The Beginning and the End

FORTY-FIVE

“There is Ahmad Bey Yousri, your late father’s friend,” Samira said to her son. “He can find a job for you overnight.”

She remained for a while absorbed in her thoughts. “My overcoat is too shabby for me to put in an appearance before respectable people,” she continued. “I can’t go in person to him. So you go to him and take your brother along to give you courage. Only mention to the porter that you’re the late Kamel Effendi’s sons.”

In the afternoon the two brothers went to Taher Street. Arriving at the villa, as instructed by their mother they told the porter they wished to see the Bey. After a few minutes, the porter returned to lead them to the sitting room. Walking along a path through the center of the garden, they cast astonished glances at the variety of flowers, their delightful colors enlivening the place. They climbed a flight of stairs leading to a grand reception hall. Confused, the two brothers sat close to the door in the same place their mother had chosen on her visit to the Bey two years earlier. They glanced quickly at the thick carpet covering the vast floor of the room, the many elegant seats, cushions, rich hanging rugs, gigantic curtains on the walls, and a chandelier with electric lamps suspended in a halo of dazzling light from a high ceiling.

Pointing to the chandelier, Hassanein said, “It’s like the chandelier in the mosque of Saidna al-Hussein.”

Hussein was preoccupied with other matters. “Yes,” he said. “But forget about the chandelier. What should we say to him? You must use your tongue to help me!”

“Do you think that you’ll be addressing the devil?” Hassanein said sarcastically. “Speak boldly, and I’ll speak too. Damn him!”

His curse, free from resentment, was intended to encourage his brother as well as himself. He was stunned by the luxurious surroundings.

“Do you think Ahmad Bey’s heirs will be sorry when he dies?” he asked in a low voice.

“Wouldn’t we be sorry for our father’s death if he were rich?” Hussein said.

Pondering, Hassanein knit his eyebrows. “I think we would,” he said. “But perhaps sorrow has different shades and gradations. Oh! Why wasn’t our father a rich man?”

“This is another question.”

“But it’s an all-important one. Tell me, how did this Bey get rich?”

“Perhaps he was born wealthy.”

Hassanein’s hazel eyes glistened. “We must all be rich,” he said.

“And if this is impossible?”

“Then we must all be poor.”

“And if this is impossible, too?”

“In that case we must revolt, murder, and steal,” he replied angrily.

“This is exactly what mankind has been doing for thousands of years,” Hussein remarked with a smile.

“It pains me to think of spending our lives in toil and squalor until we die.”

“God forbid.” Hussein smiled.

Before Hassanein could open his mouth again, they heard footsteps approaching from the veranda. Then the Bey entered, his tall, broad body garbed in a white silk suit. As he shook their hands in welcome, his laughing eyes scrutinized their faces. He said to them as he sat down, “Welcome to the sons of the dear departed. How is your mother?”

The two young men thanked him simultaneously. The man’s warm welcome thawed Hassanein’s resentment, but Hussein’s confusion returned. Ahmad Bey was afraid this meeting might involve demands for his assistance. He took it for granted that, if a request was made, he would have to comply with it. Though he was not a miser, his generosity was not voluntary. He would be upset and annoyed to be asked for help but would act generously, unable to turn down any such request.

Overcoming his confusion, Hussein spoke in a soft, courteous voice, so full of supplication and entreaty that his words seemed superfluous. “Sir, I have obtained the baccalaureate. Our family circumstances force me to look for a job. My mother has sent me to Your Excellency, and we all have great hope that you would kindly extend a helping hand to us.”

The Bey ran his fingers through his thick dyed mustache.

“A job?!” he said. “Chances of government employment are very slim nowadays. But I shall do my best, my son. I don’t think I’ll be able to find a job for you at the Ministry of Interior, but the Under Secretary of State for Education is my friend, and so is that of the Ministry of War. Fill out an application form, and I’ll write a strong letter of recommendation for you.”

Thanking him for his kind generosity, they made their farewells and departed. As they moved away, Hassanein gave the villa a last glance. Turning his eyes to his brother’s face, he found him absorbed in a contented reverie. Hassanein wondered if today his brother was rejoicing over what he had considered sacrifice the day before.

“After breathing the fragrant breeze of the full life which blows from this villa, I’m sure we can hardly count ourselves among the living,” he said.

Hussein was too preoccupied with thoughts of his employment application and the letter of recommendation to pay attention to his brother, who resentfully said, “I wonder at your calm contentment! But the pretense doesn’t deceive me.”

“What use is discontent?! It won’t change the world,” Hussein replied with a smile.

“But the world must change. There can be no doubt that we have a right to live in a clean house, eat healthy food, and enjoy a proper social status. As I look back over our life, I see that it has been no good at all.”

Hussein gazed curiously at his brother, who failed to comprehend the significance of his glance.

“Yet you enjoy love and will continue your education. Isn’t this good enough for you?” Hussein asked.

Hassanein cast a glance at his brother. He wondered what Hussein had meant by these words. He felt ill at ease and his annoyance redoubled. He gave vent to his pent-up feelings. “Hasn’t our misery driven you to sacrifice yourself?” he inquired. “We’ve elementary rights, none of which should be put aside. But where are we? How do we live? Through what sufferings our mother goes! What is Hassan’s status? And how is it possible that our sister has become a dressmaker?”

His peace of mind disturbed, Hussein frowned. Ignoring the essential point of his brother’s argument, he cried reproachfully in his brother’s face, “A dressmaker!”

Filled with excitement and agitation, Hassanein replied, “Yes. A dressmaker! Do you sincerely hate this? Do you really wish she was married like other girls?! That’s a lie. If she had married, or even if she hadn’t worked as a dressmaker, both of us would have stopped going to school and been forced to take any menial jobs we could find. This is the truth.”

Hussein’s anger increased, not because his brother’s words had failed to convince him, but because, in his heart, he believed them to be true. He knew that he wouldn’t have welcomed his sister’s marriage and consequent happiness. We devour one another, he thought. We should be pleased with Hassan’s buffoonery and frivolity as long as he visits us every month and brings along a leg of mutton. We should also be pleased with our sister the dressmaker as long as she provides us with our dry morsels of bread. And this rebellious young man should be pleased that I am discontinuing my education so that he can continue his own. We devour one another. What a brutal life this is! Perhaps my only consolation is that a superior power grinds and devours us all. But we struggle and fight back. This last thought brought him calm and peace.

No. We do not devour one another, he told his brother silently. Say no such thing (he was unaware that his brother had not, in fact, said any such thing). Never say such a thing. We’re a miserable family and countless other families are in the same boat. It’s the duty of each one of us to make every sacrifice.

Then, as they reached the doorstep, in a firm voice he asked his brother to stop arguing.