The Beginning and the End

THIRTY-FIVE

The tramcar arrived. Nefisa climbed on board, followed by her landlady, Mrs. Zeinab, who accompanied her to the home of Amm Gobran el-Tuni to introduce her to his family. Her makeup applied, Nefisa’s face was as presentable as possible. She put on her best dress. Nefisa had felt all along that there was something peculiar about her journey. She had said to herself many times that it was mad to go to this particular house, but she was at a loss as to how to relinquish such a fortunate opportunity, which her mother regarded with great happiness. Undoubtedly, her soliloquy did not express her real wishes. She was aware that she was trying to hide her true desires from herself. She wished to see the bride at whatever cost. Her desire to do so was too strong and persistent to be resisted. She had no intention or desire to compare her beauty with that of the bride. To start with, she knew that the bride was more beautiful; there was nothing new in that. But though this was obvious enough to her, she could not resist a chance to see the girl. Somehow she felt attached to the bride by strong ties, felt that her own fate was bound up with hers. She had not yet recovered from the violent shock which had crushed her body and soul. But the passage of time managed to calm her boiling revolt, and replace it with a poisonous bitterness, a fatal despair, and a tortured sense of loneliness that made her feel alienated from her own family and abnormal among the creatures of the earth. She experienced an overwhelming sense of oppression that aroused in her two opposed, persistently alternating desires: uncontrollable revolt coupled with further self-torture and self-laceration. Such was her state when she boarded the tramcar in anticipation of the coming meeting. Nefisa and Mrs. Zeinab got off at the fourth stop. They headed for Al Walid Street, then turned into a large building, on the ground floor of which was Amm Gobran el-Tuni’s grocery. They climbed the stairs and entered a flat on the second floor, and were received by a very fat lady, in her fifties, with a white complexion. They all entered the sitting room.

As soon as they sat down Mrs. Zeinab said, “This is Miss Nefisa. You will see for yourself that she possesses skill and taste.”

“Mrs. Zeinab has told me much about you. You are welcome,” the lady remarked.

Nefisa felt pained by this commendation, as though it were satirical invective. For no obvious reason, it irritated her, and her confidence in her ability to control herself was shaken. Turning to the door of the room, the lady called out, “Adillah!” Nefisa’s heart was pounding. She guessed that the lady was calling the bride. It was as if she heard Soliman calling out her name. She imagined him taking her to his breast and in the distraction of heated emotion saying to her with a sobbing voice, “Adillah, I love you. I love you more than this world and the next together.”

This is what he usually said when passion overcame him. It was a lie, or at least it was a lie insofar as her affair with him was concerned. Probably life itself was a big fraud. Overcome by pain, despair, and anger, she turned to face the door. She was frightened at the sound of approaching footsteps; she wished she could vanish into the air. Possibly it was a casual, surface feeling. A girl came into the room. She was in the prime of her youth and, like her mother, of medium height and white complexion. She had an oval face, with large, well-proportioned features. But she looked too fat. Thinking of her obesity, Nefisa wondered what she would become after marriage! A tense, sarcastic laugh, to which she could not give vent, was surging up inside her. Her casual fear evaporating, she experienced a feeling of great excitement, which she tried hard to control. She was introduced to the bride, and the girls exchanged greetings. Nefisa kept silent, lest the tone of her voice betray her.

All of a sudden she felt stung by a heartrending jealousy. She was envious of this girl, who had robbed her of her man; certainly he was hers after what had happened between them. No other woman could have a similar claim upon him. She wondered how he could marry such a buffalo, and how she could be the very dressmaker to make the bride’s wedding clothes! A world in which such things happened deserved to be destroyed by fire. At any rate, the flames of this fire would burn less than that which was consuming her jealous heart. Oh, God! she thought. How can I make any dresses in this strained, nervous condition?! The two women went out of the room, leaving the two girls together, and a servant came in carrying some pieces of cloth and placed them on the sofa beside Nefisa, thus helping her to escape her thoughts. Nefisa examined the cloth with apparent interest, while her downcast eyes darted furtive glances at the bride’s feet.

“Have you ever made dresses for brides?” the girl asked.

Raising her eyes, Nefisa looked at her in astonishment, as if she did not expect to be spoken to.

“Very frequently,” she answered in a crisp voice.

“That should make the job easier for you.”

“I find no difficulty in my work.”

Her answer was an expression of the revolt fuming inside her, regardless of the reality of her circumstances. For a while the bride remained silent. Then she asked again, “Do you live in Mrs. Zeinab’s house?”

“Yes,” she said, urged on by the same rebellious impulse. “For many years. My late father was an official in the Ministry of Education.”

