The Beginning and the End

SEVENTY-FIVE

Astonished, the two brothers rose to their feet. Hurriedly, Hassanein put on his jacket.

“What do they want?” he inquired.

Nefisa turned her eyes from the members of her family to the newcomers. Fear-stricken, she blurted out, “Oh, God! They’ve entered the hall.”

Rushing out of the room, the two young men encountered an officer, two policemen, and another man, apparently an informer. Hassanein advanced to the officer.

“May I respectfully ask what you want?” he inquired.

“Excuse me,” the officer said. “We’ve orders to search this flat.”

The officer produced a search warrant. Hassanein looked at it with unbelieving eyes.

“Perhaps there’s a mistake about the flat,” Hussein asked. “Why our flat?”

“We’re searching,” the officer answered, “for a man by the name of Hassan Kamel, commonly known as Mr. Head.”

Dumbfounded, the two young men cast desperate, worried glances at the officer; terror-stricken, they stood transfixed at the entrance of the room.

“We’ve already arrested some of his accomplices,” the officer continued, “but he disappeared before we could catch him. Certain persons informed us of his former residence, and this information was confirmed by Sheikh al-Hara. He’s well informed about every quarter, and operates as a link between the residents and the government.”

“But he doesn’t live here,” Hassanein said in an agitated voice. “He left our house many years ago, and we know nothing of his whereabouts.”

“At any rate,” the officer replied, shaking his head, “I’ll carry out my orders and search the flat.”

The search began. One of the two policemen withdrew to the door, while the officer and the two other men swept into the rooms. Never in my life, Hassanein thought, shall I forget this moment! He mentally followed the officer as he searched one bare room after another, turning their contemptible, decaying furniture inside out. It was not merely a search for Hassan, since he could not possibly conceal himself in the drawer of a desk or inside the intestines of the bedclothes. The scandal seemed hideous beyond description. The officer’s searching eyes exposed the humbleness and destitution of the flat, which in this terrifying moment gave Hassanein a profound sense of social shame and degradation. Stunned though he was, Nefisa’s sobs struck his ears. He raised his head. “Shut up!” he shouted madly at her in a shrill voice.

The search was over and the officer ordered his men to leave the flat. Approaching Hassanein, he said gently, “Again, I’m sorry. I’m glad we’ve found nothing that could cause you trouble.”

Raising his hand in salutation, the officer departed, leaving a depressing silence behind him. In the silence of the room, the brothers looked absently at each other. Pale as death, the two women approached them. Suddenly recovering from the shock, with a sigh Hassanein leaped to the door and, craning his neck, glanced around the courtyard of the house: at the farthest end, the policemen were carving their way with difficulty through a crowd of men and children, including the grocer, the blacksmith, and the tobacconist. Beating his chest with his fist, he exclaimed, “The whole neighborhood is witnessing our scandal. We’ve been exposed, and now we’re finished!”

Nefisa continued to weep. Their mother turned to Hussein as if for help. But he did not know what to say and seemed shattered by the blow. Still violently beating his chest, Hassanein stamped back and forth across the hall. “I feel like murdering somebody,” he exclaimed. “Nothing less than murder would get this out of my system!”

His mother was disturbed at her son’s violent self-torture. “Calm down, my son,” she muttered. “What good is it to beat your chest?”

“Let me kill myself since I can’t find anyone else to kill,” he cried with fury.

Hussein broke his silence. “Let’s think this over calmly,” he said in a strange voice.

With feverish eyes, Hassanein cast a fiery glance at his brother. “What is there to be thought over?” he demanded. “We’ve been exposed, and now we’re finished.”

“This disaster is beyond our power,” Hussein replied, “but we’re not finished. Let’s think the matter over.”

Finding this conversation intolerable, Hassanein retired to his room and flung himself on the bed. Choked by shame and burnt by fury, he loathed his guilty brother from the darkest recesses of his heart. He wished Hassan were dead. His mind wild with hallucinations, he surrendered to his thoughts. Hussein followed him into the bedroom and sat silently on the chair, waiting for his brother to respond. For his own part, Hussein was in a pitiable condition. Never before in his whole life had he felt so saddened. He was fully aware of the seriousness of this blow to their reputation, the troubles awaiting them now and in the future, and the consequences of this final blow to Hassan, his elder brother. What had his family done to deserve this fate? Accumulated memories of past sorrows were linked in his mind to those of the present; together they suddenly assumed the appearance of a poisonous abscess, developing serious complications at the very time he thought it was cured. As usual, associating his family’s misfortunes with those of other people, he found himself contemplating the universality of human sorrow. Sad though his contemplation was, it frequently inspired him with a measure of patience and consolation. Searching for a gleam of hope in the surrounding darkness, he looked furtively at the angry face of his brother, waiting for an opportunity to speak to him.

Samira and her daughter remained motionless. Nefisa’s tears continued to flow. Overcome by a sense of defeat, despite her long experience, the mother felt at a loss as to what to do. Crushed by sorrow, her heart carried all the misfortunes life had piled up for her children, and in addition a personal, deep-buried, terrifying grief that frightened her as much as it tormented her — her compassionate sorrow over Hassan himself, which she feared most to reveal.

Where had he gone? What would they do to him if they arrested him? What did fate hold in store for him? In spite of everything, she must not forget his good nature and kindness; she must not forget that he had given them generously whatever he could, and that he was their refuge in time of distress. What a miserable, friendless outcast he was! This must have been the work of somebody’s envious, evil eye. They envied her for her son who had become a government employee and for the other who had become an officer, and in their envy they had forgotten that her painful struggles had reduced her to an absolute wreck. Unable to bear Nefisa’s weeping, she sighed nervously and scolded her. “Stop weeping,” she said. “Nobody has pity for me. I beg you, have mercy upon me.”

But Nefisa could not help weeping. In her hysterical state, she had no idea how very painful their situation was. She was overwhelmed with a curious fear that made her limbs shudder. Her tears were stirred by neither pity nor sorrow nor anger; they were hysterical tears, an attempt to overcome an unconquerable fear that grew out of her and made her identify herself with the hunted. Her heart was filled with sinister forebodings, more dreadful than the present. She turned around in fright, as if she feared someone might suddenly attack her. “Let’s go to them,” she heard her mother say in a feeble voice. She welcomed this opportunity to escape from her tortured feelings, and with heavy steps she followed her mother to the room. But as she crossed the threshold, her heart quivered in dread at meeting her brothers.