Naguib Mahfouz - The Beginning and the End

Before they could make a move to depart, Nefisa was overcome by emotion. “Never,” she said, “will I let anyone touch my father’s clothes.”

Hassan agreed. “Selling them would be of no use.”

They were silent for a while. He continued as though there had been no quiet interval of silence. “Furthermore, it won’t be long before we need these clothes!”

“Is it possible,” Nefisa asked in fright, “that you would wear my father’s clothes?”

No one dared to object. Samira’s heart softened and she spoke tenderly. “There is no harm in that…nothing to offend the memory of the deceased. He himself would approve of it. But I shall keep these clothes myself until they are really needed.”

Encouraged by her words, Hassan said with relief, “You spoke wisely. May I remind you that I am the only one who is almost exactly my father’s height and breadth.”

His two brothers forgot their grief. Hassanein protested, “Sure, I’m taller than you, but the trouser hems can be unfolded and extended.”

“Or they can be folded again to make them shorter,” Hussein said.

The mother was annoyed. “No need to wrangle,” she said. “There is more than one suit in good condition, and I shall distribute them according to need.”

A knock at the door interrupted their conversation. Nefisa hurried to open it. The servant of Farid Effendi Mohammed entered carrying a basket with a white cover and placed it on the table.

“My mistress sends you her regards, madam,” she said, “and she sends you mourning pastry.”

The mother accepted the basket from the servant and sent her back to her mistress with greetings and thanks. Hassan went up to the basket and uncovered it. The pastry appeared in its rosy colors, its delicious aroma filling their nostrils. Because of the mother’s caution and determination to economize, the family had not tasted such delicious food for the past two weeks. Temptation was reflected in the brothers’ eyes, but grim thoughts crossed their mother’s mind. In fact, these days had nothing good in store for her. Even the little good that came to her was not free from disappointments. Thoughts formed wrinkles on her face.

“We are most thankful for this present,” she said, “but we have to return its equivalent when we come back from our visit to the graveyard. What are we to do, then?”

The brothers felt disappointed. Hussein wanted to comfort his mother. “Let’s thank them and send it back to them,” he suggested.

Their mother was perplexed. “Such an act,” she said, “would be considered disgraceful and unfriendly.”

“It might even be considered an act of hostility,” said Hassan, enthusiastically supporting his mother.

He took a pie, smelled it, and then said lightly, “Don’t worry. This kind of present is to be returned on certain occasions. When, after a long life, Farid Effendi passes away, we can present his family with a basket of pastries. We shall be able to afford to do so, by God’s will.”

Hassan started to devour the pie. Exchanging a look, his two brothers stretched their hands to the basket. Even Nefisa, hearing them chewing, could no longer resist.

Bent over the sewing machine, Nefisa sat on the sofa in the room in which she slept with her mother, the floor littered with scattered scraps of cloth. Her mother was working in the kitchen, the two younger brothers were in school, and nobody knew where Hassan was. In her innermost heart, the girl bitterly blamed her elder brother; had he taken a job she would have been spared this situation. Nobody believed that he was serious in his protestations that he was searching for a job. He was away from home all day long, returning at midnight as penniless as ever. Now only misfortunes were to be expected. Today her mother had been forced to dispense with the servant to economize on her wages. Under the circumstances, two daily duties devolved upon Nefisa: to do the shopping for the house in the absence of the servant and, then, to devote most of the daylight hours to her work at the sewing machine. Two days earlier Samira had personally seen to it that her daughter was provided with work. Addressing the landlady, who came to her with a piece of cloth to be tailored, she said, “Do you mind paying Nefisa for her work?”

Without hesitation the woman replied, “Not in the least, Umm Hassan; to be fair, this is her due. We cannot possibly repay our debt to Miss Nefisa.”

The echo of these two sentences still resounded in her ears. Never before in all her life had she found herself in such a situation. Her pallid face turned red as blood gushed to it, and she felt as though she were tumbling down from great heights, and that she had become a different person. The demarcation line between dignity and humiliation is easily crossed. She had been a respectable girl but now she had become a dressmaker. Curiously enough, there was nothing new in the work she performed. She had made dresses on many occasions for the landlady, for Farid Effendi’s wife and her daughter, and for other neighbors as well. Dressmaking to her was a hobby in which she distinguished herself, so much so that her neighbors and friends often asked her to make dresses for them. But now how tremendously her feelings changed! She was overcome by shame, humiliation, and degradation. Her sorrow over the death of her father doubled. She wept bitterly for him and in so doing she was actually weeping for herself. Now her dear father was dead, and with his death the dearest part of her ceased to be.

Depression overwhelmed her while she sewed, and she neither laughed nor sang as she had in the past. Now she awaited the landlady, who would arrive at any moment. She would make her some underwear with the cloth she had received that morning. The cloth had reached her only two days after her mother’s conversation with the landlady. This made Nefisa think that the landlady sent it out of charity. She confided her thoughts to her mother, who chidingly silenced her. “Do not allow such fancies to clutter your mind; otherwise all that we are striving for will be frustrated.”

She dared not object to her mother, for lately she had begun to feel an inward pity for her. How stupid I am, she thought, to imagine that my mother is pleased about my condition. She is undergoing a murderous kind of bewilderment, and, of all of us, she is the one who really deserves pity. Misery pierces our flesh as a needle pierces a piece of cloth. Had my father been alive, he would not have allowed anything like this to happen. But where is he now? My sorrow over his death increases day after day, not only because of its injury to us but also because this injury fell on the heads of those he loved and wished well. I feel his pain. He must be suffering for us now. To think how much he loved me, as if he anticipated intuitively the misery in store for me. He used to say to me whenever he heard my ringing laughter, “Laugh, my girl! How dear your laugh is to my heart!” He also told me that a sweet temper was more precious than beauty, as though he sought to console me for my ugliness. Oh God! How nice, how sweet he was, and he among men was powerless. Alas! Now he is dead, dead. Until I die I shall never forget him motioning to his chest as he lay on the sofa. Poor father, asking for help, and nobody there to help him. Let mountains fall and destroy the earth. What an abhorrent and tragic thing life is. Father dead and I a dressmaker! Soon the landlady will arrive, not a guest as she used to be, but a customer. How should I receive her? Enough. Enough. My head spins!

She heard her mother speaking to someone in the hall. Her hand stopped working on the machine and she listened intently. The endless bargaining of the furniture dealer resounded roughly in her ears, while her mother, in a voice both solicitous and reproachful, was doing her best to defend herself against his haggling. Mother is not a fool, she thought. Nobody in any similar situation could have taken her in. But it is merciless need which weighs so heavily upon her. When will we get the pension? I don’t know. Nor does Ahmad Yousri know. How inadequate the pension is! Only five pounds! What a catastrophe! The man has come to carry away the big mirror in the sitting room. Only two weeks before, my beloved father’s bedclothes were sold. The man will come tomorrow and the day after tomorrow until he leaves the flat utterly bare. Why are we brought into this world only to become obsequious slaves of food, clothing, and shelter? This is the root of our trouble.