The Beginning and the End

THIRTEEN

Bent over the sewing machine, Nefisa sat on the sofa in the room in which she slept with her mother, the floor littered with scattered scraps of cloth. Her mother was working in the kitchen, the two younger brothers were in school, and nobody knew where Hassan was. In her innermost heart, the girl bitterly blamed her elder brother; had he taken a job she would have been spared this situation. Nobody believed that he was serious in his protestations that he was searching for a job. He was away from home all day long, returning at midnight as penniless as ever. Now only misfortunes were to be expected. Today her mother had been forced to dispense with the servant to economize on her wages. Under the circumstances, two daily duties devolved upon Nefisa: to do the shopping for the house in the absence of the servant and, then, to devote most of the daylight hours to her work at the sewing machine. Two days earlier Samira had personally seen to it that her daughter was provided with work. Addressing the landlady, who came to her with a piece of cloth to be tailored, she said, “Do you mind paying Nefisa for her work?”

Without hesitation the woman replied, “Not in the least, Umm Hassan; to be fair, this is her due. We cannot possibly repay our debt to Miss Nefisa.”

The echo of these two sentences still resounded in her ears. Never before in all her life had she found herself in such a situation. Her pallid face turned red as blood gushed to it, and she felt as though she were tumbling down from great heights, and that she had become a different person. The demarcation line between dignity and humiliation is easily crossed. She had been a respectable girl but now she had become a dressmaker. Curiously enough, there was nothing new in the work she performed. She had made dresses on many occasions for the landlady, for Farid Effendi’s wife and her daughter, and for other neighbors as well. Dressmaking to her was a hobby in which she distinguished herself, so much so that her neighbors and friends often asked her to make dresses for them. But now how tremendously her feelings changed! She was overcome by shame, humiliation, and degradation. Her sorrow over the death of her father doubled. She wept bitterly for him and in so doing she was actually weeping for herself. Now her dear father was dead, and with his death the dearest part of her ceased to be.

Depression overwhelmed her while she sewed, and she neither laughed nor sang as she had in the past. Now she awaited the landlady, who would arrive at any moment. She would make her some underwear with the cloth she had received that morning. The cloth had reached her only two days after her mother’s conversation with the landlady. This made Nefisa think that the landlady sent it out of charity. She confided her thoughts to her mother, who chidingly silenced her. “Do not allow such fancies to clutter your mind; otherwise all that we are striving for will be frustrated.”

She dared not object to her mother, for lately she had begun to feel an inward pity for her. How stupid I am, she thought, to imagine that my mother is pleased about my condition. She is undergoing a murderous kind of bewilderment, and, of all of us, she is the one who really deserves pity. Misery pierces our flesh as a needle pierces a piece of cloth. Had my father been alive, he would not have allowed anything like this to happen. But where is he now? My sorrow over his death increases day after day, not only because of its injury to us but also because this injury fell on the heads of those he loved and wished well. I feel his pain. He must be suffering for us now. To think how much he loved me, as if he anticipated intuitively the misery in store for me. He used to say to me whenever he heard my ringing laughter, “Laugh, my girl! How dear your laugh is to my heart!” He also told me that a sweet temper was more precious than beauty, as though he sought to console me for my ugliness. Oh God! How nice, how sweet he was, and he among men was powerless. Alas! Now he is dead, dead. Until I die I shall never forget him motioning to his chest as he lay on the sofa. Poor father, asking for help, and nobody there to help him. Let mountains fall and destroy the earth. What an abhorrent and tragic thing life is. Father dead and I a dressmaker! Soon the landlady will arrive, not a guest as she used to be, but a customer. How should I receive her? Enough. Enough. My head spins!

She heard her mother speaking to someone in the hall. Her hand stopped working on the machine and she listened intently. The endless bargaining of the furniture dealer resounded roughly in her ears, while her mother, in a voice both solicitous and reproachful, was doing her best to defend herself against his haggling. Mother is not a fool, she thought. Nobody in any similar situation could have taken her in. But it is merciless need which weighs so heavily upon her. When will we get the pension? I don’t know. Nor does Ahmad Yousri know. How inadequate the pension is! Only five pounds! What a catastrophe! The man has come to carry away the big mirror in the sitting room. Only two weeks before, my beloved father’s bedclothes were sold. The man will come tomorrow and the day after tomorrow until he leaves the flat utterly bare. Why are we brought into this world only to become obsequious slaves of food, clothing, and shelter? This is the root of our trouble.

She hurried to the door of the room and opened it. Through the open door of the sitting room, she saw her mother standing at the threshold and the merchant with his men carrying the long mirror outside. The man carrying one end of the mirror was shorter than the other; thus the mirror was being carried in a slanting position. On the surface of it, she could see a reflection of a corner of the hall ceiling, swinging, as the legs of the carriers moved, as though the house were shaken by an earthquake. Unconsciously, the memory of her father’s bier struck her again. As she cast a last look on the mirror which she had known ever since her birth, she became even more depressed than before. She went back to her sitting place, thinking: The mirror should be the last thing I should feel sorry for. It will not reflect a pleasant face for me. “A sweet temper is more precious than beauty.” You are the only person to say so, Father. But for me, you would have never said it. I have no beauty, no money, and no father. There were only two hearts that were concerned over my future. One is dead and the other is engrossed in its worries, and I am terribly lonely, desperate, and suffering. I am twenty-three years old. How dreadful! When our circumstances were much better, no husband put in an appearance. How is it possible, then, that a husband will turn up today or tomorrow?! Suppose that such a husband agrees to be married to a dressmaker, who will pay my marriage expenses? Why should I think of a husband and marriage? No use. No use. I shall remain as I am as long as I live.

There was a knock on the door, and the landlady came in as merry as ever. She embraced Nefisa and kissed her. They sat side by side. The woman spoke to the girl tenderly and affectionately. Perhaps she made a point of being more tender and affectionate than was her custom. To hide her shyness and confusion, Nefisa pretended to be pleased and at ease, but actually the woman’s exaggerated show of affection not only hurt her deeply but also doubled her shyness and confusion. The woman tried on the dress and the underwear Nefisa had finished. Then she sat close to Nefisa and placed silver coins in her hand.

“It is impossible for me,” she said, “to pay off my past debts to you.”

After remaining with her for some time, the woman said goodbye and departed. Nefisa unfolded the palm of her hand to find two ten-piaster pieces. With storm and agitation in her heart, she stared at the coins. Overwhelmed by shame and humiliation, she thought: This is painful, but I should not think of it. What use is there in breaking my heart over it? I have to train myself to accept the inevitable. This is my life, and there is no alternative to it.

Her mother came in while she was still staring at the money and took it from Nefisa’s hand.

“Is this money for all the clothes or only for the dress?”

“I don’t know.”

The mother swallowed with difficulty. “They are good wages anyhow,” she said, taking care that the expression on her face should not betray her feelings.