Naguib Mahfouz - Khan Al-Khalili

“The doctor told me I can do it,” Rushdi replied optimistically. “He knows best. God willing, I can be cured without sacrificing my future or raising any kind of scandal.”

Now Ahmad was really annoyed. “Scandal?” he said in disbelief. “There’s no scandal involved. God is testing you. Everyone is liable to get sick unless God ordains that they be protected and saved. What I’m afraid of is that.…”

“Don’t be scared,” Rushdi interrupted. “Pray to your God for me. You’re going to be happy with the way I handle things.”

Ahmad felt overwhelmed and said nothing more. Rushdi sighed in relief and started telling his brother about the precautionary measures he was proposing to take. He would get some carbolic acid so he could sanitize the bath and sink every morning and would buy special cutlery and crockery for when he ate and drank. He would tell his parents that they were a present from a dear friend of his. His brother listened carefully. For the first time he started to worry about himself, thinking about the possibility of infection. He was a bit of a hypochondriac in any case.

At this point Rushdi made ready to broach another sensitive topic no less tricky than the first one, if not even more so. “There’s something else, Ahmad,” he said, “something that’s of extreme importance to me. I’d like to ask you to stick to it as carefully as I’m going to. I want this entire conversation we’ve had to remain between us only.”

Ahmad was utterly astonished. Then he remembered the way Rushdi had just talked about the crockery and cutlery being a present. “But what about our parents?” he asked.

“They don’t need to know anything about it,” Rushdi replied firmly. “There’s no point in getting them all worried. If my mother gets scared, that’ll be enough to publicize the whole thing.”

Ahmad felt distinctly uneasy, realizing that all this implied a peculiar and unhappy family life. “Have it your way, Rushdi,” he sighed. “If you start getting better, then maybe we can keep things a secret, but if not, then.…”

“Don’t worry! From now on recklessness is no longer an option.”

Ahmad realized full well what Rushdi’s motivations were in wanting to keep it all a secret from his parents. Rushdi was worried that the news would soon spread to the girl’s family; for that reason he was making light of the whole thing. This realization had a profound effect on Ahmad, and he was deeply saddened by it. Rushdi may have been staying at work because he was anxious for the girl and her family to think he was still fit and well, but in fact his longing for the girl was causing him real harm. At this point he plucked up his courage and turned to Rushdi again.

“Rushdi,” he whispered, “if you wanted to request a leave without revealing your secret, then I’m sure we could come up with some kind of pretext other than your illness to justify such a request.”

Rushdi shook his head angrily. “Oh Ahmad,” he replied wearily, “it’s all settled. Don’t go back to it again!”

Ahmad said no more. After a while he stood up. “Be strong then,” he told his brother, “and act like the kind of man I’ve always known you to be. You know that whether you get better or not is entirely in your own hands. May God protect you and care for you!”

Ahmad went back to his own room feeling sad and depressed. News of this dangerous illness had managed to arouse all his latent anxieties, and he felt a genuine sympathy for his beloved brother. At this moment he entirely forgot that his brother had been the instrument that fate had used to demolish his own hopes or that Rushdi had been the one to hurt his self-esteem and crush his pride. Now he could see Rushdi as he really was, a beloved younger brother, someone who had grown up in his embrace and given him a sense of fatherhood for twenty years.

He looked over at the closed window that he had once named Nawal’s, then looked away in anger. His heart was still unwilling to remember the girl; the mere act of doing so involved committing an unforgivable crime against his sick brother. This new disaster now required that all such memories be expunged.

“It’s all over and done with,” he told himself. “Any pangs of regret I may feel are a stinging blow to the deep love I have for my own brother.”

Just then he became aware of quite how furious he was as he talked to himself. In truth, the fury was self-directed. He could not forget the way he had wanted to see the whole of Cairo obliterated and the fearsome dream he had experienced when he had woken up to the sounds of his brother’s fever-induced moans. Good God, he asked himself, what kind of atrocious devil was residing inside him to spew forth such ideas?

Rushdi set about confronting his dangerous illness with zeal. He regularly took the medicine and injections that the doctor had ordered for him and, in addition to the usual food he ate at home, he started eating other things that were especially nutritious: yogurt, eggs, honey, liver, and pigeon, all of which cost him quite a bit of money. He kept his brother fully informed about the steps he was taking so as to allay his fears.

January went by with its freezing cold wind, and everything seemed to be going well. Rushdi made do with one single hour of pleasure each day, the one he spent with his two pupils. No later than ten o’clock each night he would go to bed and fall fast asleep. The hoarseness in his voice disappeared, and his cough improved too, almost to the point of stopping completely. That thrilled him since it seemed to confirm that he was on the road to recovery. But he was still skinny, and his color did not come back. Every ten days he went to see the doctor who continued to give him advice and suggested that he maintain or even increase his self-care.

The early days of the illness were black indeed. He fell victim to all sorts of worries and delusions and felt such despair that it actually scared him. Life seemed almost at an end, and yet his joie de vivre was certainly no less than that of other people. Whenever he recalled that he was staying in Cairo, when the best thing for him was to stay at the sanitorium outside the city in Helwan, and that he was carrying on working when he should really have taken a leave. All of which made him feel even more afraid and anxious. However, emotional types like him never know how to pause for thought when it comes to pursuing their desires; their thought processes are just like those of a criminal who has a clever lawyer working for him. Thus, even when these worries were at their peak, he still managed to convince himself that he was on the right track. When his voice lost its hoarseness and his coughing stopped — or almost — he was delighted. His self-confidence, sense of security, and hope all came back. This new feeling of calmness afforded him a degree of tranquility and respite.

However, this situation did not last very long. His old brashness and ribald tendencies came back, bringing with them a deep-felt longing to indulge in life’s pleasures once again. His illness and the dangers it posed no longer bothered him much. He was full of admiration for his patience and willpower, as he recalled the month of January when he had trained himself to do exactly what he had promised his brother to do. It shocked and amazed him at the same time; it was almost as though he believed himself incapable of changing direction and living an upright existence for an entire month. Now, with hope smiling at him, he could hear life’s pleasures — his own life’s pleasures — summoning him with magic whispers, like the songs of the nightingale in the early morning.

In his current lonely state he remembered his friends, the Ghamra Casino, and the nights of revelry. Their happy, smiling faces appeared before him, and his ears rang with echoes of their pealing laughter; the way they called him “the Lionheart,” the nickname he loved, relished, and was afraid to forget. What wonderful friends they were! Life could be nothing without them — so much fun and such good company! How could he ever forget the way they had pestered him with phone calls at the bank when he had stayed away.