Naguib Mahfouz - The Beginning and the End

Turning around, he faced the girl once more with an audacity disrespectful to her proud eyes. He said in too loud a voice, which the situation did not require, “Sorry. It pains me to say farewell to this house without expressing my thoughts.”

Not uttering a single word, she looked at him inquiringly.

“I think you were told that I had asked for your hand?” he asked.

Lowering her eyes, she said, “I’m not accustomed to having my father’s visitors speak to me.”

“I thought it quite normal in high-class society,” he said, rather surprised.

“Not always.”

“Nevertheless, allow me to speak,” he continued. “I wanted to see the Bey to speak to him about this very matter. I’ve been told that my proposal was considered unpardonable impertinence.”

“It’s better to postpone discussing this subject until you meet the Bey,” she said, still casting down her eyes.

Fixing his eyes on the girl’s face, Hassanein said, “But I must speak, since I’ve been lucky enough to meet you, who are primarily concerned. It’s important for me to know your opinion. Is my proposal really an impertinence?”

“Please postpone discussing this matter until the right time,” she said with annoyance.

Although he had anticipated her annoyance, it pained and irritated him. “A man who proposes to a girl,” he went on, “usually offers the best of himself. Unfortunately, it happens sometimes that people only see the worst side of him, such as certain things connected with his family background.”

Frowning, she rose. “I must go,” she said.

She walked toward the entrance of the hall. He said in a loud voice that followed her in her flight, “I wanted your opinion. But that’s enough. I’m sorry. Please convey my regards to the Bey.”

Hurriedly turning on his heels, he climbed down the stairs and walked toward the door. A jumble of distant, scattered scenes swiftly rushed to his mind. He remembered his treatment of Bahia in their new flat, al-Bardisi’s conversation in the Casino, and this recent scene with the Bey’s daughter.

Thanks be to God, I’m not a failure as a lover; I was about to be one, but God has saved me. Yet I’m a failure as a man, which is even worse. I need to think about all these conversations. I feel I’m suffering from a new disease. What is it? What’s wrong with me? And what’s the remedy?

As he came out into the street, he was sure he had committed an absurd, foolish mistake.

Despite the sorrowful look in her eyes, Samira could still smile. “It’s strange,” she said, “how you thrust yourself into serious trouble without being prepared. Suppose they had approved your marriage, what would you have done? Didn’t you think of this? Didn’t we all warn you of its consequences?”

About ten days had passed since Hassanein’s conversation with his friend al-Bardisi. Whenever Samira observed Hassanein’s absentmindedness as they sat together in the afternoons on the balcony overlooking the road, she started talking to console his sad heart. Nefisa joined in with mingled levity and seriousness.

“Tomorrow doesn’t seem much better than today,” Hassanein said in a bored voice.

“Rubbish,” Nefisa said, and Samira added, “In time you’ll discover that it is mere nonsense, and you’ll find a better wife.”

He wondered why he seemed to be the only pessimist in the family. Was it he or they who were stupid? Wasn’t the role the devil played in this world more serious than the roles of all angels combined? Why didn’t they see this? He had sent Hussein a letter, telling him the news of his rejected engagement. His brother’s reaction had been similar to that of his mother and sister. Were they all as they appeared? Alive — or dead? Had the idea of a decent, luxurious life ceased to have any meaning for them?

His train of thought was suddenly interrupted by the continuous ringing of the doorbell and by screams of “Master…mistress,” uttered by the agitated servant who opened the door. Hassanein, followed by Samira and Nefisa, rushed into the hall to find out what the matter was. In the open doorway he saw two strangers supporting a third man, whose neck reclined on one of their shoulders. That he was injured was clear from the dirty bandage on his head, dripping with blood. Stunned and uncomprehending, Hassanein approached the two newcomers until he was only a few steps away. He fixed his eyes on the wounded face under the receding bandage; its pale white complexion was tinged with a blueness that suggested death. The face, covered with hair, bore marks of swelling and inflammation. The closed, tired eyes blinked. Through the eyelashes appeared a wan, familiar glance which shocked Hassanein’s memory suddenly back to life like an exploding bomb. Before Hassanein could speak, his mother’s voice behind him confirmed his growing suspicions, as suddenly she cried, in a voice full of fear and compassion, “Hassan! It’s Hassan!”

“Hassan!” Hassanein repeated in amazement.

Supporting Hassan’s neck with his shoulder, one of the men who helped carry him growled, “We must put him to bed at once.”

Astounded, Hassanein advanced toward them. Bending over his brother’s feet, he grasped and gently raised his legs and helped the two men carry Hassan to his bedroom. There they laid him on the only bed in the flat. Followed by Hassanein, the two men hurried out of the room, while Samira and Nefisa rushed in indescribable fear toward the bed. On reaching the hall, one of the men, in gallabiya and skullcap, was the first to speak.

“Excuse me,” he said, pointing to the other, who was dressed as an Effendi, “this is the taxi driver.”

Realizing that he was hinting at the unpaid taxi fare, Hassanein walked out with him to the taxi. He paid the driver and dismissed him, but he held the other man.

“What happened?” he asked in fear and confusion.

“Master Hassan is my brother and friend,” the man said. “Perhaps you know he’s a fugitive from the police. Seizing this opportunity, some of his enemies hid themselves in a spot they knew he was accustomed to pass, treacherously ambushed him, robbed him of his money, and fled. Suffering from his injuries, the poor man arrived at my house and begged me to take him to his family. We took a taxi to Nasr Allah alley, and the neighbors told us you had moved to this flat. So we came here immediately.”

Hassanein listened absentmindedly. Though his heart was charged with emotions, fear and worry predominated. When the stranger finished his story, Hassanein muttered, “Thank you, sir, for your kindness. Would you be so good as to stay with him for an hour until he gets some rest?”

But raising his hand to his head in an expression of thanks for the invitation, the man said, “I must go at once. I’ve got to tell you something more before I go. You must take care of this wound at once. But I warn you, don’t call the police or take him to the hospital, as this will lead to an investigation and the meddling of the police.”

The man saluted and departed. As if he were groping his way through the murky dark on shaky ground, Hassanein returned to the room where Hassan had been placed. He found his brother lying senseless, as before. Obviously worried, the women bent over him, and at the sound of Hassanein’s approach, they turned to him for help. For a long time, he looked closely at his brother.

“Didn’t he speak?” he inquired in a strange voice.

Swallowing hard, the mother said, “He muttered a few meaningless words before he fainted. Go get a doctor!”

The injured man moved his hand with a strenuous effort. When there was need for it, he seemed able to overcome his weakness. With a feeble voice, devoid of its usual vigor, he said, “No doctor. The doctor…informs…the police.”