The Beginning and the End (2 page)

The master in charge of school discipline cast a gloomy look down the long corridor which overlooked the upper school classes. The Tawfikiyah School was enveloped in deep silence. He went to one of the junior classes, knocked apologetically, and approached the teacher, whispering a few words to him. The teacher looked intently at a pupil in the second row and called out, “Hassanein Kamel Ali.”

At the sound of his name, the pupil arose, casting his eyes in suspense and anxiety from his teacher to the school proctor. “Yes, sir,” he murmured.

“Go with the proctor,” said the teacher.

The boy left his desk and followed the proctor, who walked slowly out of the classroom. Uneasy about the reason for this summons, Hassanein kept asking himself: Could it be those recent demonstrations? He had taken part in them, shouting together with the others, “Down with Hor. Down with Hor, son of a bull!” He thought he had escaped the bullets, the canes, and school punishments altogether. Had he been optimistic? Thoughtfully, he followed the proctor along the long corridor, expecting him to turn around at any moment and confront him with whatever charges he had against him. This train of thought was interrupted when the man halted in front of one of the senior classes and excused himself before entering. He heard the teacher calling out, “Hussein Kamel Ali.” He wondered: My brother, too! But how can he be charged with anything of the sort when he never participated in any demonstrations? The proctor returned, followed by the dumbfounded boy. As soon as he saw his brother, Hassanein murmured in astonishment, “You, too! What's wrong?”

They exchanged puzzled glances, then followed the proctor as he strode off in the direction of the headmaster's office. “Why,” Hussein asked him gently and politely, “have we been called out of class?”

“You're to see the headmaster,” the proctor answered hesitantly.

Silently, they continued along the remaining part of the corridor. The two brothers looked very much alike. Both had long faces, large hazel eyes, and deep, dark complexions. Yet the nineteen-year-old Hussein, the elder by two years, was shorter than his brother. Hassanein had fine features, which made him look more radiantly handsome than his brother. Nearing the headmaster's office, they became more alarmed. In awe and apprehension, they saw his stern countenance in their mind's eyes. The proctor buttoned his jacket, knocked on the door, gently opened it, and entered, nodding to the boys to follow. They went in, staring at the man, who was bent over his desk facing the door. He was carefully reading a letter; as if he were unaware of their presence, he did not raise his eyes to the newcomers. The proctor greeted the headmaster with extreme courtesy.

“Here are the two pupils, Hussein and Hassanein Kamel Ali,” he said.

Folding the letter in his hands, the headmaster lifted his head. He extinguished a cigarette butt in an ashtray, and glanced steadily from one brother to the other.

“Which class are you in?” he asked.

“Four D,” answered Hussein, his voice trembling.

“Three C,” said Hassanein.

“I hope you can take what I have to tell you as brave young men should,” he said, looking at them intently. “Your elder brother has informed me that your father is dead. My condolences.”

They were stunned and deeply perturbed. Hassanein was unable to comprehend the news.

“Dead!” he exclaimed. “My father dead! Impossible!”

“But how?” Hussein murmured as if to himself. “Only two hours ago we left him in good health, getting ready to go to the Ministry.”

For a moment, the headmaster was silent. “What does your elder brother do for a living?” he asked them gently. “Nothing,” Hussein absently replied. “Don't you have another brother?” the man continued. “A public servant, perhaps, or something of that sort?” Hussein shook his head. “No,” he answered.

“I hope you can bear up under the shock like men,” said the headmaster. “Now, go home. May God help you.”

They left the school and walked along Shubra Street, groping their way through their tears. Hassanein was the first to weep. Nervous, Hussein wanted to scold him, but his own tears gushed forth, his voice was choked with sobs, and he kept silent. They crossed to the other side of the street and quickened their pace toward the blind alley, Nasr Allah, a few minutes' walk from the school.

“How did he die?” Hassanein asked his brother as if he were looking to him for help. Stunned, Hussein shook his head. “I don't know,” he murmured. “I can't imagine how it could have happened. He had his breakfast with us and we left him in good health. I don't know how it happened…”

Hassanein tried to recall the details of this morning's events. The first time he saw his father, he remembered, was when he came out of the bathroom. As usual, he said good morning to his father. Smiling, his father replied, “Good morning. Isn't your brother up yet?” Then they gathered around the breakfast table. His father asked their mother to share their meal; saying that she didn't feel like eating, she excused herself. “Join us and you'll have an appetite,” the man said, but she insisted. Shelling an egg, he said indifferently, “Do as you like.” Hassanein couldn't recall having heard him again, except for a brief cough. His last sight of his father was the man's back as he went into his bedroom, wiping his hands with his towel. Now he was gone! Dead! What a horrible word. Secretly casting a fearful glance, Hassanein saw his brother's sad, grief-stricken face, set hard as though he had suddenly grown old. Memories returned to him in painful anguish.
I don't believe he's dead. I can't believe it! What is death? No, I can't believe it! Gone! Had I known that this
would be his last day on earth, I would never have left the house. But how could I have known? Does a man die while he's eating and laughing? I don't believe it. I can't believe it.
Hassanein was recalled from his thoughts as his brother pulled him by the arm toward Nasr Allah, which in his distraction he had almost passed by. They walked along the narrow alley, lined on both sides with old houses and small shops and cluttered with paraffin oil and vegetable and fruit carts. Their eyes sought their three-storied house with its huge dusty yard. Then they heard the wailings and screams. Distinguishing the voices of their mother and elder sister, they were so deeply moved that they burst out crying. They ran on heedlessly, climbing the stairs two at a time until they reached the second floor. They found the door of their flat open and rushed in, crossed the hall to their father's bedroom at the far end, and entered it, panting. Their eyes fixed on the bed, the form of a dead body apparent under the coverlet. They approached the edge of the bed and, weeping hysterically, flung themselves upon it. Their mother and sister ceased their wailing and two strange women in the room departed. Their mother, dressed in black, her eyes red with weeping, her nose and cheeks swollen, composed herself to help her sons in their pent-up grief. Their sister threw herself on the sofa, hiding her face in its back. Her body was shaking with sobs. Hussein was weeping, mechanically reciting short verses from the Koran asking for God's mercy to fall on his dead father. Fear-stricken, distracted, and incredulous, Hassanein was crying, too. He stood in the presence of death, protesting and rebellious, yet helpless and frightened.
This cannot be my father. My father would never have heard all this crying without stirring. Oh, my God, why is he so still? They are wailing, as resigned, helpless people do. I had never conceived of this; and I still don't. Didn't I see him only two hours ago walking in this very room? No, this is not my father, this is not life.
Waiting seemed endless. Then, Samira, the mother of the two young men, moved toward them. “That's enough. Hussein,” she said, leaning forward. “Get up and take your brother outside.”

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.

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 pains 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.