Naguib Mahfouz - The Beginning and the End

Always expecting profitable work for Nefisa from Mrs. Zeinab’s visits, Samira was seldom disappointed. Her mind was never free from the worries of life, even after the passage of almost a year. She was particularly worried now about the approaching summer holidays, when she could expect to shoulder the additional task of providing her two younger sons with food at home in place of the meals they took at school. And so she was complaining to Mrs. Zeinab of her troubles during the last months, and the landlady was consoling and encouraging her, when Nefisa came back with the coffee. Wanting to explain her reasons for paying this visit, Mrs. Zeinab smiled sweetly and good-naturedly and said, “I’ve brought you a new bride.”

“Then I’m entitled to call myself the bride’s dressmaker,” Nefisa replied, laughing with pleasure.

“I pray to God that you will soon be making your own wedding dress.”

“Amen,” Samira murmured.

Nefisa’s gloomy memories were stirred by her mother’s invocation, and she said “Amen” to it in her innermost heart. When shall I become a bride? she wondered. Not before Amm Gaber Soliman dies. How ironical! To cherish such a hope has cost me both body and soul. It is possible for Mother to conceive of what has happened? She thinks of the worries of everyday life as the greatest calamity. But how ignorant and miserable of her to think so!

“Who is this new customer?” the mother inquired.

“The new bride is the daughter of Amm Gobran el-Tuni, the grocer.”

At the sound of this unforgettable name, Nefisa’s senses were jolted. “Does his shop lie at the intersection of Shubra and Al Walid streets?” she asked, her heart beating violently.

“Exactly.”

“Nefisa, I see you’ve become as well-informed as a roving detective,” her mother said, laughing.

The girl laughed mechanically. Surely it is she, she thought. The girl whom Amm Gaber wanted his son Soliman to marry, as Soliman himself has told me. Her marriage will clear the way for me; it will remove the nightmarish thoughts of her that weigh so heavily upon me.

“Is Gobran el-Tuni well off?” the mother inquired.

“He is rich enough.”

“Who’s the bridegroom?”

“He is nearer than you may imagine him to be,” the woman said, laughing. “It is Soliman, the son of Amm Gaber Soliman, the grocer.”

“Soliman!”

Nefisa uttered the name as one would utter a cry. The two women looked at her in astonishment. Thinking that she was surprised to learn that such a girl would accept marriage to a trifling young man like Soliman, the landlady said, “Yes, Soliman. It seems the bride’s father didn’t object, since he is a friend of Amm Gaber. As you see, God bestows the goods of life on whomever He pleases.”

Despite the magnitude of the shock, Nefisa realized that she had almost given away her scandalous secret. With a strenuous effort, she composed herself to counteract the bleeding cry which had burst out of her breast and escaped her lips. She no longer felt able to follow the conversation and an overpowering feeling of death quickly overtook her. The surrounding darkness seeped in to conceal her features, but she had to press her fingers together painfully to prevent herself from letting out another cry. What did the man say? She could not believe her senses, but she knew she was not demented or tormented by a mere nightmare. Undoubtedly this was the bare truth. Surely the bridegroom was Soliman Gaber Soliman, and nobody else. Memories of old fears, which she had experienced from time to time in her solitary hours, returned to her. Sometimes these were mysterious, like a gnawing worry that dug its fingernails into the flesh of her breast; sometimes they were tangible fears, assuming hideous shapes that caused her to shudder. In her agony she was for a moment under the illusion that she was merely having a nightmare. But this hallucination lasted no more than a moment, after which she was invaded once more by the heavy, dreadful feeling that she was dying. Together with her family, she had already experienced life’s cruelty, but it had never occurred to her that life could be so cruel. She bit her lips, not knowing how to resist the sense of disintegration that was overtaking her body and soul. It was not just frustration in love. It was the sense of the futility of human existence itself. However, she knew she must control herself. Their guest might speak to her at any moment, and her answers must not betray any tremor or tearfulness in her voice. Perhaps it would be safer to flee for a while. Without hesitation she picked up her cup of coffee and retired to the kitchen. There, a deep breath emerged from the depths of her soul; she pulled at her braids, and gazed at the kitchen ceiling, smudged with smoke, its corners covered with cobwebs. Like a person possessed, she remained transfixed. Then it was not a hope I have been cherishing, she thought, but a fraud, a terrible fraud, a fatal blow, a robbery, a stain, a wound that will never heal I am done for; undoubtedly done for. It is impossible for my mother, let alone for Hussein and Hassanein, to conceive of what has happened.

Oh, God! How was it possible for him to deceive her to that extent?! They were together only last Friday! What a criminal! And how heinous his crime! But what use was her anger? She felt a merciless, poisonous detestation for him. But she recognized the great need to think the matter over and prepare herself for what was to come. She was eager to escape from her surroundings, her big living circle, for which she had developed so much abhorrence, to a remote, solitary place where she could ask herself this question: Nefisa, how did you fall into the abyss so easily, so readily, so degradingly?

On hearing her mother call, she shook with terror. At that moment she was extremely angry with her mother, and she came near even to hating her. She remained motionless. Her mother called her again. Clenching her teeth, she moved away. She saw their guest getting ready to leave, her mother seeing the woman off at the front door.

“Come to me the day after tomorrow,” the landlady said as she shook hands with Nefisa. “We shall go together to the bride’s house.”

Without a word, Nefisa nodded her approval. When the door was closed, her mother said, “Soliman! By God, he doesn’t deserve such good luck!”

Nefisa felt a dagger stabbing her heart. She uttered not a word of comment. Sick of the place and its surrounding atmosphere, she realized that she could not bear to stay with her mother. Acting on a sudden impulse as scorching as a flame, she walked steadily to her room and returned wearing her overcoat.

“Are you going out?” her mother asked in surprise.

“Yes. To buy something for supper,” Nefisa replied as she went toward the door. “Perhaps I’ll spend an hour in Farid Effendi’s flat.”

Breathing heavily and with difficulty, Nefisa reached the courtyard of the house. The clear sky was studded with stars and the cool weather was punctuated by the gentle breezes of budding spring. She walked up to the gate, then dauntlessly proceeded to Amm Gaber’s shop. The old man was busy toting up the day’s accounts, while his son Soliman stood with an elbow on the counter, staring absently between his fingers. Drawing near, she cast a sharp, fiery glance at him. He raised his two tiny eyes toward her. A look of confusion and alarm suddenly appeared in them.

“Can I help you, Miss Nefisa?” he asked warily. She answered with steadiness and determination, “Follow me at once!”

He nodded affirmatively, pretending to give her something from the shop. She went out to the street and stood waiting at the top of the alley, carefully inspecting her surroundings. She felt relieved at what she was doing. She could not possibly wait until the next morning. She kept looking about the alley until she saw him hurrying toward her with confused steps, wearing a jacket over his gallabiya.*