The Beginning and the End

SIXTY-TWO

Hassanein found himself among the freshmen in the College court. To escape loneliness his eyes searched, to no avail, for an old friend from the Tawfikiyah School. Although this annoyed him, he felt proud that he was the only one from his school admitted to the War College. As eager as he was for conversation, it was no use waiting for someone to address him first, and his sense of pride stopped him from taking the first step. So he contented himself with the sights of the College, the extensive court, with its superb, massive buildings, and the statues of the two guns erected at the entrance, which engaged his attention for a long time. The qualities of the College which he admired not only thrilled him but turned his head. At the beginning he was confident of his physical superiority: his tall stature, erect carriage, and handsome figure. But much of his self-admiration was deflated when he examined his classmates, among whom he saw young men in the prime of their youth, of blooming vitality and splendid good looks. Moreover, some of these young men were aristocratic in appearance. Hassanein’s eyes fell upon a man coming out of a room overlooking the court; he recognized him as an old schoolmate at the Tawfikiyah School, perhaps his senior by a year or more at the War College. He wore short khaki trousers and a shirt with four stripes on his left arm. He was not a friend but merely an acquaintance to whom he had been introduced in the court of the school. Although he remembered him only as Irfan, and since under normal circumstances he would have been reluctant to speak to him, yet at that moment he warmly welcomed a conversation with him to show the other freshmen his friendship with this upperclassman.

Hassanein walked up to stand face to face with the young man. He stretched out his hand with a smile. “How are you, Irfan?” he said with familiarity.

But a rigid glance from the grim, conceited countenance of his colleague caused his smile quickly to die out. Examining his interlocutor with arrogance and something akin to anger, Irfan uttered not a word. He merely touched Hassanein’s hand and withdrew it quickly as though he were afraid a hideous disease might contaminate it. Dumbfounded, Hassanein thought the young man might have forgotten or misunderstood him.

“Don’t you remember me? I’m Hassanein Kamel Ali,” he cried plaintively.

Unimpressed, Irfan remained as rigidly recalcitrant as before. Finally breaking the silence, he said gruffly, “There’s no friendship here. You’re a freshman and I’m a sergeant major.”

With these words, Irfan moved off. Finding himself in an embarrassing situation which he had never before experienced, Hassanein felt his limbs go numb and his lips twitch. He imagined the others laughing and winking sarcastically at him; to avoid their glances he stood aside. Why, he wondered, did the fool behave in this way? Was it possible that he had gone out of his mind or had he insulted him out of sheer spite? Was this the customary College procedure? Absorbed in his thoughts, he became blind to everything around him, and he came to himself only when the freshmen were called for the first time to line up in their civilian clothes.

As instructed by the sergeant major, Mohammed Irfan, and several soldiers, they formed two parallel lines. Hassanein avoided looking at his old schoolmate, to whose cutting authority he had to submit. He controlled his fury lest it betray him. Surrounded by a group of junior officers, a high-ranking officer approached. He cast a penetrating glance at the freshmen, then delivered a speech on the military life which they had chosen for a career. Addressing them in colloquial language and with a gruff voice reflected in his fierce, stern features, he punctuated several of his sentences with repeated references to “strict punishment” which, recurring like rhythmic beats, struck awe into their hearts. Immediately after this speech, the first day of their new military life began. This was Hassanein’s initiation into the new life to which he was to become accustomed. Like all days, the first was long and arduous, beginning with cold showers in the early morning, followed by the lineups and the lessons. So continuous were their labors, and so coarse their food, clothes, and treatment, that when bedtime came they slept like logs. Harsh treatment, considered mandatory by the authorities, was the worst aspect of this life. A cadet had only to earn a stripe for seniority to feel it his right to treat his subordinates roughly and exercise his authority tyrannically and without mercy, in what almost amounted to insults and deliberate effrontery. Since the cherished motto of the College was blind obedience, objection and protest were out of the question. Hassanein found his only solace from such a terrifying atmosphere in the hope that one day he would become a corporal and later a sergeant major. Then, at one stroke, he would be able to pay it all back!

With fondness he recalled his days at the Tawfikiyah School, which he had once described as instilling “stark fear.” He sometimes became so annoyed with this harsh discipline that he regretted his choice of such an infernal college, wishing that he had guts enough to leave it. Many of his classmates shared the same sentiments, especially in their first days at the College. The discipline sapped their energy and left them weak. Indeed, Hassanein might perhaps have been the only cadet immune to the baneful effects of this unnatural mode of life. Unlike the others, his body seemed to have been unexpectedly replenished. Coarse as the food at the College was, it provided him with regular meals, so infrequent during his previous, troubled years. But on Fridays, when parents were customarily permitted to visit, he underwent unusual psychic suffering. Such days were delightful occasions; the outer court of the College was filled with parents and relatives, and the cadets returned afterward to their rooms laden with presents of sweets, fruits and delicious food. Since even the cadets from the countryside had relatives in Cairo, none spent this happy day alone except for Hassanein; nobody visited him, nor did he expect anybody to visit him. Before he left home, his mother had told him that she could not possibly visit him because, as he knew, she was unable to afford a new, decent overcoat to wear before his fellow cadets. As for Nefisa, she had said to him in her usual joking manner, “I don’t think it would do you honor if I put in an appearance before your classmates with a face like mine.” Since Bahia was shy and unaccustomed to appearing among strangers, he had no hope that she would come. The only possibility was Farid Effendi, but he was lazy by nature and refused to leave his house except in matters of urgency. However, Farid Effendi once did pay him a visit and brought a present of biscuits. On visiting days, Hassanein used to choose a place at the entrance to the interior court, watching the visitors with melancholy eyes and enjoying the sight of the women and girls, their captivatingly beautiful faces and their superbly elegant dresses. He wondered at the class differences that segregated human beings, and he was perplexed and disturbed. Boiling inside with discontent, anger, and revolt, he could give vent to such passions only in questioning God’s ways toward man, wondering defiantly about His wisdom in making the world what it was. One of his classmates once asked him why he kept himself aloof. “My father is dead,” Hassanein replied without hesitation, “and my brother is a teacher in Tanta. My family is conservative, and we’re not accustomed to appearing here in society as you are.”

Yet Hassanein’s depressing thoughts had little opportunity to flourish under the rigorous discipline of military life, which made him forget these thoughts most of the time. As the days passed, he adapted himself to the rigor of this stifling atmosphere, and he found life much more tolerable than before. Moreover, new friendships relieved his loneliness. Thus, in spite of everything, he could once again laugh. And so passed forty days.