Naguib Mahfouz - Khan Al-Khalili

“Where are you, brother Rushdi? Why this long absence? When you were in Asyut, it seems, you were closer to us than you are now in Cairo! Is the Lionheart’s chair to remain empty? And we’re missing your cash too!”

How hard he had laughed with them, parried their protests, and then offered important business as his excuse for his prolonged absence. He longed to see his friends, to have a bit of fun. The life of pleasure kept beckoning him.

He started to wonder whether one night would be all that harmful. Could it really be fatal? Truth to tell, his relish for life had not diminished because of his illness; if anything, it had become that more acute and vigorous. Eventually, the temptation proved too much and he threw caution to the winds. The very thought of being released from the tortures of despair thrilled him, and he started humming to himself the tune, “I Can’t Forget You.” He hadn’t sung anything for a month and a half.

When evening came, he put on his coat, slung a scarf around his neck, and went to al-Sakakini. No sooner did he spot the garden of the Ghamra Casino than he yelled out from the very depths of his soul, “Hello, hello, how wonderful to see you!” His friends were overjoyed to see him again, and he simply surrendered himself to their unstoppable energy. They chatted in their usual crazy way, then went inside to smoke, drink, and gamble. He was afraid of not indulging himself in case they started getting suspicious. At the same time he was anxious to forget — such was his hope at the time — that his left lung was infected with that disease whose very name made people shudder in fright. He smoked and drank two glasses of cognac that warmed up his cold body. He gambled as well, although he hesitated a bit because the costs of the drugs he was taking were playing havoc with his budget. But fate smiled on him, and he won almost two pounds.

He left the casino feeling happy, although he could feel a certain hotness burning his tissues. It was very hard for him to walk in the freezing cold. When he reached home, he was utterly exhausted. No sooner had he closed the door than Ahmad’s door opened, and he came out. He invited Rushdi into his room. The younger brother followed him, feeling not a little ashamed and nervous.

“What on earth have you been doing?” Ahmad yelled. “Have you gone mad? Is this the agreement we made?”

Rushdi remained silent, although the semblance of a smile showed on his face, a mixture of contentment and worry.

“This is unbelievable,” Ahmad went on. “I only found out because your bed was empty. I was feeling anxious, so I was only sleeping lightly. Then I heard the front door. Is this what we agreed to?”

“As you know full well, brother,” Rushdi finally said in a low voice, “I’ve kept to the agreement for a whole month. Now my inner self urged me to break it, just a bit.…”

“Only someone who’s either completely ignorant or pretending to be could possibly say something so stupid. Don’t you realize that the kind of behavior you’ve shown tonight can negate a whole month’s precautions?”

“But I’m feeling a whole lot better!”

“You’re kidding yourself!” said Ahmad angrily. “Your crass stupidity is doing you harm. Allowing you so much freedom is obviously a huge mistake. If the doctor knew the kind of tomfoolery you’ve been up to tonight, he would immediately demand that you go to the sanitorium for a check-up.”

Rushdi looked defeated. The whole effort of coming home and facing this had completely worn him out.

“Don’t be unkind to me, Ahmad,” he chided his brother. “You don’t usually behave this way.…”

“Now you don’t seem to be able to tell the difference between caring and unkindness,” Ahmad responded. “You call me unkind, when I’ve stayed up in a complete panic wondering where you were. It’s yourself and me you’re being unkind to!”

Rushdi now felt even more tired and worn-out. Tears welled up in his eyes. That made Ahmad cool his temper and feel both sorry and unhappy for his brother. He put his hand on Rushdi’s shoulder.

“Enough of your exhaustion and my pain. You’ve never cried, so don’t start now. I won’t bother you any more. God alone can tell you what the right thing to do is. My heart is afraid for you and is begging you to do what’s right. Go to bed and trust in God to make you well again.”

As Ahmad went back to bed, he started wondering whether his brother would revert to his old ways despite his serious illness.

Early February was greeted by a world that was as concerned as usual about its strong winds and freezing storms. The sky was covered with a thick layer of dark clouds. The ground was like a chicken sitting on its eggs, waiting for the advent of spring that would crack open the dark cloud cover and reveal the clear sunlight and the scent of flowers.

Rushdi still looked very skinny. Deep inside him there lurked a flame consisting of emotions and feelings that would not be quenched. He wanted to throw off the chains that his illness imposed on him. The doctor had given him another check-up and told him that his chest condition had not improved. All his hopes were dashed, and the joy he had felt when his voice and cough had improved simply vanished. He had been patient for so long, abandoning the life that he loved. He kept on hoping and hoping, but when was he going to get better? What was even worse was that the doctor had insisted that he must find a way to get to the sanitorium in Helwan. Had he given up on the idea that Rushdi could be cured while staying in Cairo? So what then was the point of enduring all this patience and agony? Apart from all that, his brother made it clear to him that he was not happy about how thin and pale he looked. As a result Rushdi was permanently disgruntled and resentful.

One evening he was giving his two pupils their lesson. Nawal asked her brother to go and get a cup of water. When the two of them were alone, she asked Rushdi why he wasn’t meeting her every morning any longer. Couldn’t he do it just once? His heart leapt for sheer joy.

“How about tomorrow morning?” he immediately replied, totally oblivious to the consequences of what he was saying.

It was then that he thought of his brother who was now serving as his jailer. He told himself that, if Ahmad acknowledged that he had to go out at nine o’clock in the morning, then how could he object if he went out three-quarters of an hour earlier?

The next day Rushdi got up early, had his nutritious breakfast, waited until Ahmad went into the bathroom, then hurriedly left the apartment. He spotted his beloved girl a few steps ahead of him, wearing her usual gray coat and with her school bag under her arm. He was so overjoyed that he forgot all about his own miseries. As he followed her up the road to al-Darrasa, he fondly recalled the times when he had felt fit and well as he did this routine. The entire idea made him sigh in regret.

“How precious health is,” he told himself.

He looked up at the Muqattam Hills shrouded in cloud. The sky always put him in mind of his Lord, and he now begged Him to take him in hand.

After the turn off in the road he caught up with her and clasped her right hand in his. She turned toward him with a smile.

“So,” she teased him in a tone that was not without a touch of reproach, “you have decided that this little jaunt isn’t worth your time, you fickle boy?”

He shook his head remorsefully. “It’s this awful cold,” he muttered.

“You’re supposed to have gotten over your cold a while ago,” she said. “So why so slow?”

“You’re right. It’s hanging on, but it’s nothing really. The truth is that it’s my negligence that’s to blame.”