Naguib Mahfouz - The Beginning and the End

He continued to walk around town until nine o’clock, when he went to the secondary school to introduce himself to the chief clerk and begin his official assignment. The sight of the school filled him with agitation, and recent memories returned to him as if in a dream.

Once Hussein had introduced himself at the gate, the porter accompanied him to the chief clerk’s office, asking him to wait until the official arrived. Sitting in a chair close to the desk, Hussein looked through the open door at the school playground, enveloped in heavy silence. In a week the scholastic year would start, and the school would be teeming with life. He remembered how only a few months earlier he had been spending his happiest hours at school in a similar playground, and how the sight of any of the school employees had filled his heart with awe. Now he had become one of these employees. Yet he did not surrender to conceit. As a schoolboy, he might have dreamt of becoming a counselor or a minister, but appointed to the government service, he would not be more than an eighth-grade employee. Before long, his ears were struck by a rough cough and a deep clearing of the throat, followed by a vehement expectoration. Immediately he saw a short man with a delicate body, round-faced and bleary-eyed, his bald head shining as he swept hurriedly into the room. Seizing his tarbush with one hand, he used the other to dry his bald head with a handkerchief. No sooner did he see the young man than he shouted at him, “How, in the name of God, the Benevolent and Merciful, did you get here? Did you spend last night in my room? Are you a new pupil?”

Hussein stood up, embarrassed. “Sir, I’m the new clerk, Hussein Kamel Ali,” he said.

The man burst out laughing. But soon the cough and the throat clearing returned. His mouth filled again with spittle. Looking around in perplexity, he rushed out of the room and was absent for half a minute, then returned, his condition improved.

“Damn this cold,” he said apologetically. “I catch cold at the beginning of every season of the year. Thus you find me always torn between the seasons of the year and the seasons of the school. Excuse me, Hussein Effendi. I should have greeted you first. Peace be upon thee.”

Smiling, Hussein extended his hand, greeting him more warmly. Sitting at his desk, the man asked him to have a seat. Hussein complied.

“My name is Hassan Hassan Hassan,” the chief clerk began. “It is the custom in our family for the father to call his elder son by his own name. Haven’t you heard of the Hassan family in Beheira province? You haven’t? It doesn’t matter. These curs of pupils call me Hassan cubed — see? Hassan 3!”

Hussein laughed heartily. The man stared at him critically with bleary eyes.

“Why are you laughing?” he said. “Haven’t you got rid of your schoolboy mentality? By the way, I should like to tell you something about myself. Though I’m a very nervous man, I’m very good-hearted. Many a time, without meaning any harm and being fully respectful, I curse people, no matter how high their position may be. Please understand me and don’t forget I’m as old as your father!”

Hussein was very confused.

“By God’s will, nothing will happen between us to make you angry.”

“I hope so, by God’s will. I just wanted to give you an idea about myself. That’s all. Many a time I curse myself, too! Cursing is often a relief. But for that, many people would have suffocated to death in anger. Soon you’ll learn what it means to work at a school.” He sighed. “The ministerial letter concerning your appointment has arrived.” He ruffled through his papers until he found it. “It’s Number 1,175, dated September 26, 1936. You’ve come at the time when we need you most. For now, we shall start revising the lists of names and fees. The former clerk married the daughter of an inspector at the Ministry and all of a sudden was transferred to Cairo. Are you married, Hussein Effendi?”

“I was only a pupil last spring,” Hussein answered with a smile.

“Do you think that being a pupil prevents one from getting married? I was married when I was a secondary school pupil. This is another custom in our family, like calling the elder son by his father’s name. We also had other great customs, but they were uprooted by Sidki Pasha, may God forgive him.”

Hussein glanced at him inquisitively.

“My father, Hassan Bey, was an outstanding Wafdist and a member of the higher circles of the Wafd party,” the man added sorrowfully. “When Sidki Pasha came to his ill-omened office, he asked him to sever his relations with the Wafd. When he refused, as expected, Sidki Pasha deprived him of the assistance of the Loan Bank during the crisis. As a result, he was forced to sell his land and so lost his wealth.”

“But Nahas was returned to office?” Hussein inquired.

“Yet the land was lost. Most ironically, Sidki went over to the patriots’ side. At the beginning of this year, he gave an address at Disouk in which he conveyed the greetings of ‘my leader Nahas,’ as he then called him. Hassan Hassan Hassan, what a pity you have lost everything!”

Pretending to be moved, Hussein muttered, “May God compensate you for what you’ve lost!”

Shaking his head, the man remained silent for a while.

“You’re lucky to be appointed at the school after the period of strikes was over. They almost burned us up inside the school during the latest demonstrations. May God curse the demonstrators, the students and Sidki Pasha. Hussein Effendi, where do you live?”

“In the Britannia Hotel.”

“Hotel! May God disappoint you! Sorry. I mean may God forgive you. The hotel isn’t a suitable place for a long stay. You must search for a small flat immediately.”

“But I’ve no furniture.”

With a sudden interest, Hassan Effendi thought the matter over, biting his fingernails.

“Furniture for a single room doesn’t cost you much. With my guarantee, if you like, you can buy it in installment payments,” he said.

He became thoughtful again, examining the young man’s face. “There’s a two-room flat on the roof of the house where I live,” he added. “The rent won’t be more than a pound. What do you think?”

After hearing the amount of the rent, Hussein’s interest was piqued for the first time.

“I’ll think it over seriously,” he said.

“It’s plain and axiomatic, just as one plus one equals two. Now let’s start work. There are piles of papers left over since that son of a bitch got married and was transferred to Cairo.”

Hussein decided to stay at the hotel until he received his salary. As time passed, he became convinced of the need to move into a private flat that would give him a greater sense of security and stability. Hassan Effendi was always underlining the advantages of living in a flat of his own. At the beginning of the month, Hussein bought a bed, a small wardrobe, and a chair for about two pounds, for which he agreed to pay in four installments, with Hassan as a guarantor. The flat rental being only one pound, moving in involved no extra expense. The new flat occupied half the roof of the house, on the middle story of which Hassan Effendi lived. In addition to the lavatory and kitchen, there were two rooms. Since one of these was superfluous, the young man locked it up, furnishing the other with new furniture. The one window in the room overlooked Walei al-Din Street, where the entrance to the house was situated. The rooftop flat was higher than the surrounding buildings, and the unrestricted open air in front of its only window gave the young man a sense of freshness and relief which he had been denied at the hotel, and he was thus very pleased. The day he moved in was a happy one indeed. For the first time in his life, he found himself the master of his own house and proud possessor of a salary and furniture. His sense of relief and delight when he had received his salary that morning still lingered in his memory. Nor did he forget how he shyly hid the smile on his lips, reflecting the delight in his heart, lest it be detected by the cashier. But this happiness dwindled to insignificance when compared with his joy in sending two pounds to his mother.