The Beginning and the End Read online

  She kept repeating the same words until Hussein got up and pulled his brother to his feet. But they did not leave the room; instead they stood there, staring through misty, streaming eyes at the body laid out upon the bed. Hussein couldn’t resist a mysterious inner urge. He bent over the body and lifted the cover from the face, not heeding the movement which his mother made. He looked upon the strange countenance, frightfully blue, mute evidence of the extinction of every living thing. An unearthly stillness hovered over it, as deep and infinite as nothingness itself. His limbs shuddered. Neither brother had seen a dead man before. They were frightened as well as sad. Deep within them, they experienced a piercing, all-conquering sorrow which they had never known before. Bending over the dead body, Hussein kissed the forehead; and once more he shuddered. Hassanein also bent over it, and, almost in a trance, kissed it. The mother pulled the bedcover back over the dead face; standing between them and the bed, she firmly said to her sons, “Go out.”

  They took two steps backward. Suddenly obstinate, Hassanein stopped. Emboldened by his brother, Hussein did the same. In a semi-trance, their eyes roved about the room, as if expecting a mysterious transformation to change it all. Yet they found it exactly the same. At the right of the entrance stood the bed; the wardrobe in front, the peg next to it. At the left was the sofa upon which their sister had flung herself. A lute lay against the edge of the sofa, the quill in place between the strings. Surprised and disturbed, their eyes focused on the lute. Their father’s fingers had often played upon those very strings; often delighted friends had gathered around him, begging him to repeat the same tune—as he always did. How thin is the line between joy and sorrow, even thinner than the strings of the lute! Their wandering eyes fell upon the dead man’s watch, still softly ticking as it lay on a table near the bed. On its face, the dead man might have read the date of his departure from this world and of his sons’ initiation as orphans. Perspiration stains on the collar, his shirt still hung on its peg. They looked at it with profound tenderness. At that moment, it seemed to them that a man’s sweat was more lasting than his life, however great. The mother watched them in silence, uninterested in the thoughts crossing their minds, for she realized the full impact of the catastrophe which had befallen them—and that her sons were not yet completely aware of all that it would mean. A deep sigh escaped from Hassanein, catching his brother’s attention. Hussein placed his hand upon his brother’s shoulder.

  “Let’s go,” he whispered. The two young men cast farewell glances at the dead body, sharing the traditional belief that, even in death, their father’s eyes could still see them. Lest they hurt his feelings, they avoided turning their backs to him. With a warm parting greeting, they retreated backward to the door and left the room. Hassanein noted the profound sadness on his brother’s face, and his heart quivered in compassion and a pressing need for mutual sympathy.

  THREE

  The two brothers left the flat and went downstairs to the entrance of the house, where some chairs had been placed in rows. There sat Hassan, their eldest brother, silent and gloomy. They sat down beside him, sharing his quiet melancholy. What to do now? They had no idea. Hassan, however, was an experienced man of the world. He closely resembled his two brothers, yet the look in his eyes was very different from theirs—daring and devil-may-care. Moreover, his ostentatious manner of styling his bushy hair and the way he wore his suit implied, on the one hand, that he took good care of himself and, on the other, that he possessed great cheapness of character. Hassan always knew just what to do. Yet he remained there sitting in his place, doing nothing, for he was expecting an important person to arrive.

  “How did our father die?” Hussein inquired, deeply agitated.

  “He died suddenly, to our amazement,” he answered with a frown. “He was putting on his clothes, and I was sitting in the hall. All of a sudden I heard our mother calling me in such a terrified voice that I rushed into the room to find him flung on the sofa, his breast heaving up and down. He was motioning, in pain, to his heart and breast. So we carried him to bed. We offered him a glass of water, but he couldn’t drink. I hurried out of the room to call a doctor; but no sooner did I reach the yard than sharp wails struck my ears. When I came back, terrified, it was all over.”

