Naguib Mahfouz - The Beginning and the End

She walked up to Shubra Street. The beams of the setting sun almost disappeared, save for a few faint rays still visible at the top of the houses. She walked along the pavement in the direction of the tram stop, passing on her way a mechanic’s garage. She was so absorbed in her thoughts that at first she failed to notice that someone, blocking her way, was saying to her, “You are welcome here.”

Raising her head, she saw a young man in khaki trousers and shirt, his sleeves rolled up. He looked like one of the garage workers. She eyed him askance and moved off, but once more he blocked her way.

“Be patient, my lady,” he said. “Look to your left and you will find a car owned by my humble person. Old though it is, it can carry us to any place you like. I am your servant, Mohammed al-Ful. I don’t mean to boast, but I own this garage!”

“If you don’t go away,” she cried, “I shall call the police!”

“No need to do so,” he said. “I love women but I don’t love the police.”

Some weeks later, the two brothers sat for the promotion examination at the end of the scholastic year, and both passed. Hussein was promoted to the fifth year, and Hassanein to the fourth. Failure in their case was not possible; success was their only alternative. Working hard and with great determination, the two boys achieved their goal. But their success confronted their mother with a new problem related to their dinner meals. Usually Samira and her daughter were content with the cheapest food. They often depended on ready-made food from the market to save the expense of meat, fat, and paraffin oil. Now, despite her frugality, the mother found herself obliged to change this rigorous regime, and thus the boys’ success brought the family little pleasure. With the passage of time, its life seemed grimmer and gloomier than ever.

One evening Hassan arrived after being gone for three weeks. He came home laughing as usual; he frequently resorted to laughter to conceal his embarrassment and confusion.

“Good evening, Mother. Good evening, children. I have missed you so much,” he said.

Looking at him with astonishment, his brothers greeted him. Samira kept staring through her fingers, making her resentment felt by remaining deliberately silent and ignoring his presence. However, she had given up her former habit of scolding him, settling accounts with him, or persuading him to search for a job; she had realized how futile it was. She felt the same sadness that usually overcame her whenever she thought of him or laid eyes on him. She knew his standard answers. He would tell her in a touching voice that he had left home to relieve her of the expense of feeding him, and that he had never stopped searching for a job, on and on. As for his brothers, they were genuinely pleased to see him after his long absence. They loved him as much as he loved them.

“ Bonne arrivée. Where have you been all these weeks?” Nefisa asked him.

Hassan took off his coat, tossed it on the desk, and sat on the bed.

“One has to toil to earn one’s living.” Turning to his mother, he said, “Rejoice, Umm Hassan. Our troubles are coming to an end.”

Raising her head, Samira looked at him with suspicious interest.

“Is this true?” she said quietly, somewhat hopefully.

He laughed, delighted to have aroused her interest, especially after she had ignored him. “I’ve already told you that Mr. Ali Sabri has enlisted me in his band,” he said.

“I don’t believe this is a serious job,” Samira sighed.

“A week ago, Ali Sabri was asked to sing at a wedding party in Bulaq. I took part in it in return for twenty piasters, plus my supper of course. I know that this is a trivial sum of money. But earning a living is always difficult in the beginning.”

“For the thousandth time, I beg you to look for a serious job,” his mother said with irritation. “For your own good, if not for ours. What should I say to you, Hassan? Don’t you realize that we never get enough to eat?”

Hassan lowered his eyes in confusion. His love for his family was the only noble feeling still alive in his heart. Perhaps it was his mother’s sole influence in the formation of his character.

“Be patient,” he murmured. “I haven’t yet finished what I want to say…”

But Hassanein interrupted, inquiring, “Do you think that the so-called Ali Sabri will ever be a worthwhile singer?”

Hassan raised his thick eyebrows in disapproval. Hoping to wipe out the effect of his mother’s words, he said merrily, “Damn this country which doesn’t appreciate talent! Ali Sabri is a great artist. There is healing and therapy in his singing of ‘Ya Lil.’ Have you ever heard him shift his tune from Biati to Hijaz and return again to Biati? Only the great singers, Abdu al-Hamoli and Salama Hijazi, were able to achieve this feat once or twice. As for Mohammed Abdul Wahab, once he uses Biati, he finds himself unable to sustain it in the same performance, and if he ever does, it will be in his next performance. It does not degrade Ali Sabri that he charges only a few pounds for his performance, for he is still at the beginning of his career. History tells us about several great artists who took the first humble steps in their careers singing for a few loaves of bread.”

His brothers laughed at his frivolity. But their mother sighed.

“In everything connected with you, I am resigned to God,” she said.

Casting a superior look at his mother, he replied, “Let’s stop talking about art. The important thing for you to know is that I shall be singing at a wedding party tomorrow.”

“As a member of Ali Sabri’s band?”

“No. I shall sing alone.”

His mother looked at him with disapproval.

“Have you really become a singer?” Nefisa asked him.

“It happens sometimes that a distinguished member of a band is chosen to sing at a party, which is the first step he takes on the way to success.”

“Who asked you to sing at his party?” his mother asked in a rather sarcastic tone.

“Amm Gaber Soliman asked me to sing at the wedding party of his son, Soliman.”

Nefisa lowered her eyes, her enthusiasm extinguished. She underwent a feeling of suffocating anguish.

Samira was astonished. Nodding at Nefisa, she asked, “Did he ask you after what happened?”

Hassan laughed. “We had agreed to it before Lady Nefisa’s fight at the bride’s house, and the man dared not break our agreement.”

For a while silence prevailed. Everyone gazed at him incredulously. It was true that there was a touch of sweetness in his voice, but it was not enough to make him a singer.

Perplexed, his mother at last asked him, “Do you really mean what you say?”

“Yes. I swear by God’s mercy upon my dead father.”

“How much would you charge?”

“Five pounds. Of these five pounds I shall give you one whole pound.”

He kept silent to allow the effect of his words to sink in.

“What do you think of joining my band as Sannids, to sing choruses? Your voices are good enough,” he asked, looking at his brothers.

The two burst into laughter.

“You’re fools!” Hassan exclaimed. “This is a rare opportunity for you to feast on the sumptuous food and drink at the buffet.”

The two brothers continued to laugh sarcastically; yet in their minds they saw the table loaded with appetizing food. Various delicious plates promptly and most temptingly presented themselves to their hungry imaginations. Sensing the strong temptation swaying their minds, Nefisa cried with indignation, “What shame! Do you want to reduce your brothers to beggars in the grocers’ houses?”

Hassan laughed. “Lady Nefisa,” he said, “I understand the reason for your anger. Your attack on the bride made it impossible for you to be invited to the party. But what have these two poor chaps done to be deprived of it? This party will be a real event. There will be meat, pastries, fruits and vegetables, and desserts. You’d better think twice about it.”