The Beginning and the End

SEVENTY-FOUR

The two brothers returned together to Cairo a few days later for an unforgettable day in the life of the family. Samira gave Hussein a long kiss and Nefisa embraced him warmly. In the afternoon Hussein talked for an hour about Tanta and his life there as the two women listened attentively. Gazing at his mustache and his growing obesity, Nefisa was surprised by the changes that had taken place in him.

“Why do you imitate men while you’re still a child?” she said disapprovingly.

“I’m no longer a child.” Hussein grinned.

“We’re men and you’re our elder sister,” Hassanein said, laughing.

“In the past,” the girl said sharply, “I was your elder sister but from now on you look older. Do you understand?”

Turning to her mother, she inquired, “How do you like his mustache, which makes him appear older than he actually is and, for no reason, makes us age, too.”

It was noon. Hussein took off his clothes. Strange though the house appeared to him, it aroused feelings of deep attachment to home and family, his heart overflowing with tenderness and total relief: shelter at last in a safe harbor after sailing on uncharted seas. His eyes searched the study: the same old desk, the same few chairs, the same windowpane, the sheet of newspaper replacing the broken glass, all stirred dear memories. His bed had disappeared; evidently it had been sold, as if, like Hassan, he had ceased to be a member of the family. He understood, yet he could not help feeling melancholy and depressed. At this moment he was awakened from his thoughts when Nefisa said, as she left the room, “Give me two hours to prepare a good meal for you.”

Hussein smiled with satisfaction. He had not tasted sumptuous food for a long time, probably since his father’s death. While it was obvious from his physical appearance that, compared with his days as a pupil, his diet had improved, the mere act of eating failed to excite him. His happiness in returning to the scenes of his early life far outweighed any joy in food itself. His longing for the atmosphere of his early boyhood days pervaded his senses with a strange sweetness — even the familiar, unhygienic air of the alley now seemed invigorating. As he conversed with his mother, his eyes wandered about the small room, resting finally on the star fixed on Hassanein’s jacket, which hung on a peg. Year after year Hassanein would be promoted to a higher rank, while throughout his own period of service, he would remain a mere clerk in the seventh or, at best, the sixth grade. Yet he was entirely free of rancor and jealousy toward Hassanein; on the contrary, his brother’s success filled his heart with great happiness. But in silent sadness, as he contemplated the vast distinction that segregated the different categories of employees, unconsciously he began to think of distinction in society at large. Once he was transferred to Cairo, he wondered if he could enroll in an evening institute so as to improve his social status. Inwardly smiling at this happy thought, he cherished it as a recourse to rescue himself from the fate of Hassan Effendi Hassan, who would not have been promoted to the sixth grade but for the minister of the Wafds! Recalling conversations in Tanta, he asked his brother, “Is it true what we hear of a cabinet change?”

“Officers aren’t allowed to mix in politics,” Hassanein said with a laugh.

“Why should there be a cabinet change,” Hussein replied good-humoredly, “since the British have stopped interfering with our internal politics?”

“Will we have demonstrations again?” their mother asked.

“Who knows?”

“Doesn’t the army have something to do with demonstrations?” she inquired again, this time with concern.

“If a revolution breaks out,” Hassanein said quietly, “the army must take action.”

Hussein laughed. Understanding the insinuation in this laughter, their mother looked askance at Hassanein, and shrugged her shoulders indifferently. Nefisa returned to report that a delicious dinner was in preparation and to ask them what they wanted for a salad. Then, her forehead covered with perspiration and her sleeves rolled up, she left the room. In the ensuing silence Hussein became absorbed in thoughts about how he would spend his vacation. His colleagues in Tanta called him the Jew because he neither gambled, drank, nor spent more than one piaster in a coffeehouse. But they were ignorant of his circumstances. True, he was frugal by temperament, but his many responsibilities left him with nothing.

His mother soon brought him out of his reverie as she revived the conversation. It struck him that she looked at him with an unusual tenderness which she rarely showed. Did she remember, he wondered, how cruel she had been to him one day? True, she had been cruel, but certainly fate itself had treated them all with even greater cruelty. How would she deal with Hassanein and his lack of enthusiasm about his marriage? Why did Hassanein avoid speaking about it?

At two o’clock, Nefisa brought in the dinner tray and put it on the desk. “Today,” she said, “we’ll take our meal at the desk, as it does not become government employees to have their dinner on the floor!”

For the first time in two years the family was reassembled for dinner; later they would retire to their seats on the bed and resume their conversation. At about half past three there was a knock on the door, and Nefisa went to open it. A strange idea occurred to Hussein: was Farid Effendi’s family paying them a visit on the occasion of his return from Tanta? But wasn’t this unusual at this time of day? Nefisa returned on the run, stopping to stare at them with wide, worried, and astonished eyes.

“An officer and policemen!” she exclaimed.