Naguib Mahfouz - The Beginning and the End

“You imagine things,” his mother replied sharply. “The calamities of life are many, and plenty of other pupils lack money. If you search the pockets of all the pupils at school, you’ll find that most of them are penniless. Even supposing that you were the only ones who were poor, there would be nothing to be ashamed of. Besides, I am not responsible for what happened.”

Remembering that he was addressing his mother, Hassanein kept silent. He had always found his father more tolerant and understanding, for his father loved him as dearly as he loved his daughter, Nefisa. But his mother’s firmness never relaxed. By way of reply, she added, “I also warn you both not to skip your school lunch as you usually do.”

The two brothers ate very little of their school lunch since they preferred to wait for dinner at home. The pupils who ate their fill of lunch at school were the subject of their mates’ ridicule.

“Why shouldn’t we eat at home as usual?” Hassanein asked gently.

“Who knows? Maybe, you won’t find the kind of food you like at home!” his mother replied sharply.

There was a shadow of a smile on Hassan’s lips as he listened in deep silence to all that was said. He tried to hide it under a frown, but Samira had already noticed it. She was determined to face him with the truth if he still needed it after that long preamble. She asked him sadly, “What about you, Hassan?”

He was her eldest, her firstborn and her first darling! Yet he was tangible evidence that motherly love may be influenced by factors which have nothing to do with instinct. Of course, this did not mean that she hated him; far from it. She merely dropped him from her accounts, and to her great distress, he no longer fulfilled her once rosy hopes. Now, he simply occupied an obscure corner of her heart, and whenever she recalled her love for him, it was tainted with deep sorrow and pitch-black memories. He had always been and still was the black sheep of the family. At first he was the victim of his father’s poverty and favoritism; he was sent to school later in years than other boys. Soon it had become evident that he revolted against school life. He ran away frequently from school; year after year he failed in his examinations; finally he left school when he was only in his junior year. His relations with his father, strained by rows and quarrels, finally degenerated into genuine enmity. Sometimes, his father would kick him out of the house, leaving him to roam the streets for days; he came back home after associating with delinquents and plunging deep into sin and addiction, though he was just in his teens. When his father despaired of reforming him, he sent him to work in a grocery. There he remained for a month, until, following a quarrel in which the grocery was almost wrecked, he was fired. He worked for an automobile manufacturer, and was fired again after another quarrel. He became indifferent to his father’s anger and his mother’s firmness; but he imposed himself upon them, accepting their indignation either lightly and playfully or quarrelsomely. He never left home, nor did he search seriously for a job. He seemed to have no consideration whatsoever for the future, persisting in his recklessness until he was suddenly confronted with his father’s death. He knew how serious the situation was, for he alone knew what his father’s salary was, and he made a calculation of his approximate pension. He quite understood what his mother meant when she asked, “What about you, Hassan?” Well, he thought, you say that God never forgets His creatures, and I am one of these creatures. Let’s see how He remembers us! Why did He take away our father? Why should He manifest His wisdom at the expense of victims like us?

Yet in his courteous, compassionate smile at his mother, there was a sense of responsibility. “I understand everything,” he said.

“What’s the use of mere understanding?” Samira replied irritably.

“Something has to be done.”

“This is what we often hear from you.” She was vexed.

“Everything is changed now.”

“Isn’t there any hope that you will change, too?”

“A man of my type will never get lost in this life,” he retorted. “I can manage and hack my way through. There are lots of opportunities, and I have countless weapons in my hands. Listen, Mother, all I ask of you is shelter and some morsels of bread.”

That had always been his method! He started as though he were yielding, and ended by making fresh demands. A shelter and some morsels of bread! What else was there? She eyed him resentfully. “This is no time for joking,” she said.

“But who’s joking?” he asked.

“We need someone to feed us; how, then, can we afford your food? Why do you force me to be blunt with you?”

“It’s only for a while, till things get better,” he said with a faint smile. “You won’t find me a burden. Or would you like to kick me out? I shall do my best to earn my living. But suppose it takes me several days to find a job, would it make you happy to see me die of hunger? Anyway, I’ll share your loaf until I find a job.”

She sighed in despair. She was encountering a real problem and did not know what to do about it. The worst that she dreaded was that he would persist in a life of idleness, laziness, and wandering, especially once the effect of his father’s death upon his feelings diminished.

“I hope you’ll earnestly and sincerely look for a job,” she said beseechingly.

He said, quite sincerely, “I promise you. I swear it on my father’s grave.”

His oath reawakened their sorrow and his mention of their father’s grave moved them deeply. Nefisa burst into tears and Hassanein’s heart sank, while Hussein eyed Hassan with a puzzled look of reproof. Their mother kept silent, feeling her deep wound. But even then she did not forget that she had not finished what she wanted to say. She kept turning her red and swollen eyes toward her children.

“Nefisa is good at sewing,” she said. “Out of friendship and courtesy, she often makes dresses for our neighbors. I see no harm in her asking for some compensation.”

“That’s a good idea,” cried Hassan enthusiastically.

But Hassanein, his face white with anger, cried, “A dressmaker?”

“Why not? There’s nothing to be ashamed of,” answered Hassan.

Hassanein retorted sharply, “No, my sister will never be a dressmaker. I refuse to be a brother to a dressmaker.”

Samira frowned and shouted angrily, “You’re just a bull that eats and sleeps, and you know nothing about life! Your foolish mind will never understand how bad our situation is.”

He opened his mouth to object.

“Shut up!” she shouted. He snorted and did not utter another word.

Seeing that she had done with his objection, Samira turned to Hussein. Their eyes met for a moment; then he lowered his and murmured reluctantly, “If it can’t be helped, let God’s will be done…”

Samira was deeply moved. She said, “As Hassan has said, there’s nothing to be ashamed of. I don’t like to see any of you humiliated; but there are things that cannot be helped. I can do nothing about it.”

There was a painful silence. Hussein was more like his mother than the rest of her children. He had her patience, sagacity, and loyalty to the family. He was greatly pained by the plans for his sister. Yet he felt it was stupid to object to the dictates of necessity. In his suffering he began to think that in these two days he had learned more than he had in the rest of his life. Nefisa remained helplessly silent. It wasn’t the first time that she heard that proposal, for her mother had already convinced her that it was inevitable. For her, dressmaking was an entertaining hobby. She had only to accustom herself to receive fees for it. Now her feeling of worthlessness doubled the grief she felt from her father’s death. It was no use.