Naguib Mahfouz - The Beginning and the End

Hussein interrupted his thoughts, inquiring, “What are you writing?”

“A composition subject.”

“What is it about?”

“The influence of music on the renaissance of countries,” he replied without hesitation.

“Dear Bahia. I am awfully sorry for making you angry. Do you have the right to get angry because I love you?” That is enough, as there is nothing better than to be brief and significant. No, that is not enough. Something is missing. Shall I quote a line of verse? No, it usually sounds ridiculous when people do that, and if she laughs once, the whole letter will misfire. Let me write another touching sentence. Oh, God! I implore you to help.

A fairly good sentence suddenly came to his mind. He started to write: “I swear by God that I have done what I have done…”

But once more he was interrupted by Hussein. “Did you finish the points you plan to tackle in the subject?”

Hassanein was disturbed and in suppressed anger he said, “Almost. Excuse me for a second.”

He returned to the letter, determined to complete it.

“I swear by God,” he wrote, “that I have done what I have done only because I love you, and shall go on loving you as long as I live. To please you gives me reason to live.”

He carefully reread the message and heaved a deep sigh of relief. He folded the paper, tucked in its edges, and put it in his pocket. When she comes near the door, or passes by me in the hall, I shall seize the opportunity to throw this paper at her feet, come what may.

Nefisa found herself in a medium-sized room. There were two big sofas, a few chairs on either side of the room, and an Assiut carpet on the floor. The wall facing the entrance led to a balcony on the fourth story overlooking Shubra Street. The furniture was old, and judging by the placement of the wireless close to the door, the room was arranged so that the members of the family could sit there in their leisure time. The moment Nefisa entered, it was readily apparent to her that the family occupying it was quite prosperous. This was evident from the small hall, furnished as an entry to the house, as well as from the large, luxurious hall used as a dining room. After all, she was right to believe the words of her landlady in Nasr Allah, who had said, “I have brought a rich customer to you, a bride from a good family. I hope you will take great care in making her dresses, for this might encourage other well-to-do people to come to you.” Nefisa was excited to enter a strange house for the first time. She sat on a chair close to the door, and waited. She was dressed in mourning, her black hair falling down her back in a short plait. Thus her face, free as it was from makeup and beauty, looked pale and despairing. She thought about her situation: A strange house and strange people. A new step in the practice of my job. I am just a dressmaker. Oh, Father, I am not sorry for my humiliation so much as I am sorry for the loss of your dignity. She did not have to wait long, for soon a twenty-year-old girl, both beautiful and graceful, entered the room. Nefisa rose to greet the girl, who cast a scrutinizing glance as she shook Nefisa’s hand.

“Welcome,” she said. “You are Miss Nefisa, whom Mrs. Zeinab asked to come?”

“Yes, madam,” Nefisa shyly replied. “Are you the bride?”

The lady smilingly nodded yes and sat down.

“Mrs. Zeinab praises you highly,” she said. “You strike me as being a good dressmaker.”

A faint smile appeared on Nefisa’s face. Her lips opened without uttering a word, and she thought: Perhaps she told you that I was a skillful dressmaker. Well, is that praise or disparagement? I don’t know. I wonder if she told you about the situation of our family. I had a father like yours, and I was as much of a lady as you are. I had waited long for a bridegroom to come. But he never did and he never will.

The bride asked her tenderly, already knowing the answer, “Why are you in mourning?”

“My father died two months ago,” she answered sadly. “He was, may the mercy of God be upon him, an official in the Ministry of Education.”

“Mrs. Zeinab told us about it. My condolences.”

“Thank you. We come from Benha. My aunt lives there with her husband, who owns a ginning factory.”

At that moment a servant entered carrying a bundle, which she placed beside her mistress and departed. The bride untied the bundle, which contained a pile of silk cloths of different colors. Nefisa realized immediately that it was material to be made into underwear. Perhaps she had sent the dresses to another, more capable dressmaker. This made her feel relieved, because she was afraid of harming her professional reputation by putting it to such a difficult test. She was content to undertake what lay within her abilities in return for a fair price. She moved to the place where the bride sat, examined the cloth, and felt it with her hand.

“Congratulations,” she said. “How precious this silk is.”

A happy smile appeared on the bride’s lips. “Now,” she said, “we start by taking measurements. By the way, do you mind coming to work here in our house? We have all the things you need for your work. There are no children in the house to disturb you. Besides, you do not live far away. So it will be easy for you to come every day.”

“As you wish, madam,” Nefisa found herself obliged to reply.

The girl rose and stood before her, and Nefisa started to take her measurements. The smell of new silk filled her deprived nostrils, and when she touched the fabric, she experienced a strange feeling of both desire and pain as it glided between her fingers. Surrendering to her confidence in the skill of her hands gave her a sense of mastery and the hope of consolation, but hope very soon died and gave way to dark despair. She thought: A bride and silk. Am I really making these clothes for the bride? In fact, I am making this underwear for the bridegroom more than the bride! His fingertips will playfully touch its relaxed fringes, its softness. So I am taking part in the preparation of this marriage, and I shall also participate in so many marriages, without getting married myself, to be left to my burning dreams. What a beautiful and happy girl she is! Happiness almost radiates from her eyes. Today the silk is prepared, and tomorrow the lover is awaited. A waft of warm maternity blows on her from a rosy horizon. I have been dreaming of that for so long; and my father used to tell me that a sweet temper was more precious than beauty. Time passed between solicitude and hope until I reached the age of twenty-three. Why was I born ugly? Why wasn’t I created like my brothers? How handsome Hassanein and Hussein are! Even Hassan! I am as dead as my father. He lies dead in Bab el-Nasr, and I lie dead in Shubra.

Then the voice of the bride came to her. “Would you like to receive part of your fees in advance?”

“No need at all,” she hastened to reply.

She regretted this injudicious reply, which doubled her resentment and despondency. She heard the creak of approaching shoes and raised her head in the direction of the door to see a young man merrily enter the room. He quickly came to the bride, their hands clasped, and they exchanged a happy smile.

“Where is your mother?” he asked.

“In her room.”

He turned to Nefisa, and the girl introduced the young man.

“Hassan, my fiancé.”

Bending her head toward him, she said, “Miss Nefisa, the dressmaker.”

Nefisa was tired when she left the bride’s house, just before sunset. Nasr Allah was only a few steps from the house, so she wended her way through the passersby leisurely and relaxed. The cold air refreshed her, and she quickened her pace. Memories of what took place in the bride’s house rushed to her mind in a mixture of pain and pleasure. She was sitting on a sofa, and the couple was sitting on one opposite her. They sat close to each other, speaking sometimes audibly and sometimes so quietly that their voices became lovers’ whispers. How great was her desire, then, to raise her head from the sewing machine and have a look at them. But fear and shyness stopped her from meeting their eyes.