Naguib Mahfouz - The Beginning and the End

Uncorking it, he took several gulps. Then as he leaned back against the seat, his breathing became rough and heavy. Unable to bear waiting any longer, but having learned from experience that nothing more was to be feared, she entreated him ingratiatingly, “It’s time for us to return.”

As if soliloquizing, he said, “I wish I would never return.”

She did not grasp the meaning of his words, but summoning up her courage, she murmured, “Please!”

Putting his hand in his pocket, he sluggishly took out a twenty-piaster piece, letting it fall in her lap. As she picked up the money, she stared at him in disapproval.

“What is this?” she asked, infuriated.

Suddenly aggressive, his eyes glistening with intoxication, the old man said, “It’s plenty! If you refuse it, I’ll put it back in my pocket.”

“I think you’re a man of too high a position for this,” she said resentfully.

He took another big swig from the bottle and smacked his lips, frowning. “True enough,” he replied. “But a twenty-piaster piece is too much for a person like you. I’ll bet no woman with a nose like yours would hope to get this sum!”

This wounding insult pierced her breast. Allowing her fear to overcome her anger, she said, “Why do you speak to me in this way?”

“First, because you’re greedy, and second, because the female sex is responsible for what happens to me. For your information, I only keep change on me. When I return home, my wife questions me even about this change. So I prefer to beat you rather than be beaten by her!”

Shaking with anger, she kept silent.

“One day,” he continued, “I was pestered by a woman in a similar situation. I slapped her on the face and threw her half naked out of the car. What do you think she did? Nothing. Sure, she knew that a policeman would do her more harm than I. I know she’s unjustly treated. So are you. But so am I. The real oppressor in this case is my wife.”

Sighing resentfully, she muttered, “Please, let’s go back.”

“It’s up to you,” he said with a yawn. “Open the window and call the driver.”

The car sped on its way back. Her eyes dim as she huddled absentmindedly in a corner of the car, she stared out into the darkness.

Hassanein’s admission to the War College was the happiest event of his life. As he always took the fulfillment of his wishes for granted, he had mistakenly imagined that his enrollment would be rather easy. But later he realized how extremely difficult it was, so much so that eventually he became convinced that, of all his troubles, his arrangement for obtaining the first installment of the fees was the easiest. He paid frequent visits to the villa of Ahmad Bey Yousri, who, almost despairing of his admission to the War College, advised him to turn his attention elsewhere. But the “miracle” of acceptance (as the difficulties of enrollment caused the young man to call it) occurred, thanks to his determination, an advanced place on the list of applicants, his good appearance, his outstanding ability in football and running sports, and above all to the intercession of Ahmad Bey. He was nearly put out of his mind with joy. In fact, he had pinned his hopes so much on his admission that had he failed to get into the War College, he would have been incapable either of doing anything else or of turning his attention elsewhere. His ambition to join this college burst from the depths of his soul, for he was desperate to climb out of his miserable, humble life.

The College seemed like a magic wand, capable of transforming him from a feeble, obscure nonentity into a highly envied officer in only two years’ time and with hardly any effort. A friend of his had once observed, “Army officers are pompous and highly paid, and their work, like play, is good for nothing.” This description had turned Hassanein’s head and intensified his dream of becoming such an officer. When he learned he had been admitted, he refused to acknowledge the great importance of the role played by Ahmad Bey Yousri; it was primarily due, he told his mother, to his physical fitness and distinction in sports. As of this moment I can consider myself an officer, he thought proudly. In the fancy of his conceit, he happily began to form a mental picture of the people on whom his military uniform would exert its magical effects: soldiers, girls, the rank and file, even Ahmad Bey Yousri himself. Hassanein in person broke the pleasant news to the family of Farid Effendi Mohammed, and they welcomed it enthusiastically. Farid Effendi saluted him. “We’re honored by your visit, young officer,” he said with a laugh.

For Bahia’s benefit, Hassanein remarked, “I’ll have to stay away from you for forty days, until we’re permitted to leave the College once a week.” At the moment, he hoped to get what he had been deprived of for two years. But there was opportunity to be alone with the girl for only a few minutes; had she acquiesced, this would have been enough. But the girl insisted on chastity. Overcome by her usual shyness, she shrank at bidding him farewell, her heart throbbing with pain and anxiety. Almost inaudibly he said to her hurriedly, “I want a hot kiss from your lips!” But her shyness and immobility persisted.

“Even at a moment like this,” he said, “you deny me. I can’t imagine that you love me.”

Breaking her silence, the girl replied, “I refuse because I do.”

He mused inquiringly, “I don’t understand you.”

With touching courage, she spoke more frankly, “I refuse you because I love you.”

This was the first time he had heard her open and candid confession, and he was so deeply moved that he was about to come too close to her. But nodding her head toward the open door of the room, she signaled a warning.

Farid Effendi and his wife soon returned, and he spent the rest of the time torn between mixed feelings of ecstasy, anxious longing, and torment. Bidding Farid Effendi’s family goodbye, he went down to his flat.

This is wise love, he thought. Love governed by firmness and foresight, as if she had devised a careful plan to make sure that I will marry her. But does true love know this kind of frigid logic?

But these thoughts were, in effect, provoked by his overwhelming feeling of irritation and regret. He considered the farewell scene the worst a lover could ever have experienced. He spent part of the night with his mother and sister. Unable to control her feelings, Nefisa as usual shed tears. Depressed, she said, “We’re doomed to live alone.”

Hassanein himself experienced the sinking feeling of a person parting from his family for the first time in his life. But his yearning to lead an independent life in a different place and milieu alleviated his depression. As for Samira, she preserved her apparent calm, bidding Nefisa not to allow grief to carry her away. Sharply she said to her daughter, “Don’t cry like a child. We’ll see him frequently. It gives us happiness enough to see that he has realized his hopes.”

But her heart actually spoke a different language. The imminent parting from her son evoked her sorrow and brought back to her mind memories of grief long past. She remembered Hussein’s farewell scene. She imagined what her home would be like when her last son was gone. In spite of herself, the memory of her departed husband was revived; she wondered at her own life, which would not allow her any measure of happiness unless it was associated with the pains of partings and farewells. Was she doomed to remain alone for the rest of her life? And was it for such an end that she had patiently and stoically suffered and struggled?

But summoning up her latent strength, she prevented herself from being carried away by grief. She drew on the success of her son to dispel the melancholy that beset her. However, she now believed that her patience and strivings had not been in vain, and that the tossing ship of her life was heading for a secure harbor. She felt she had the right to rejoice, for she had sacrificed every drop of her heart’s blood to cause the fruits of her family life to bloom and flourish.