The Beginning and the End

EIGHTY-FIVE

Al-Bardisi bade him goodbye. As he left the Casino, the combined effect of the shock and the beer almost unhinged Hassanein’s mind. Above all, he desired, at whatever cost, to give vent to his pent-up feelings. Yet he knew that a confrontation with Ahmad Rafat would be foolish indeed. Anger made him think of more serious plans. It’s useless to be angry with this conceited young man, Hassanein thought. He heard something nasty and only repeated it. If in the future I have any opportunity to provoke him, I won’t pass it by. But I shall put off the idea of punishing him until the opportunity arises. My real target is the Bey himself with his dyed mustache. I shall tell him that the least he should have done was to preserve the dignity of a man who asked for his daughter’s hand, especially the son of an old friend. If he denies my charge I’ll confront him with conclusive evidence, pointing out to him that poverty is no disgrace, while slandering people is mean and shameful. And if he becomes offended, which in his illustrious position he is bound to be, I won’t be sparing in giving expression to my anger until I’ve got it out of my system. Under the influence of beer and bitter feelings, he flung himself inside the first tram to arrive and rode as far as Station Square. There he boarded another which took him to Taher Street.

When he saw Ahmad Bey Yousri’s villa, his footsteps became heavy, as if he desired to have more time to think over what he intended to do. From the depths of his mind, voices clamored for his withdrawal. But these were silenced by the heat of the passion that kept driving him to the villa until he found himself in front of the porter. The latter rose respectfully. Without asking permission, he forced his way toward the interior of the villa. Though he was aware of the foolishness of his behavior, he did not stop. The rose and camomile bushes seemed to be slumbering in the slanting rays of the sun. In the middle path he saw the traces of the motorcar wheels in the form of two broad, curving lines. He advanced toward the entrance hall, the vacillation and uncertainty which punctuated his determination showing that he was not entirely convinced of the soundness of his motives. Nevertheless, he climbed the stairs with unexpected determination. On reaching the veranda, a sudden surprise, which his delirious mind had never anticipated, caused him to halt in his tracks. There he saw the Bey’s daughter in flesh and blood sitting in a big chair. Lifting her eyes from a book, she looked inquiringly at the newcomer. Immobile in his amazement, he focused his eyes on her. A profoundly withering sense of shame struck him to his very roots. He realized that he faced a situation in which any shameful surrender to weakness would mean subjection to new humiliation, more degrading than all that had gone before. Encouraged anew by his fears, he got control of himself, determined to find a courageous and dignified way out of this dilemma. Bowing his head respectfully, he said with a gentle smile, “Good evening, miss. Excuse me for this unintended disturbance. May I see the Bey?”

It was the first time he heard her voice. With complete self-composure she said gently, “Sorry, my father is indisposed today.”

He bowed his head again, relieved by this unexpected way out. On the point of leaving, he said, “Farewell.” He had already turned on his heels and taken two steps away from her. Then he halted with sudden determination. His passivity had disappeared, giving way to irresponsible anger. The strange state of emotion that drove him from Heliopolis to the Bey’s villa returned to him.

Turning around, he faced the girl once more with an audacity disrespectful to her proud eyes. He said in too loud a voice, which the situation did not require, “Sorry. It pains me to say farewell to this house without expressing my thoughts.”

Not uttering a single word, she looked at him inquiringly.

“I think you were told that I had asked for your hand?” he asked.

Lowering her eyes, she said, “I’m not accustomed to having my father’s visitors speak to me.”

“I thought it quite normal in high-class society,” he said, rather surprised.

“Not always.”

“Nevertheless, allow me to speak,” he continued. “I wanted to see the Bey to speak to him about this very matter. I’ve been told that my proposal was considered unpardonable impertinence.”

“It’s better to postpone discussing this subject until you meet the Bey,” she said, still casting down her eyes.

Fixing his eyes on the girl’s face, Hassanein said, “But I must speak, since I’ve been lucky enough to meet you, who are primarily concerned. It’s important for me to know your opinion. Is my proposal really an impertinence?”

“Please postpone discussing this matter until the right time,” she said with annoyance.

Although he had anticipated her annoyance, it pained and irritated him. “A man who proposes to a girl,” he went on, “usually offers the best of himself. Unfortunately, it happens sometimes that people only see the worst side of him, such as certain things connected with his family background.”

Frowning, she rose. “I must go,” she said.

She walked toward the entrance of the hall. He said in a loud voice that followed her in her flight, “I wanted your opinion. But that’s enough. I’m sorry. Please convey my regards to the Bey.”

Hurriedly turning on his heels, he climbed down the stairs and walked toward the door. A jumble of distant, scattered scenes swiftly rushed to his mind. He remembered his treatment of Bahia in their new flat, al-Bardisi’s conversation in the Casino, and this recent scene with the Bey’s daughter.

Thanks be to God, I’m not a failure as a lover; I was about to be one, but God has saved me. Yet I’m a failure as a man, which is even worse. I need to think about all these conversations. I feel I’m suffering from a new disease. What is it? What’s wrong with me? And what’s the remedy?

As he came out into the street, he was sure he had committed an absurd, foolish mistake.