The Beginning and the End

FOUR

When it was nearly time for the funeral, Hassanein became very depressed. Deeply disturbed, he forgot his grief. He had hoped for a magnificent funeral, appropriate to his father’s position and prestige. His brothers were not of a type to be much concerned about such a matter, but to Hassanein a degrading funeral seemed as much of a catastrophe as death itself. As much for the sake of his beloved father as for himself, he dreaded the prospect.

He cast his eyes about him, searching the crowd of mourners for a man of stature but found none except Farid Effendi Mohammed, their good friend and neighbor. There was his aunt’s husband, not much more than a laborer; and Amm Gaber Soliman, the grocer, could offer little more. Present also were the barber, even lower in station than these two, and several people whose absence would have been less disgraceful than their presence. He felt disheartened and deeply depressed that no one else should attend his father’s funeral. But he was too impatient: no sooner had the hour struck four than large groups of government employees filled the blind alley until they blocked it. His heart felt lighter and free from worry, and he returned to his grief. Then something unexpected happened. A splendid car suggestive of wealth and luxury drove up and stopped near the house. An attendant stepped out and opened the door for a man whose appearance indicated position and title. He stepped forward, his large body and his fifty years contributing to an air of dignity. The three brothers hurried politely to receive him. Farid Effendi Mohammed accompanied them to have the honor of receiving this great personage, whom he, as a government employee, esteemed more than any other person.

“Is this the house of the late Kamel Effendi Ali?” the newcomer inquired in low voice.

“Yes, sir,” Farid Effendi answered respectfully.

They could offer him nothing but a bamboo chair in the middle of the street, and they were more than a little embarrassed. Hassanein felt relieved by his arrival, yet it annoyed him that the man should ask about the house, for this showed that he did not know where it was. He stepped closer to his brother Hassan.

“Who is that man?” he asked.

“Ahmad Bey Yousri,” said Hassan, “a great inspector in the Ministry of Interior and a good friend of our father.”

“But why, then, did he ask the way to the house as though he didn’t know it?” Hassanein asked, astonished.

Hassan gave him a strange look.

“Our father visited him often, but he…well, you see, he’s a great man!” came the answer.

The young man was silent for a moment; then, correcting himself, Hassan went on: “Our father loved him and regarded him as his best friend.”

Hassanein, not wanting to have his pride deflated, ignored this unpleasant aspect of the situation. He wished that all the people there could see the great inspector. The painful moment came when the bier was carried out of the house. Wailing reached their ears, coming from the balcony and windows. The people lined up to follow the bier, while the two younger brothers, amazed and unbelieving, fixed their eyes upon it. They wept all the way to the mosque. Once there, they turned to thank the people for the trouble they had taken and bade them farewell. When a few offered to accompany the bier to its last resting place, Hassanein whispered to his elder brother, “Don’t allow anyone to come with us!”

He did not want anybody to see the family’s humble burial place. They succeeded in getting the crowd to depart and climbed into the hearse, accompanied only by their aunt’s husband and Farid Effendi Mohammed, who flatly refused to leave.

The car carried them swiftly to Bab el-Nasr and stopped at a place where the graves were situated in the open. Here the dead body of Kamel Effendi was buried in something not much more than a pauper’s grave, not very far from the twisting path that led across the burial ground. Drowned in grief, Hassanein was crying. Despite his grief, from time to time he looked furtively at Farid Effendi Mohammed in shame and resentment; he kept thinking: Had the other pupils known about my father’s death, they would surely have come to offer me their condolences. Some would have accompanied me to this graveyard. Thank God they did not come. No decent burial place! Nothing! Why didn’t my father provide a suitable one for our family?