Naguib Mahfouz - The Beginning and the End

Hussein smiled with satisfaction. He had not tasted sumptuous food for a long time, probably since his father’s death. While it was obvious from his physical appearance that, compared with his days as a pupil, his diet had improved, the mere act of eating failed to excite him. His happiness in returning to the scenes of his early life far outweighed any joy in food itself. His longing for the atmosphere of his early boyhood days pervaded his senses with a strange sweetness — even the familiar, unhygienic air of the alley now seemed invigorating. As he conversed with his mother, his eyes wandered about the small room, resting finally on the star fixed on Hassanein’s jacket, which hung on a peg. Year after year Hassanein would be promoted to a higher rank, while throughout his own period of service, he would remain a mere clerk in the seventh or, at best, the sixth grade. Yet he was entirely free of rancor and jealousy toward Hassanein; on the contrary, his brother’s success filled his heart with great happiness. But in silent sadness, as he contemplated the vast distinction that segregated the different categories of employees, unconsciously he began to think of distinction in society at large. Once he was transferred to Cairo, he wondered if he could enroll in an evening institute so as to improve his social status. Inwardly smiling at this happy thought, he cherished it as a recourse to rescue himself from the fate of Hassan Effendi Hassan, who would not have been promoted to the sixth grade but for the minister of the Wafds! Recalling conversations in Tanta, he asked his brother, “Is it true what we hear of a cabinet change?”

“Officers aren’t allowed to mix in politics,” Hassanein said with a laugh.

“Why should there be a cabinet change,” Hussein replied good-humoredly, “since the British have stopped interfering with our internal politics?”

“Will we have demonstrations again?” their mother asked.

“Who knows?”

“Doesn’t the army have something to do with demonstrations?” she inquired again, this time with concern.

“If a revolution breaks out,” Hassanein said quietly, “the army must take action.”

Hussein laughed. Understanding the insinuation in this laughter, their mother looked askance at Hassanein, and shrugged her shoulders indifferently. Nefisa returned to report that a delicious dinner was in preparation and to ask them what they wanted for a salad. Then, her forehead covered with perspiration and her sleeves rolled up, she left the room. In the ensuing silence Hussein became absorbed in thoughts about how he would spend his vacation. His colleagues in Tanta called him the Jew because he neither gambled, drank, nor spent more than one piaster in a coffeehouse. But they were ignorant of his circumstances. True, he was frugal by temperament, but his many responsibilities left him with nothing.

His mother soon brought him out of his reverie as she revived the conversation. It struck him that she looked at him with an unusual tenderness which she rarely showed. Did she remember, he wondered, how cruel she had been to him one day? True, she had been cruel, but certainly fate itself had treated them all with even greater cruelty. How would she deal with Hassanein and his lack of enthusiasm about his marriage? Why did Hassanein avoid speaking about it?

At two o’clock, Nefisa brought in the dinner tray and put it on the desk. “Today,” she said, “we’ll take our meal at the desk, as it does not become government employees to have their dinner on the floor!”

For the first time in two years the family was reassembled for dinner; later they would retire to their seats on the bed and resume their conversation. At about half past three there was a knock on the door, and Nefisa went to open it. A strange idea occurred to Hussein: was Farid Effendi’s family paying them a visit on the occasion of his return from Tanta? But wasn’t this unusual at this time of day? Nefisa returned on the run, stopping to stare at them with wide, worried, and astonished eyes.

“An officer and policemen!” she exclaimed.

Astonished, the two brothers rose to their feet. Hurriedly, Hassanein put on his jacket.

“What do they want?” he inquired.

Nefisa turned her eyes from the members of her family to the newcomers. Fear-stricken, she blurted out, “Oh, God! They’ve entered the hall.”

Rushing out of the room, the two young men encountered an officer, two policemen, and another man, apparently an informer. Hassanein advanced to the officer.

“May I respectfully ask what you want?” he inquired.

“Excuse me,” the officer said. “We’ve orders to search this flat.”

The officer produced a search warrant. Hassanein looked at it with unbelieving eyes.

“Perhaps there’s a mistake about the flat,” Hussein asked. “Why our flat?”

“We’re searching,” the officer answered, “for a man by the name of Hassan Kamel, commonly known as Mr. Head.”

Dumbfounded, the two young men cast desperate, worried glances at the officer; terror-stricken, they stood transfixed at the entrance of the room.

“We’ve already arrested some of his accomplices,” the officer continued, “but he disappeared before we could catch him. Certain persons informed us of his former residence, and this information was confirmed by Sheikh al-Hara. He’s well informed about every quarter, and operates as a link between the residents and the government.”

“But he doesn’t live here,” Hassanein said in an agitated voice. “He left our house many years ago, and we know nothing of his whereabouts.”

“At any rate,” the officer replied, shaking his head, “I’ll carry out my orders and search the flat.”

The search began. One of the two policemen withdrew to the door, while the officer and the two other men swept into the rooms. Never in my life, Hassanein thought, shall I forget this moment! He mentally followed the officer as he searched one bare room after another, turning their contemptible, decaying furniture inside out. It was not merely a search for Hassan, since he could not possibly conceal himself in the drawer of a desk or inside the intestines of the bedclothes. The scandal seemed hideous beyond description. The officer’s searching eyes exposed the humbleness and destitution of the flat, which in this terrifying moment gave Hassanein a profound sense of social shame and degradation. Stunned though he was, Nefisa’s sobs struck his ears. He raised his head. “Shut up!” he shouted madly at her in a shrill voice.

The search was over and the officer ordered his men to leave the flat. Approaching Hassanein, he said gently, “Again, I’m sorry. I’m glad we’ve found nothing that could cause you trouble.”

Raising his hand in salutation, the officer departed, leaving a depressing silence behind him. In the silence of the room, the brothers looked absently at each other. Pale as death, the two women approached them. Suddenly recovering from the shock, with a sigh Hassanein leaped to the door and, craning his neck, glanced around the courtyard of the house: at the farthest end, the policemen were carving their way with difficulty through a crowd of men and children, including the grocer, the blacksmith, and the tobacconist. Beating his chest with his fist, he exclaimed, “The whole neighborhood is witnessing our scandal. We’ve been exposed, and now we’re finished!”

Nefisa continued to weep. Their mother turned to Hussein as if for help. But he did not know what to say and seemed shattered by the blow. Still violently beating his chest, Hassanein stamped back and forth across the hall. “I feel like murdering somebody,” he exclaimed. “Nothing less than murder would get this out of my system!”