Naguib Mahfouz - Khan Al-Khalili

“Are you trying to commit suicide?” Ahmad would rail at him.

The truth is that he was on a downhill slide toward suicide without even intending it. He was utterly incapable of resisting his natural inclination to indulge in life’s pleasures and surrendered to a frightening new instinct created by the disease itself, while his propensity for risk-taking and optimism shielded him from the dire outcome involved. He never gave up hope, or rather only occasionally; and remained the daredevil he had always been, contemptuous and always smiling.

Then suddenly his cough came back; in fact, it came back much worse than it had ever been before. Now it was almost continuous, and once again his sputum had blood in it. His fellow workers in the bank noticed how badly he was coughing and began to get suspicious. Work now became pointless, and his parents began to be aware of how dangerous the condition that threatened their son actually was. They advised him to stop working until he had recovered, and yet he still crazily insisted on pretending he was well. Ahmad could take it no longer; one day he called him into his room.

“Are you ignoring how dangerous things are?”

“What are you implying?” his brother asked him in a resigned tone he had not been expecting.

“You can’t keep working any more. Let alone going out at night and carousing!”

“So the scandal is out, is it?”

“This illness isn’t a scandal!” Ahmad responded emphatically. “Necessity has it own rules.”

Rushdi looked at the floor. He had lost all will to resist. “It’s all in God’s hands!” he said with a sigh.

The way Rushdi had given way so suddenly was a sign of exhaustion, not of conviction. No sooner did the bank’s doctor establish the real cause of his illness and give him sick leave than his strength completely collapsed. He retired to his bed, feeling utterly weak and wracked by coughing fits. Ahmad still kept the true facts from his parents, but Rushdi’s condition deteriorated with frightening speed. His mother noticed the blood in his sputum, and his father heard about it. Both of them were terrified. Rushdi’s condition demanded a consultation with the doctor. Ahmad suggested inviting him to the house, but Rushdi decided they should both go to his clinic. He got dressed, helped by his mother who was now deeply concerned about her younger son. They took a taxi to the doctor’s clinic, and Ahmad went with his brother into the consulting room. The doctor had not seen Rushdi for a couple of weeks.

“What on earth have you done to yourself?” he asked in his usual loud voice as soon as he set eyes on Rushdi.

“I’m coughing a lot and feel very weak,” Rushdi responded with a wan smile.

The doctor examined him. There was a long pause. “Just one word to you,” he said. “The sanitorium now!”

Rushdi’s sallow face showed a frown. “Is it worse?” he asked softly.

“Undoubtedly,” the doctor replied with raised eyebrows. “You clearly haven’t been taking my advice. But if you get to Helwan as soon as possible, there’s no need to worry. Get there today if you can. You’ll find me there right beside you.”

“Will he need to stay in Helwan for long?” Ahmad asked.

“Only God knows the answer to that,” the doctor replied. “I’m not a pessimist, but it has to be done now.”

The two of them returned home to find their parents waiting impatiently.

“What’s the matter with him?” the father asked Ahmad.

Ahmad realized there was no point in lying any more.

“He needs to go to the sanitorium,” he replied with deliberate terseness.

There was silence. Sitt Dawlat’s eyes turned red, a sign that she was about to burst into tears.

“God be kind to us!” their father muttered.

“There’s no need for alarm,” said Ahmad trying to reassure them. “But he must go to the sanitorium.”

Rushdi still did not want to go there, but he did not dare refuse now that his condition was so bad. He called his brother over. “Okay then, so be it: the sanitorium,” he said in his mother’s hearing. Then pointing to the window he went on, “but please don’t tell them the truth!”

Ahmad was overwhelmed and felt utterly depressed. “Don’t worry,” he said. “I can easily say that you’ve some fluid in your lungs and you need to go to the sanitorium.”

“Will that be enough, do you think?” Rushdi asked sadly.

“Getting rid of fluid in your lungs takes a long time,” Ahmad replied. “Whatever the case may be, it’s more important now to look after your own health than anything else.”

Without wasting any time Ahmad followed the instructions of the doctor who had been treating his brother and immediately started making arrangements to have Rushdi admitted to the sanitorium. A bed had become available at the beginning of March because the patient involved had completed his treatment. It was therefore decided to take Rushdi to the sanitorium on that date. Only a short wait was involved, but during that period the family suffered all manner of emotions, a mixture of worry and hope.

Rushdi’s coughing was causing him a great deal of pain and making it difficult for him to sleep. His parents sank into a deep depression, the serenity of their life totally destroyed; the expressions on their faces were a mixture of hope and anxiety.

Now Ahmad fell victim to all his pent-up anxieties, feeling gloomy and worried all the time. Kamal Khalil Effendi came to visit and assured Rushdi that fluid in the lungs was nothing to worry about. Sitt Tawhida and her daughter, Nawal, also called in when Ahmad was not at home. The mother told him that his insistence on staying so thin was what had made him so ill; with a laugh she assured him that, once he got better, she would make sure that he got fatter. With Rushdi’s parents listening, Nawal did not know what to say; even he could not risk looking at her all the time. Even so, they managed to exchange fleeting glances that communicated messages of love, thanks, and silent sorrow.

Rushdi was very happy that they had paid him a visit, the kind of happiness he had not felt since he had taken to his bed. When mother and daughter had both left, he shared with his mother his fears that the true nature of his illness might become public knowledge, but the poor woman managed to reassure her son that it would remain a secret known only to the people who loved him the most.

On the first of March a taxi took the two brothers to Bab al-Luq Station. The last thing Rushdi heard inside his parents’ home were his father’s prayers; the last thing he saw were his mother’s tears.

“If the cure takes a long time,” Rushdi told his brother on the way, “I’ll be fired for sure.”

“Even if that happens, heaven forbid,” Ahmad replied confidently, “it’ll be easy to get your job back. The only thing you should be worried about is getting better.”

They got on the train, which soon left for Helwan. They sat side by side. Ahmad remained silent, his thin face a mirror of deep anxiety. Rushdi coughed from time to time. Ahmad was struck by the string of bad luck that had afflicted his family. They had already lost one child, and now here was Rushdi afflicted with a very serious illness. He himself had been set up by fate for a series of failures and missteps. If only fate had made do with him alone, that would have been tolerable to him, but unfortunately it had not. Glancing at his younger brother, he was shocked to see how thin he was, how scrawny his neck looked, and how bleary his eyes were. Where was that bright, mocking gleam that had once been there?

“O Lord,” he prayed silently to himself, “will this tragedy ever end? Will I ever be able to open my eyes and not be confronted by specters of memories long past?”