The Beginning and the End

FORTY-EIGHT

Hassanein’s face disappeared amidst a crowd of people and their farewells. The pyramid-shaped ceiling of the Cairo railway station receded until the inside appeared obscure. Everything was receding faster and faster. Hussein bade Cairo goodbye. He withdrew his head inside the carriage, and sitting in a proper posture, he closed his eyes to hide a tear that had long contended with his self-composure. Quickly he winked, to shake it from his eyelashes. To his left sat an Effendi reading his newspaper, while in front of him two villagers were conversing. Though the carriage was only half full, the noise of the passengers was louder than the rattle of the train’s wheels. His sadness had been tempered when he saw a tear in Hassanein’s eyes. Conversing together on the platform, the two brothers had maintained their composure, but tears gushed to Hussein’s eyes as the train started to move and he saw Hassanein waving to him. At home, Nefisa had wept so bitterly that her eyes became swollen. How pitifully and tenderly he recalled her ugly face! His mother, at whom he forced himself to smile, took him to her breast and kissed him on the cheeks. Perhaps she was doing this for the first time! At least he could not remember that she had ever kissed him before. By temperament, she was very firm with them. But this apparent firmness could not obliterate her deep tenderness. She believed farewell tears to be an ill omen, and preferred to keep her tears in check, but he realized that her convulsing lids foreshadowed the profuse tears that would soon gush from her eyes behind a closed door.

Perhaps she wept for a long time, he thought. Perhaps she is still weeping. At this thought he felt profoundly depressed. As he realized that he had never seen her weep before his father’s death, his depression became more intense. What a great woman she is! God has ordained that a mortal catastrophe would befall our family. Yet His Grace has also ordained this woman to be our mother. What might our fate have been without her? I wonder how she managed to feed and clothe us! How, too, could she have managed to control and direct us? How was it possible for her, under such cruel circumstances, to fulfill our family needs! This is a miracle that baffles the mind. But for my late father, she would even have made a different man of Hassan. I should speak of Hassan with more consideration. Without his help I would have lost my job. His money is all I have to live on until the end of the month! The bracelets! What a dreadful memory! Yet in order to live, I have to forget. One day I shall pay off the debt and draw the curtain on this most painful memory.

To flee from his thoughts, he looked out the window. He saw the vast fields extending to meet the horizon, green, blooming, and delightful, the tops of their growing plants swaying in a constant gentle breeze. Here and there peasants and bulls and grazing cattle appeared like dummies swallowed up in the vast fields. An autumnal sky above, white and pale, was receding here and there into lakes of pure blue. The train hurried by a crystal-clear brook, the melting rays of the sun on its surface turning its waters into dazzling mercury. As though swimming in space with the monotonous sound of the throbbing engine as an accompaniment, the telegraph wires moved regularly in endless waves. Looking again at the endless flat earth, mute, patient, and good, he thought again of his mother. Like the green earth, she was as patient, as generous, and as exhausted by time. Poor woman! Her shabby clothes made it impossible for her to visit respectable people! His eyes filled with tears, and the scene lost its charm. He prayed to God to give him the wherewithal to relieve his stoical mother and patient family. How curious that Egypt unmercifully devours its own offspring! he thought. Yet they say we are a contented people. Oh, God! This is the height of human misery! Nay, it is the height of human misery to be miserable and contented! This is death itself But for our poverty, I would have continued my education. There is no doubt about it. In our country fortune and respectable professions are hereditary in certain families. I am not spiteful, but sad; sad for myself and for millions of others like myself. I am not just an oppressed individual, but a representative of an oppressed people. This is what generates in me the spirit of resistance, filling me with a kind of consoling happiness for which I know no name. No. I am neither spiteful nor desperate. Even though I have missed the opportunity of higher education, Hassanein, my brother, will not. Perhaps Nefisa will find a suitable husband. Once the soul returns to our family, we will remember the dark days with pride.

Turning to his left, he saw that the Effendi, with a bored expression on his face, had folded his newspaper. As if he had been waiting for this casual turn of the head from Hussein, the Effendi, without any preliminaries, waved the folded newspaper and began to speak.

“But for the students, the leaders of this country would never have united. Who would ever have imagined that Sidki would agree to meet with Nahas? The Palace and the Wafdists at the same table!”

Hussein welcomed the conversation with relief. “That is true, sir,” he said.

“Who could ever have believed the British would recognize Egypt as an independent, sovereign state and agree to abandon their four reservations. Do you really think the capitulations will be abolished?”

“I do.”

“Nahas will remain in office forever,” the man said jubilantly. “The time for coups is over now. Are you a Wafdist?”

“Yes.”

“I thought so, from the good-natured expression on your face. A true patriot must be a Wafdist. Apart from the advantages of coalition, the Liberal Constitutionalists are Englishmen wearing tarbushes.”

“True, indeed.”

“Are you traveling to Alexandria?”

“No, just to Tanta.”

“May the mercy of the saintly Sidi Badawi be upon us! I’ve spent some years in Tanta.”

Hussein looked interested. “I’m a new employee. Could you direct me to a modest hotel?” he asked.

The man rubbed his chin with his hand as he tried to remember.

“Go to the Britannia Hotel on Al Amir Farouk Street, owned by Michel Kustandi,” he said. “There you can have a room for one pound fifty a month.”

Then they conversed for a long time, comparing life in hotels and flats.