  Watching his brothers’ faces as they twisted in pain, Hassan’s own countenance became even gloomier than before. He was afraid his brothers might think he was not really sad. Obviously, they knew about the differences and quarrels he had had with his parents over his recklessly irresponsible life; and he feared they might think him less grief-stricken than themselves. For he really was sad. In fact, despite their strained relations, he had never hated his father. If his sorrow differed from theirs, this was because, at twenty-five, he was older and more experienced in life, with its pleasures and frustrations; indeed, the latter made death seem less bitter. True enough, his heart kept telling him, never after today would he hear anyone yell at him, “I can’t support a failure like you forever. As long as you’ve chosen to leave school, you’ll have to make your own living and stop being a burden to me.” Indeed, nobody would say such words to him again. But it was also true that, whenever he was in desperate straits, as was often the case, he could never find anyone else who would give him shelter. He could better understand the catastrophe which had befallen them than those two big infants. How, then, should he be lacking in sorrow and grief? With glistening eyes, Hassan stealthily cast a glance at the distressed faces of his two younger brothers and bit his lips. He loved them both, regardless of all the circumstances which might have provoked his spite—in particular, despite their success at school and their father’s love for them. He did not think that school was an enviable privilege, and he was convinced that his father loved him as much as he loved Hussein and Hassanein, although in his case paternal love was tainted with anger and resentment. Above all, thanks especially to their mother, the Kamels’ family ties had always been very strong.

  Hassan broke off his thoughts as he saw a man and a woman approaching in peasant clothes. The brothers recognized them as their aunt and her husband, Amm Farag Soliman. The man offered his condolences and sat down with them; their aunt rushed into the house screaming, “Oh, my poor sister! Your home has fallen apart!” Her words had a resounding, tragic effect, and the two younger boys, Hussein and Hassanein, burst into tears again. While they sat absorbed in their thoughts, Amm Farag Soliman conversed with Hassan. Unaware of each other’s thoughts, the younger boys’ minds both turned to their father’s fate after death. Hussein’s strong faith, based partly in tradition, developed partly from some of his readings, left him with no doubts about the hereafter. In his heart he was praying to God to grant him and his father eternal bliss when they met in the hereafter. Hassanein, baffled by the anguish of death, banished all contemplation of it. His faith was completely imitative and traditional; his intellect had no part in it. His mother had once forced him to perform the Commandments of God, and he did them automatically. Then, a little hesitantly, he had stopped performing the Commandments without denying them heretically. The religious creed never dominated his mind; he never gave it much thought. Nevertheless, he was never skeptical about its truth. Death made him think, but not for long, and under these circumstances a strong personal emotion confirmed his faith. Is death the end? Would nothing of my father survive but a handful of dust? Would nothing else remain? God forbid! This will never be. The word of God never lies.

  Only Hassan was unconcerned by religious thoughts. As though he was instinctively pagan, even death itself could not cause them to enter his mind. In fact, he was not influenced by education or any other kind of discipline. By nature he was a tramp, just as his father used to call him when he was angry. His disposition was so frivolous that there was no room in his heart for any creed; rather, religion was often the object of his ridicule and the butt of his jokes. Even the slight religious influence which his heart had once absorbed from his mother had been dissipated by the pain
s of practical life. Thus his thoughts rambled away from eternity to center on terrestrial existence and on the prospects life presented to himself and his family. But he did not long remain with his two brothers and his aunt’s husband, for in the distance a man appeared, hurrying toward them. No sooner had Hassan seen him than he exclaimed with relief, as if he had been waiting for him, “Farid Effendi Mohammed!”

  Although the autumn weather was mild, the newcomer was wiping perspiration from his forehead with a handkerchief. He was extremely fat, with an enormous belly and a round, full face with fine, delicate features. His obesity, old age, and elegant dress gave him an air of dignity of the sort which made government officials, particularly clerks, so proud. The brothers fixed their eyes hopefully on the new arrival, with the reverence to be accorded such a neighbor and old friend of their father’s. The man came up to them offering his condolences.

  “Today I took leave from the Ministry,” he said, addressing Hassan. “Let’s go to your late father’s office at the Ministry and cash the funeral expenses. Then we can buy the necessary things.”

  He asked Hassan about plans for the funeral and told him to carry them out. Then he took Hassan’s arm and both departed for the Ministry.

  FOUR

  When it was nearly time for the funeral, Hassanein became very depressed. Deeply disturbed, he forgot his grief. He had hoped for a magnificent funeral, appropriate to his father’s position and prestige. His brothers were not of a type to be much concerned about such a matter, but to Hassanein a degrading funeral seemed as much of a catastrophe as death itself. As much for the sake of his beloved father as for himself, he dreaded the prospect.

