Naguib Mahfouz - The Beginning and the End

How wonderful it would be to possess this villa and lie with this girl! he thought. It’s not mere lust. It would be a symbol of power and glory to have this girl of good birth lying in my arms naked and surrendering, her eyelids closed, as though all the organs of her passionate body were clamoring, “My master.” This is life. Mount it, and you’ll mount a whole class!

Again recalling Bahia, his pain intensified, mingled with something akin to remorse and shame. Then his thoughts were interrupted by the sound of footsteps from the direction of the stairs. Turning, he saw Ahmad Bey Yousri approaching in a white silk suit, a red rose in the lapel of his jacket. Hassanein stood up, went politely up to him, and bowed, greeting him with veneration. Smiling, the Bey welcomed him. He inquired, as they took their seats, “How is your family, my son?”

“Remembering your favors, they kiss your generous hand,” Hassanein answered ingratiatingly.

“You need not mention it,” the Bey murmured.

The Bey was certain that shortly this young man would beg him to find him a job or transfer his brother to Cairo. This was the routine of his life every day. Though such requests irritated him, he actually liked them, and could not bear to see his house empty of people seeking his help.

“What’s the matter, my son?” he said.

“Your Excellency, I’m appealing to you for help, to intercede for me in joining the War College.”

Astonished, the Bey seemed to have expected anything but this aristocratic request. Without hiding his surprise, he inquired, “But what made you choose this narrow gate?”

Distressed at the Bey’s astonishment, the young man at this moment developed a blind hatred for him, yet he continued to address him in the same polite and ingratiating manner. “Your Excellency, the government’s decision to enlarge the army affords me a golden opportunity this year that had never presented itself before. Furthermore, your intercession will be more important than anything else.”

“What about the fees?” the Bey asked curtly.

Once more he felt detestation for the Bey. He soon forgot about his request for exemption from the fees, or decided instead to put it off until some other time.

“I’m ready to pay the entire fee,” he said, confident and reassured.

The Bey pondered the matter.

“The Under Secretary of State for the Ministry of War is an old friend. I’ll talk to him about it,” he said.

Hurrying forward, Hassanein took the Bey’s hand to kiss it to express his gratitude. Withdrawing his hand, the Bey stood up, perhaps to end the interview. Hassanein bowed low over the man’s hand, saluted, repeated his thanks, and left the room, full of cheer and hope. Crossing the garden, he remembered the cycling girl. As he looked at the traces of the wheels on the path, her image flashed before his mind, but absorbed as he was in his hopes for the future, the vision soon passed away.

At the same hour, Nefisa was in Station Square. In supplication, the sky waited for the darkness of evening to fall, while the square bustled with hurrying human beings, animals, trams, and motorcars. On the pavement next to the statue of the Renaissance of Egypt, the girl stood waiting for a break in the traffic so that she could cross the street to the tram stop. She observed a man standing a few arm’s lengths away, looking curiously at her. She had learned to understand the real import of such looks. But overcome with astonishment, she wondered: Even this man!

He was sixty, age lending to his body a sagging yet dignified appearance. In spite of the hot weather he wore a woolen suit; he carried an elegant fly whisk with an ivory handle, and his eyes were shielded by blue spectacles. His tarbush, slanting backward, revealed a broad forehead, the lower part of which was scorched by the sun, while above the marks left by the fringes of the tarbush, his skin was a brilliant white. His whiskers and the hair at the back of his head were likewise pure white. Held by curiosity and greed, she remained where she was, although the traffic had stopped. Turning her eyes, she found him still gazing at her. As though encouraged by her glances, he walked toward her with heavy steps. As he passed her, he whispered, “Follow me to my car.”

He walked to a car as old and dignified as himself, parked very close to the pavement. The step was almost two inches above the level of the pavement; at the door stood a driver, motionless as a statue. He climbed into the car without closing the door behind him; on instruction the driver immediately took his place behind the steering wheel. Thinking that she was lagging behind, the old man took off his spectacles and motioned to her with his hand. She could hardly restrain a smile. Then casting a scrutinizing look around her, urged for the first time in her life by sheer greed, she walked to the car. He moved a bit to give her room, and she sat down beside him. But anxiety soon overcame her when her nostrils filled with the strong smell of liquor on his breath. “I can’t be late,” she said.

“Nor can I,” he said, his tongue thick with intoxication.

He gave his instructions to the driver, and the car started off at high speed. A sense of alienation came over her. Sorrow and fear struck her heart, in a feeling of absolute degeneration. It was the first time in her life that she had gone with a man without any preliminary acquaintance, whether brief or protracted. Urged on partly by her sexual appetite, she had previously accompanied men she had met only once, twice, or three times. But this time, out of pure greed, and feeling no desire at all, she surrendered to a passerby. How complete was her degeneration! And how dreadful her end! She wondered how the man could single her out as a bed companion. Did her face, ugly though it was, betray her degeneration? Torn now by her old confusion, she was uncertain whether to keep her seductive makeup or to abandon makeup altogether, thus revealing her ugliness.

He placed his palm on her hand. “You’re as beautiful as the moon,” he stammered.

“I’m not at all beautiful,” she said.

“No woman is devoid of some sort of beauty!” he replied disapprovingly.

Was this man a liar or a fool? She marveled how lechery blinded men’s eyes. “Except me,” she said simply.

Rapping his fingers on her bosom, he said, “But for your beauty, I wouldn’t have felt this desire!”

She would have liked to believe him, but she knew it was a lie. No man’s love for her lasted more than a few hours. Perhaps he was dissipated, or, like her, suffering from bitter despair. Men had given her enough pain to make her spiteful. Nevertheless, the flames of desire which engulfed her body were never extinguished. Her body degraded her so much that she came to hate it as bitterly as she hated poverty. A captive of her body and her poverty, she knew no way to rescue herself. Swept away in the current of life and bruised on its rocks, naked, injured, unprotected and unpitied, she realized the futility of searching for a safe refuge. She heard him say with a sigh, “We’ve arrived.” Looking out, she watched the car move around a circular road with huge trees, like the shapes of giants, on one side. On the other the Nile ran its course through a vast area shrouded in darkness, decked with flickering lamplight at its remote fringes.

“Is this the island of Gezira?”

“You know it of course!”

Waiting until the driver left his seat and disappeared in the dark, he took off his glasses. “Now,” he said, “show me your skill, for everything depends on it.”

He was a decayed maniac, soaked with liquor. He thrust his body upon hers, roughly petting her, biting her brutally and pinching her until she was about to scream. The whole business was about to end in a pathetic fiasco. He soon became exhausted. His bizarre, fruitless exertions were almost laughable. At last, lying back drunkenly, he said to her coarsely, “Reach over to the driver’s seat and get me the bottle.”