The pastry appeared in its rosy colors, its delicious aroma filling their nostrils. Because of the mother’s caution and determination to economize, the family had not tasted such delicious food for the past two weeks. Temptation was reflected in the brothers’ eyes, but grim thoughts crossed their mother’s mind. In fact, these days had nothing good in store for her. Even the little good that came to her was not free from disappointments. Thoughts formed wrinkles on her face.

“We are most thankful for this present,” she said, “but we have to return its equivalent when we come back from our visit to the graveyard. What are we to do, then?”

The brothers felt disappointed. Hussein wanted to comfort his mother. “Let’s thank them and send it back to them,” he suggested.

Their mother was perplexed. “Such an act,” she said, “would be considered disgraceful and unfriendly.”

“It might even be considered an act of hostility,” said Hassan, enthusiastically supporting his mother.

He took a pie, smelled it, and then said lightly, “Don’t worry. This kind of present is to be returned on certain occasions. When, after a long life, Farid Effendi passes away, we can present his family with a basket of pastries. We shall be able to afford to do so, by God’s will.”

Hassan started to devour the pie. Exchanging a look, his two brothers stretched their hands to the basket. Even Nefisa, hearing them chewing, could no longer resist.