The Beginning and the End

THIRTY-THREE

Breathing heavily and with difficulty, Nefisa reached the courtyard of the house. The clear sky was studded with stars and the cool weather was punctuated by the gentle breezes of budding spring. She walked up to the gate, then dauntlessly proceeded to Amm Gaber’s shop. The old man was busy toting up the day’s accounts, while his son Soliman stood with an elbow on the counter, staring absently between his fingers. Drawing near, she cast a sharp, fiery glance at him. He raised his two tiny eyes toward her. A look of confusion and alarm suddenly appeared in them.

“Can I help you, Miss Nefisa?” he asked warily. She answered with steadiness and determination, “Follow me at once!”

He nodded affirmatively, pretending to give her something from the shop. She went out to the street and stood waiting at the top of the alley, carefully inspecting her surroundings. She felt relieved at what she was doing. She could not possibly wait until the next morning. She kept looking about the alley until she saw him hurrying toward her with confused steps, wearing a jacket over his gallabiya.*

How mean and cheap, she thought. Disgusting. How disgusting! A deceiver, an impostor, and a liar. What would she do? Would she lie prostrate at his feet, wailing and begging? Would she plead with him to remain hers alone? This seemed to her at once monstrous and detestable. Yet it provoked in her profound, inexpressible feelings. Only one hour before, she had considered him her man, and herself his wife. She had even thought that to perish was more tolerable than to see herself separated from him. Once a worthwhile human being, she had now become worthless…absolutely worthless. How dreadful was the void ahead of her, how murderous her despair! Soliman approached her warily and, without turning to her, inquired, “What’s wrong?”

His voice drove her to exasperation, but she suppressed it. “Follow me to Al Alfi Street,” she said, still walking on.

She went by way of a back street to avoid the inquisitive eyes watching her. She slowed her steps until he caught up with her. Losing patience, she suddenly addressed him.

“Don’t you have any news for me?”

“What news?” he inquired anxiously and fearfully.

His equivocating attitude enraged her. With biting sharpness, she snapped, “Don’t you really know what I am asking about? Stop deceiving me!”

Fear-stricken and sighing with resignation, he muttered, “You mean the business of the marriage…”

“Of course. Don’t you think that’s worth asking about?” she answered with bitter sarcasm.

“It’s my father,” he said, complaining.

“Always ‘my father’!” she cried, her body convulsing with fury and agitation. “Are you a man or a woman?”

“A man who can’t prove his worth,” he said submissively, with sheepish resignation.

“You mean a woman.”

“God forgive you. The only thing I hear from you or from him is scolding and reproof. What can I do?”

She cast a fiery glance at him; her breast overflowing with disgust. A woman! A coward! Pitiful! How could I have loved him? How could I have degraded myself so much as to yield to him? To her, the worst of the world’s miseries and tortures was the fact that it was she who made advances to him, desperately clutching at him and making obsequious attempts to get him back.

“What a mean, complaining, bewailing person you are! How could you betray me after what had happened? How could you hide this news from me? Answer me!” she shouted at him.

“My father did what he wanted, against my will. He disregarded my wishes, and I had two alternatives: either submit to his will or die of hunger,” he said with a snort.

“Why don’t you look for a job in another shop?”

“I can’t. I can’t,” he muttered in a desperate tone.

“What a mean coward! Don’t you know what this means to me?” she said.

“I know. It’s a pity,” he answered in a voice dripping with sorrow. “God only knows how distressed and sorry I am…”

She threw a sharp look at him. His sorrowful tone drove her to the point of murderous detestation.

“Distressed and sorry!” she said in a quivering voice. “What use is your distress and sorrow to me? Distress alone cannot undo mistakes. What use is your sadness to me? You brought me to a fatal predicament. So you shouldn’t let me down like this. Don’t you know that?”

He seemed perplexed and tongue-tied. Looking at her in fear, he gave no answer. She was provoked by his silence as much as by what she felt sure was a pretense of sorrow.

“What am I to do now?” she said.

Swallowing hard, he said in a low, disconnected voice, “I am very sorry. I realize how difficult this is for you. How painful it is to me! But…I mean…What can I do?”

“Reject this marriage! That’s the only way to save me!” She spoke with rancor, barely able to suppress her upsurging passion.

“Reject it? It’s too late now!” he answered. His reply increased her exasperation.

“You must reject it, and it’s not too late. You must think of me. Your rejection of this marriage is my only hope of salvation.”

He was frightened. “I can’t do that,” he said in a hopeless tone.

Overcome by despair, she realized that she could expect nothing from this unmanly weakling.

“You were able to do what you have already done. You were able to accept marriage to that girl. But you can’t repair the mistake. You won’t extend a hand to save me,” she cried passionately.

“How distressed I am! My sorrow for you knows no bounds!”

“What use is this sorrow to me?” Encountering only silence, she shouted in his face, “What use is your sorrow?”

“What can I do?” he murmured.

Seized by a demon of furious despair, she turned on him. As swift as lightning she leapt upon him and, not knowing what she was doing, gripped him by his clothes.

“You ask me what you can do!” she cried. “Do you take me for a plaything that you can throw away whenever you like?!”

“Nefisa! Behave reasonably! We’re in the street,” he said, trying in vain to snatch his jacket from her grip.

“A coward, a scoundrel, mean and treacherous!” she cried.

She withdrew her hand quickly, and with all her might, she struck him twice in the face with her fist. She saw blood streaming from his nose. She was out of breath, her agitated heart beating violently and irregularly. Soliman felt his nose with his hand, then stretched it out to protect his eyes. Taking a handkerchief from his pocket, he pressed it to his mouth and nose. Contrary to what she expected, he appeared calm and silent. In the beginning he was frightened. But now his fear was superseded by a curious sense of relief, as though he had passed the danger point and there was nothing more to fear. Thus for him the crisis was resolved, the danger over, and after this spilled blood, her moral claim upon him dropped away.

Quietly and patiently he said, “May God forgive you, Nefisa. I excuse you.”

She was incensed by his words. Once more she was driven by an insane impulse. Without thinking, she leapt upon him again, and seized him by his clothes, as if to keep him from escaping. Terror-stricken, he lost his composure. Suddenly he snatched at his jacket, freeing it from her grip.

“Don’t touch me!” he cried, stepping backward. “Go away! Go away! You have no claims on me.”

She continued her assault; he pushed her, shouting in frightened agitation, “Don’t touch me! I didn’t force you! You came home with me of your own accord. If you touch me I’ll call the police!”

He continued to step backward until he was some distance away from her, then turned on his heels and fled.

She was transfixed, her body shaking violently. She lost control of herself. The whole thing seemed to her a dream, or the hallucination of an overheated mind, in no way related to reality. She was not quite sure that the physical objects around her, the street, the tree, the lamppost, and the passersby, actually existed. Everything seemed remote from the world of reality. She regained her bearings only when she burst out weeping, burning tears overflowing from the depths of her heart.

*A long, robelike garment typically worn by members of the lower classes in Egypt.