Naguib Mahfouz - Khan Al-Khalili

The doctor shrugged his shoulders in contempt. “I reject such ideas,” he said. “You should know that I had the disease at one point. Even so, you must only eat the very best food, take a complete rest, and live in clean, dry air. All those things you can find at the sanitorium. Get to Helwan as soon as you can.”

“How long will the cure take, do you think?”

“I’d say, six months at the most.”

Rushdi’s heart sank. He was sure that a period as long as that would mean that he would lose his job. If this piece of news got out tomorrow and reached “the neighbors,” he would lose his girl as well. For both these reasons the idea of the sanitorium did not appeal to him at all.

“What if these conditions were also available at home?” he asked.

“Where do you live?”

“In Khan al-Khalili.”

“As far as I know, that’s a very damp area. The sanitorium is by far the best place for you to be. And don’t forget that you’ll need the very best care as well.”

He began to warm to the idea of a home-cure system; that way, no one would find out his secret. He would be able to keep his job and his girl.

“What if I can’t go to the sanitorium?” he asked.

The doctor shrugged his shoulders again. “In that case you’d have to take extra special care in the house, particularly where rest and food are concerned. You’d have to stay in bed, of course. I’ll describe the medical process to you.…”

While the doctor was busy writing out the medical protocol for him, Rushdi suddenly thought of a crucially important question. “I’ve just thought of another issue,” he said after a brief pause. “Can I … I mean, when can I get married if I have this kind of disease?”

For the first time the doctor smiled. “I would hope that, with the necessary care, you’ll be cured in about six months,” he said. “You’ll have to stay under observation for a full year after that. Then it would be a good idea to wait another six months.…”

Once again, he advised Rushdi to go to the sanitorium if it was at all feasible and then recommended that, if he could not do so, he should certainly come to see him from time to time. Rushdi went home bearing with him the entire weight of his misery. To him, everything now seemed like a terrible dream; his ears, in fact his entire world, were filled with that dreadful word — tuberculosis. Should he believe what everyone said about it, or believe what the doctor had told him? Had the doctor decided to tell him the truth, or was he trying to allay his fears? He had told him quite frankly that he had suffered from the disease himself, so Rushdi saw no reason to disbelieve him. Yes indeed, six months was a long time, but he would have to put his trust in God and endure it patiently. Had he been free to do what he wanted, he would certainly have preferred going to the sanitorium, but two things stood in the way: his job and his beloved. What was he supposed to do?

His health, which he had never even bothered about until now, was in imminent danger. Before today he had never had occasion to look back with nostalgic regret on his health. It had never occurred to him that health might be something that could vanish or change drastically. But what was the point of being healthy if he lost his job? What purpose did it serve if it placed a roadblock between him and the girl with whom he was so in love? The best thing would be to stay at home, get accustomed to looking after himself, and take his medicine without anyone finding out about his secret. That way, he could get better without having to give away his secret or lose both his job and his beloved.

That is the way his thought processes developed. What made it much easier for him to convince himself was that he still had his basic functions in place and was able to move around. While keeping his condition a secret, he had in fact begun the prescribed routine, until quite by chance his brother had come into the bathroom; after that his secret had been no more. The truth is that he was not sorry, not only because his elder brother was so much a part of himself, but also because the process of keeping it hidden away was preying on his mind, so he felt a sense of relief when his brother found out. He unloaded all his sorrows on to Ahmad, except the part involving the sanitorium, about which he still felt a need to be a bit cautious.…

Ahmad listened silently to his younger brother talking, his heart full of the most profound sadness. He completely forgot about the mixed feelings he had felt toward his brother, wavering between love and aversion. All he could feel now was just one irrepressible, instinctual emotion — a genuine love in which was combined extreme worry and overwhelming sadness. Memories from the recent past still impinged, but he squelched them immediately, feeling not a little ashamed. He was even annoyed with the girl who was the root cause of them.

When Rushdi finished the account of his visit to the doctor, the two brothers stared at each other, sadness and worry written all over their faces.

“This is God’s will,” said Ahmad, “but we’ll never despair of His mercy. We have to believe what the doctor says. It’s not like doctors to offer false hope to their patients. The lesion is a small one, he says. From now on, we’ll have to devote as much care and attention as we can to treating it. I must say that I’m shocked that you didn’t tell me as soon as you knew about it!”

“I only found out just before the feast,” Rushdi replied quickly, even though he knew it was not the truth. “I didn’t want to bother anyone. I was waiting for the right moment to tell you, and only you, about it.”

“It’s God’s will,” said Ahmad sadly. “So let’s endure His judgment until such time as He bestows a cure, He being far more merciful to us than we are to ourselves. Now, tell me what you’ve decided to do.”

The question made Rushdi panic, and he looked warily at his brother. “Needless to say, I’m going to follow the doctor’s instruction,” he said. “He’s told me to take things easy, eat good food, and have some injections.”

Ahmad’s expression made it clear that he was not entirely convinced by what he had just heard. “But people with this disease normally go to the sanitorium,” he said.

Once again Rushdi lied to his brother. “The doctor doesn’t think it’s necessary.”

Ahmad now looked more hopeful. “Well, Rushdi,” he said, “maybe it’s a minor attack after all!”

“For sure! That’s what the doctor told me.”

“Maybe you won’t need to take a lot of time off.”

Once again Rushdi felt awkward. “I’m not going to ask for time off,” he told his brother in a low voice.

That shocked Ahmad. “How on earth can you recover then?” he asked in disbelief. “You may have been told it’s a minor case, but don’t treat this illness lightly, Rushdi. We’ve had enough of that kind of behavior already!”

“Heaven forbid, Ahmad, that I should play fast and loose with my own life! From now on, you’ll see that, apart from going to work, I’m going to take things very easily. I’ll compensate for the effort I put into going to work by eating carefully and taking fortifying medicines. If I request sick leave, it’ll put my job and future at risk.”

“Aren’t you exaggerating?”

“No, Ahmad, certainly not! If the bank’s doctor finds out about my illness, I won’t be allowed back until I’m completely cured. That may require a long time, and I’ve no guarantee that I won’t be dismissed. Actually, it’s virtually certain in such cases, in view of the fact that I’ve taken sick leaves both here and in Asyut before.”

Ahmad frowned and looked even more anxious. “Good God,” he protested, “health’s far more important than a job. How can you possibly get better when you’re still working hard?”