The Beginning and the End

THREE

The two brothers left the flat and went downstairs to the entrance of the house, where some chairs had been placed in rows. There sat Hassan, their eldest brother, silent and gloomy. They sat down beside him, sharing his quiet melancholy. What to do now? They had no idea. Hassan, however, was an experienced man of the world. He closely resembled his two brothers, yet the look in his eyes was very different from theirs — daring and devil-may-care. Moreover, his ostentatious manner of styling his bushy hair and the way he wore his suit implied, on the one hand, that he took good care of himself and, on the other, that he possessed great cheapness of character. Hassan always knew just what to do. Yet he remained there sitting in his place, doing nothing, for he was expecting an important person to arrive.

“How did our father die?” Hussein inquired, deeply agitated.

“He died suddenly, to our amazement,” he answered with a frown. “He was putting on his clothes, and I was sitting in the hall. All of a sudden I heard our mother calling me in such a terrified voice that I rushed into the room to find him flung on the sofa, his breast heaving up and down. He was motioning, in pain, to his heart and breast. So we carried him to bed. We offered him a glass of water, but he couldn’t drink. I hurried out of the room to call a doctor; but no sooner did I reach the yard than sharp wails struck my ears. When I came back, terrified, it was all over.”

Watching his brothers’ faces as they twisted in pain, Hassan’s own countenance became even gloomier than before. He was afraid his brothers might think he was not really sad. Obviously, they knew about the differences and quarrels he had had with his parents over his recklessly irresponsible life; and he feared they might think him less grief-stricken than themselves. For he really was sad. In fact, despite their strained relations, he had never hated his father. If his sorrow differed from theirs, this was because, at twenty-five, he was older and more experienced in life, with its pleasures and frustrations; indeed, the latter made death seem less bitter. True enough, his heart kept telling him, never after today would he hear anyone yell at him, “I can’t support a failure like you forever. As long as you’ve chosen to leave school, you’ll have to make your own living and stop being a burden to me.” Indeed, nobody would say such words to him again. But it was also true that, whenever he was in desperate straits, as was often the case, he could never find anyone else who would give him shelter. He could better understand the catastrophe which had befallen them than those two big infants. How, then, should he be lacking in sorrow and grief? With glistening eyes, Hassan stealthily cast a glance at the distressed faces of his two younger brothers and bit his lips. He loved them both, regardless of all the circumstances which might have provoked his spite — in particular, despite their success at school and their father’s love for them. He did not think that school was an enviable privilege, and he was convinced that his father loved him as much as he loved Hussein and Hassanein, although in his case paternal love was tainted with anger and resentment. Above all, thanks especially to their mother, the Kamels’ family ties had always been very strong.

Hassan broke off his thoughts as he saw a man and a woman approaching in peasant clothes. The brothers recognized them as their aunt and her husband, Amm Farag Soliman. The man offered his condolences and sat down with them; their aunt rushed into the house screaming, “Oh, my poor sister! Your home has fallen apart!” Her words had a resounding, tragic effect, and the two younger boys, Hussein and Hassanein, burst into tears again. While they sat absorbed in their thoughts, Amm Farag Soliman conversed with Hassan. Unaware of each other’s thoughts, the younger boys’ minds both turned to their father’s fate after death. Hussein’s strong faith, based partly in tradition, developed partly from some of his readings, left him with no doubts about the hereafter. In his heart he was praying to God to grant him and his father eternal bliss when they met in the hereafter. Hassanein, baffled by the anguish of death, banished all contemplation of it. His faith was completely imitative and traditional; his intellect had no part in it. His mother had once forced him to perform the Commandments of God, and he did them automatically. Then, a little hesitantly, he had stopped performing the Commandments without denying them heretically. The religious creed never dominated his mind; he never gave it much thought. Nevertheless, he was never skeptical about its truth. Death made him think, but not for long, and under these circumstances a strong personal emotion confirmed his faith. Is death the end? Would nothing of my father survive but a handful of dust? Would nothing else remain? God forbid! This will never be. The word of God never lies.

Only Hassan was unconcerned by religious thoughts. As though he was instinctively pagan, even death itself could not cause them to enter his mind. In fact, he was not influenced by education or any other kind of discipline. By nature he was a tramp, just as his father used to call him when he was angry. His disposition was so frivolous that there was no room in his heart for any creed; rather, religion was often the object of his ridicule and the butt of his jokes. Even the slight religious influence which his heart had once absorbed from his mother had been dissipated by the pains of practical life. Thus his thoughts rambled away from eternity to center on terrestrial existence and on the prospects life presented to himself and his family. But he did not long remain with his two brothers and his aunt’s husband, for in the distance a man appeared, hurrying toward them. No sooner had Hassan seen him than he exclaimed with relief, as if he had been waiting for him, “Farid Effendi Mohammed!”

Although the autumn weather was mild, the newcomer was wiping perspiration from his forehead with a handkerchief. He was extremely fat, with an enormous belly and a round, full face with fine, delicate features. His obesity, old age, and elegant dress gave him an air of dignity of the sort which made government officials, particularly clerks, so proud. The brothers fixed their eyes hopefully on the new arrival, with the reverence to be accorded such a neighbor and old friend of their father’s. The man came up to them offering his condolences.

“Today I took leave from the Ministry,” he said, addressing Hassan. “Let’s go to your late father’s office at the Ministry and cash the funeral expenses. Then we can buy the necessary things.”

He asked Hassan about plans for the funeral and told him to carry them out. Then he took Hassan’s arm and both departed for the Ministry.