The Beginning and the End

EIGHTY-SEVEN

Hassanein leaned on the windowsill, watching the doctor as he carefully went about his delicate work. Samira and Nefisa had left the room, their breathing almost audible from behind the closed door. At first frightened and deeply agitated, Hassanein gradually calmed and became self-absorbed. In a fight with a member of the family, he had told the doctor, his brother received an injury in the head. He begged him to aid his wounded brother and keep silent about the incident so as to spare the family a public scandal. With some reservations, the doctor accompanied him. After a preliminary examination of Hassan’s injured head, he said, “It’s a deep fracture with profuse bleeding. I don’t understand why you refuse to inform the police.”

“We’ve got to avoid that,” Hassanein entreated.

“You don’t seem to understand the gravity of the situation,” the doctor replied as he prepared himself for the operation. “However, for the time being, let’s postpone any discussion.”

During the surgical operation Hassanein was neither calm nor reassured. The doctor’s last words had uprooted all his tender emotions. This mission of mercy when he went to the hospital to get the doctor aroused in him deep feelings of compassion for his brother, stirring up memories of the days when Hassan had been their sole haven from misery and their only resort in time of need. But fear and anxiety soon hardened his heart toward Hassan, driving out all compassion. Now, in the image of the wounded man he saw instead an evil portent that threatened both his career and his reputation. Here Hassan lay, completely unconscious, unaware of the delicate surgical tools that cut into his flesh. All his life he had been insensitive to pain; a deep cut that would have shattered the nerves of others, bothered him far less. Hassanein remembered his own tears and entreaties, begging Hassan to change his way of life. And Hassan’s only response had been bitter sarcasm. If only he had died in a foreign land!

Fixing his eyes on the face as it began to disappear under the bandages, Hassanein shuddered in gloom and despair. At last he heard the doctor address him: “I’ve done all that I can possibly do now. Come out with me.”

He waited for the doctor to wash his hands and put on his jacket before showing him to the sitting room. In deep thought the men remained standing.

“I don’t think his case is very serious,” he said with unexpected calm. “But he’ll need treatment for a long time. What a brutal attack! Why don’t you inform the police?”

Though the doctor’s words helped to restore some of his power to reason, Hassanein remained stricken with fear. “To avoid a scandal. After all, we’re members of the same family.”

Disapprovingly, the doctor shook his head. “Tomorrow morning I’ll come to see him,” he said firmly. “If he’s O.K., I’ll forget about it. But if he isn’t, I’ll be compelled to inform the police.”

“I hope this won’t happen,” Hassanein replied as if, overcome with worry, he was talking to himself. Then addressing the doctor, he added, “Thank you for your help and all the trouble you’ve taken.”

Hassanein accompanied the doctor to the door and gratefully shook his hand. But before departing, the doctor repeated emphatically, “I’ll be back in the morning.”

Hassanein watched him get into his car and zoom off with a roar. He sighed as if to clear away an immovable weight from his chest, and then, with heavy, melancholy steps, he returned to the room. At once his worried mother rushed up to him.

“What did the doctor say?” she asked him anxiously.

He loathed her worry and anxiety, but he answered her calmly. “He’s optimistic about the case and will be back in the morning. How is Hassan now?”

“He hasn’t recovered consciousness yet,” Nefisa replied.

Flinging himself into the only chair in the room, he closed his eyes. I’m the one who’s really injured, he thought. As for him, he’s sound asleep in a happy state of unconsciousness, which I wish would overtake me. “I don’t think the case is very serious.” That’s what the stupid doctor says. No, it’s very serious; recovery would be more serious than death. If his condition becomes worse, the police will be informed. And if it improves, his existence will continue to weigh heavily upon me until his enemies inform the police. So scandal is inevitable. Is there no escape? I loathe this wounded man, I loathe myself and even life itself. Isn’t there a better life, aren’t there better creatures?

As he thought, his features contracted with agony and resentment. Deeply moved, his mother turned to him.

“Get over it,” she said gently. “Your brother is all right. May God preserve him and us!”

Astonished, he looked at her curiously.