The Beginning and the End

SIXTY-THREE

As he departed from the College in his military uniform, it occurred to him that facing the world in this colorful garb was in itself a splendid achievement. He started off as erect as a pillar, self-admiring as a peacock, glancing foppishly at his own image reflected in the windows of shops and coffeehouses. Pleased with the red stripe on his uniform, the long tarbush, and the glistening shoes, he waved his short baton with its silver handle and held his gloves as if to defy the whole world. As he approached Nasr Allah from a distance, he was moved by mixed feelings of sympathy and revulsion. Since he had not revealed his home address to any of his classmates, he was sure that no one whom he did not desire to see the place would encounter him. At the same time, he hoped that only those he wanted to would set eyes upon him. All of them, the shoemaker, the blacksmith, the tobacconist, and Gaber Soliman the grocer, greeted him, waving their hands and staring at him. He raised his eyes to Farid Effendi’s balcony. Noting that it was closed, he was pleased at the happy surprise his unexpected appearance would afford him. Crossing the courtyard, he knocked at the door, and waited with a smile on his face. Nefisa’s voice struck his ears, shouting, “Who is it?” She opened the door. She had barely seen him when she exclaimed, “Hassanein!”

Excited, she pressed his hand, shaking it with force and pleasure. At the sound of her daughter’s voice, Samira came hurrying. He let her embrace him with her emaciated hands and take him to her breast. He kissed her forehead in happiness mixed with concern for his jacket as her arms encircled it. Surrounded by his mother and sister, he walked to his old room, which, strange though it seemed now, stirred nostalgic memories.

The three stood together, the two women looking at him with love and admiration. Samira prayed to God to make her son prosperous, briefly expressed her delight, then took refuge in silence. But the talkative Nefisa said, “We missed you very much. Without you the house is like a tomb. Since you were away, I’ve had to answer Hussein’s letters, and my handwriting is uglier than my face. Hussein couldn’t take his vacation this year because of his colleague’s illness; it made us almost mad with grief. Did you really exchange letters? He told me about it ten days ago. What did you learn at the College? Can you now fire a gun?” Jokingly he answered her questions as he took off his tarbush and put his baton and gloves on the desk. He remained standing, carefully examining his jacket for any damage from the embraces. His mother sat on the bed. “Sit down, my son,” she said.

“I’m afraid my trousers might get wrinkled,” he replied after a moment of hesitation.

“Will you keep standing as long as you have your uniform on?” the woman inquired with astonishment.

Confused, he smiled, then sat down warily on the chair, stretching out his legs and carefully inspecting his trousers. “A wrinkle in my trousers,” he said, “means strict punishment, no less than a month’s detention at College.”

Watching his mother’s countenance to observe the effect of these remarks, he realized that she was disturbed. “Our life is terribly hard,” he continued in a bored voice. “We spend all day and part of the night in the open amidst guns, bombs, and bullets. The slightest mistake might cost a man his life.”

Terrified, Nefisa’s eyes opened wide. Worried, his mother queried, “How can they endanger the lives of our dear sons?”

“Why did you choose the College?” Nefisa exclaimed passionately.

“Have no fears for me,” he replied, shaking his head with confidence. “I can manage the firearms skillfully, and I’ve won the praise of all the officers.”

“What good is praise if, God forbid, you’re injured?” Samira sighed.

“Then what will you do if tomorrow we’re called upon to fight?” Hassanein spoke with inward pleasure. “Haven’t you heard that Hitler is preparing for war? If war breaks out, Mussolini will attack Egypt, and all of us will be recruited to fight.”

Horror-stricken, Samira stared at him. “Is it true, my son?” she asked earnestly.

“This is what some people say,” he said, retreating a bit.

“But what do you yourself think?”

Before he could reply, Nefisa cried, “If it’s true, leave the College at once!”

The young man burst out laughing. Afraid he might spoil their pleasant reunion, he said, “Don’t take what I said seriously; I just wanted to scare you.” Then, changing his tone, he added, “Let’s put joking aside. Tell me, Lady Nefisa, what will you prepare for my dinner tomorrow?”

Smiling, the girl realized that her brother would be her guest Thursday afternoon and during the day on Friday, and that she was obligated to treat him most generously.

“I’ll buy two chickens for you,” she said, “and Mother will cook them, and make green soup.”

“Splendid! And the desserts?!”

“Oranges?”

“How about some sweets — some kunafa? I’ve seen those Friday presents to my colleagues so often that I drool at the thought!”

Nefisa was concerned less for the kunafa than for the shortening required for this kind of dessert, but overcome with generosity, she did not balk at the request.

“And you’ll have kunafa,” she said, “for dessert, as you wish.”

“I could have been greedy and asked you to stuff it with nuts and pistachios,” the young man said hesitantly. She dismissed the question with a joke. Realizing that this was the limit of her generosity, Hassanein laughed. “If you’d only seen the presents my colleagues received! Once, a friend of mine offered me something called pudding.”

“Pudding?”

“Yes, pudding.”

“Don’t blame me, but I might have said pudding was a firearm!” Nefisa said with a laugh.

“Why don’t you take off your uniform?” his mother asked.

“No, I’m going to the cinema,” he said shyly.

Noting the resentment in his mother’s eyes, he hurried to say, “I’ll come back early so that we can sit up together tonight. We’ll spend tomorrow together, too.”

They resumed their conversation and reminiscences at length. Unable to restrain his fancies longer, his heart was attracted to the flat upstairs. It was difficult to interrupt the conversation to say that he wanted to visit their neighbor Farid Effendi.

“It’s time to go to the cinema,” he said indifferently. “Perhaps I can take a few moments to visit Farid Effendi.”