Naguib Mahfouz - The Beginning and the End

Hassanein had always felt that his past constituted a constant threat, like a heavy hammer suspended over his head. Now it fell with full force on his brain, smashing it into scattered pieces. This was strikingly obvious. But could he possibly ignore it? He raised his eyes to the gloomy face of his friend.

“Tell me what he said,” Hassanein asked mechanically.

His friend made a wry face. “It was something negligible,” he went on, annoyed and irritated. “But to be fair, you should know about it. I don’t need to tell you that I was so angry that I silenced their wagging tongues.”

So he was the object of their drunken slanders! What did they say? He should have taken all this into consideration when he had proposed to the Bey’s daughter. Smiling faintly at his friend, he said, “I believe you, and I appreciate your sincerity. But I beg you to repeat to me everything that was said, word for word.”

Ali al-Bardisi looked disgusted. With extreme distaste, he replied curtly, “He said many things about one of your brothers. I was so indignant that I told him about a highwayman in our village whose brother is a minister in Cairo!”

Hassanein’s face turned pale. His friend’s defense offended him as much as the charge itself. Yet he said with a desperate laugh, “Usually, a friendly eye sees the minister, while an unfriendly eye only sees…Anyhow, forget about it. What else?”

“Foolish talk of this sort,” the friend said evasively.

Hassanein was suddenly overcome with annoyance and impatience. “Please!” he exclaimed. “Don’t hide anything from me, please!”

Embarrassed, Ali al-Bardisi said, “I loathe speaking about a lady’s honor.”

“You mean my sister?”

“He said that she worked to earn her living. And I angrily gave him to understand that there’s nothing to be ashamed of in any honorable work. Poverty isn’t a crime.”

Shaking his head, Hassanein reiterated his friend’s words with painful irony. “ ‘Poverty isn’t a crime.’ Splendid! What else did he say?”

“Nothing.”

That’s enough! Hassanein thought. A brother who is a highwayman and a sister who is a dressmaker, a mere worker. How could I dare to propose to the daughter of an illustrious Bey?

“I believe,” al-Bardisi said, “you made a mistake in proposing to the daughter of such a faultfinding family.”

“You’re right,” Hassanein murmured with a sickly smile. I’m up to my ears in the mud, he thought. My only way out is to smash the head of Ahmad Rafat. But will it actually change my circumstances? No. It’s useless to defend myself in this way. Yet I should always remember an important fact: that is, with a strong blow a man can compel people to respect him. Thank God, I lack neither courage nor strength, and I’m capable of dealing such a blow. Hassan was the lowest of our family but he was the most feared and respected: a useful lesson I should not forget.

Then he heard his friend consoling him: “You shouldn’t care too much.”

Shrugging his shoulders, Hassanein pretended indifference. “This is well-reasoned advice,” he said. “There’s nothing in our family to be ashamed of. One day we were rich. Then poverty struck us. We faced it with courage, and we managed to overcome it. There’s nothing shameful in this.”

“On the contrary, one should be proud of it.”

Hassanein suddenly stamped the ground with his foot, his eyes bloodshot with anger. “But I know how to deal with anyone who insults me.”

“Of course you do.”

In the ensuing painful silence, for lack of anything better to do al-Bardisi ordered two more glasses of beer.

“You can find a better girl,” he murmured with a smile.

“Oh! Girls in this country are more plentiful than air and cheaper than dust.”

To quench his thirst, he swallowed gulps of beer, while his friend stared into his drink. Silence fell upon them again.

Ah! Hassanein thought. I wish I could be born all over again, in a new family and with a new past. But why should I torment myself with futile hopes? This is me and this is my life, and I won’t allow anyone to destroy it. The battle is not over yet.

Al-Bardisi bade him goodbye. As he left the Casino, the combined effect of the shock and the beer almost unhinged Hassanein’s mind. Above all, he desired, at whatever cost, to give vent to his pent-up feelings. Yet he knew that a confrontation with Ahmad Rafat would be foolish indeed. Anger made him think of more serious plans. It’s useless to be angry with this conceited young man, Hassanein thought. He heard something nasty and only repeated it. If in the future I have any opportunity to provoke him, I won’t pass it by. But I shall put off the idea of punishing him until the opportunity arises. My real target is the Bey himself with his dyed mustache. I shall tell him that the least he should have done was to preserve the dignity of a man who asked for his daughter’s hand, especially the son of an old friend. If he denies my charge I’ll confront him with conclusive evidence, pointing out to him that poverty is no disgrace, while slandering people is mean and shameful. And if he becomes offended, which in his illustrious position he is bound to be, I won’t be sparing in giving expression to my anger until I’ve got it out of my system. Under the influence of beer and bitter feelings, he flung himself inside the first tram to arrive and rode as far as Station Square. There he boarded another which took him to Taher Street.

When he saw Ahmad Bey Yousri’s villa, his footsteps became heavy, as if he desired to have more time to think over what he intended to do. From the depths of his mind, voices clamored for his withdrawal. But these were silenced by the heat of the passion that kept driving him to the villa until he found himself in front of the porter. The latter rose respectfully. Without asking permission, he forced his way toward the interior of the villa. Though he was aware of the foolishness of his behavior, he did not stop. The rose and camomile bushes seemed to be slumbering in the slanting rays of the sun. In the middle path he saw the traces of the motorcar wheels in the form of two broad, curving lines. He advanced toward the entrance hall, the vacillation and uncertainty which punctuated his determination showing that he was not entirely convinced of the soundness of his motives. Nevertheless, he climbed the stairs with unexpected determination. On reaching the veranda, a sudden surprise, which his delirious mind had never anticipated, caused him to halt in his tracks. There he saw the Bey’s daughter in flesh and blood sitting in a big chair. Lifting her eyes from a book, she looked inquiringly at the newcomer. Immobile in his amazement, he focused his eyes on her. A profoundly withering sense of shame struck him to his very roots. He realized that he faced a situation in which any shameful surrender to weakness would mean subjection to new humiliation, more degrading than all that had gone before. Encouraged anew by his fears, he got control of himself, determined to find a courageous and dignified way out of this dilemma. Bowing his head respectfully, he said with a gentle smile, “Good evening, miss. Excuse me for this unintended disturbance. May I see the Bey?”

It was the first time he heard her voice. With complete self-composure she said gently, “Sorry, my father is indisposed today.”

He bowed his head again, relieved by this unexpected way out. On the point of leaving, he said, “Farewell.” He had already turned on his heels and taken two steps away from her. Then he halted with sudden determination. His passivity had disappeared, giving way to irresponsible anger. The strange state of emotion that drove him from Heliopolis to the Bey’s villa returned to him.