  He cast his eyes about him, searching the crowd of mourners for a man of stature but found none except Farid Effendi Mohammed, their good friend and neighbor. There was his aunt’s husband, not much more than a laborer; and Amm Gaber Soliman, the grocer, could offer little more. Present also were the barber, even lower in station than these two, and several people whose absence would have been less disgraceful than their presence. He felt disheartened and deeply depressed that no one else should attend his father’s funeral. But he was too impatient: no sooner had the hour struck four than large groups of government employees filled the blind alley until they blocked it. His heart felt lighter and free from worry, and he returned to his grief. Then something unexpected happened. A splendid car suggestive of wealth and luxury drove up and stopped near the house. An attendant stepped out and opened the door for a man whose appearance indicated position and title. He stepped forward, his large body and his fifty years contributing to an air of dignity. The three brothers hurried politely to receive him. Farid Effendi Mohammed accompanied them to have the honor of receiving this great personage, whom he, as a government employee, esteemed more than any other person.

  “Is this the house of the late Kamel Effendi Ali?” the newcomer inquired in low voice.

  “Yes, sir,” Farid Effendi answered respectfully.

  They could offer him nothing but a bamboo chair in the middle of the street, and they were more than a little embarrassed. Hassanein felt relieved by his arrival, yet it annoyed him that the man should ask about the house, for this showed that he did not know where it was. He stepped closer to his brother Hassan.

  “Who is that man?” he asked.

  “Ahmad Bey Yousri,” said Hassan, “a great inspector in the Ministry of Interior and a good friend of our father.”

  “But why, then, did he ask the way to the house as though he didn’t know it?” Hassanein asked, astonished.

  Hassan gave him a strange look.

  “Our father visited him often, but he…well, you see, he’s a great man!” came the answer.

  The young man was silent for a moment; then, correcting himself, Hassan went on: “Our father loved him and regarded him as his best friend.”

  Hassanein, not wanting to have his pride deflated, ignored this unpleasant aspect of the situation. He wished that all the people there could see the great inspector. The painful moment came when the bier was carried out of the house. Wailing reached their ears, coming from the balcony and windows. The people lined up to follow the bier, while the two younger brothers, amazed and unbelieving, fixed their eyes upon it. They wept all the way to the mosque. Once there, they turned to thank the people for the trouble they had taken and bade them farewell. When a few offered to accompany the bier to its last resting place, Hassanein whispered to his elder brother, “Don’t allow anyone to come with us!”

  He did not want anybody to see the family’s humble burial place. They succeeded in getting the crowd to depart and climbed into the hearse, accompanied only by their aunt’s husband and Farid Effendi Mohammed, who flatly refused to leave.

  The car carried them swiftly to Bab el-Nasr and stopped at a place where the graves were situated in the open. Here the dead body of Kamel Effendi was buried in something not much more than a pauper’s grave, not very far from the twisting path that led across the burial ground. Drowned in grief, Hassanein was crying. Despite his grief, from time to time he looked furtively at Farid Effendi Mohammed in shame and resentment; he kept thinking: Had the other pupils known about my father’s death, they would surely have come to offer me their condolences. Some would have accompanied me to this graveyard. Thank God they did not come. No decent burial place! Nothing! Why didn’t my father provide a suitable one for our family?

  FIVE

  It was almost midnight. When everybody else was gone, the family, the aunt, and her husband sat in the hall. For the twentieth time on that same sad day, their mother was relating how their father had died. Hussein and Hassanein were listening intently, while Hassan, with gloom on his face, was absorbed in his own thoughts.

  Hassanein spoke about Ahmad Bey Yousri. As much for the presence of his aunt and her husband as for his own preference not to remember it, he did not mention the inspector’s apparent ignorance of where the family lived. Compassion for his dead father filled his heart, and he kept looking sadly toward the closed bedroom door, in his sorrow and incredulity imagining the empty bed. The mother turned to her children and told them to go to bed.

  As they had spent a painful and arduous day, they obeyed her without objection, and went to their room, in which there were three small beds. They left one for their aunt’s husband, who joined them presently, and Hassanein shared Hussein’s bed. They could not sleep. Tenderly and mournfully they kept talking about their father, recalling his last days on earth and his sudden death.

  “His funeral was really appropriately dignified,” said Hassanein.

  “God be merciful to him. He was a great man; no wonder his funeral was great, too,” Amm Farag Soliman agreed. “The alley was full of people; they crowded the area from the house to Shubra Street.”

  Hassanein disliked the man’s voice; he was annoyed by his presence. Then, remembering that the man had seen the bare grave, he said indignantly, “It’s surprising that our father, who spent so much, never thought of providing a burial place becoming to the family.”