“Mrs. Zeinab told us about it. Do you know that my bridegroom’s grocery is near your house?”

Nefisa felt a stab piercing her heart. She lowered her eyes so that the other girl would not detect any signs of it in them.

“You mean Amm Gaber Soliman?” she murmured.

“Himself. The bridegroom is his son. Don’t you know him?”

I know him better than you do, she thought. It will take you months, as it did me, to know what kind of person he really is. You’ll find out that he is a beast and a scoundrel.

“We know him very well,” she replied. “Have you never seen him?”

“Only once, in this house.”

“Did you like him?” Nefisa could not help asking her.

With a laugh that made Nefisa detest her even more, the girl said, “The room was full of guests. And you know, of course, how embarrassing that kind of situation is.”

“No, I don’t,” she answered coldly.

“Since you know him well, let me ask you what you think of him,” the bride said with a laugh.

Not expecting such a question, Nefisa was taken aback. All of a sudden, her self-control vanished, and she was overwhelmed by insane passions.

“His type doesn’t appeal to me,” she said in a strange voice.

The bride’s laughing eyes darkened. They opened wide in astonishment and disapproval. As though she did not believe her own ears, she stared at Nefisa absentmindedly and sullenly.

“Really? What type, then, does appeal to you?” she asked.

“Forget it,” Nefisa said coldly, still driven by a mad urge. “What matters is that he appeals to you. Isn’t that so?”

“I think so,” the girl said, not yet recovered from her astonishment.

“Congratulations.”

But the bride did not want the conversation to end at that point. Her pride wounded by Nefisa’s words, she grew angry.

“What about the other brides you’ve worked for? Did they marry the type of husband that appealed to you?” Adillah asked sarcastically.

Realizing the challenging implications of the girl’s words, Nefisa persisted in her mischief. She felt an urge to relieve herself of the burden which weighed heavily upon her heart.

“Actually, all of them deserve admiration. They are respectable employees,” she hastened to say.

The bride resented this unexpected insolence. “Do you think that a man is not respectable,” she inquired angrily, “unless he is an employee?”

“I do,” Nefisa said in a quavering voice, which she was unable to control.

“And what about the status of a dressmaker?” the bride cried.

“It doesn’t matter that I am a dressmaker,” Nefisa answered angrily. “My brothers are educated students, and my father was a respectable employee.”

“I assure you, not all poor folk deserve mercy when some of them are as insolent as you are.”

“I’m not surprised that this invective comes from the daughter of a grocer.”

Shaking with anger, the bride stood up and shouted, “How criminal! How insolent! Go away before I call the servants to throw you out of this house!”

Out of her mind, Nefisa rose and threw the bundle of cloth in the girl’s face. The bundle came undone, and the pieces of silk, scattering on the bride’s shoulders, fell to the floor, twisting in their bright colors at her feet. Nefisa hurried out of the room, followed by the screams of the girl, who directed the worst kind of abuse at her.

Nefisa quickly fled the flat. Outside she felt relaxed, and strangely relieved. She was almost overcome by a desire to laugh, but only for a moment. Soon she became meditative and dejected. Recollecting her behavior, she saw it in its proper perspective.

What have I done? she wondered. They’ll tell Mrs. Zeinab everything and she, in turn, will tell my mother. Mother will get angry, and be extremely upset about the profit I have lost on account of my folly. But I shall justify myself by telling her that the bride spoke arrogantly to me, insulted me for no reason, and that I had to defend my wounded dignity. And if she does not accept my excuse, I shall make a point of complaining loudly so that Hassanein will hear me. His pride wounded, he will get angry and take my side, and thus put an end to the episode. But how could I have been so rash as to act as I did? How mad of me! I did not mean to behave like that. So how did it all happen? I have lost a profitable job. But I should not feel too sorry about it. I have another rather good job on the same street. I don’t regret what happened.

She walked up to Shubra Street. The beams of the setting sun almost disappeared, save for a few faint rays still visible at the top of the houses. She walked along the pavement in the direction of the tram stop, passing on her way a mechanic’s garage. She was so absorbed in her thoughts that at first she failed to notice that someone, blocking her way, was saying to her, “You are welcome here.”

Raising her head, she saw a young man in khaki trousers and shirt, his sleeves rolled up. He looked like one of the garage workers. She eyed him askance and moved off, but once more he blocked her way.

“Be patient, my lady,” he said. “Look to your left and you will find a car owned by my humble person. Old though it is, it can carry us to any place you like. I am your servant, Mohammed al-Ful. I don’t mean to boast, but I own this garage!”

“If you don’t go away,” she cried, “I shall call the police!”

“No need to do so,” he said. “I love women but I don’t love the police.”