Naguib Mahfouz - Khan Al-Khalili

“You heard what the lady said,” he told him. “This is typical of the first phase in the illness. With God’s help you’ll be past it in no time and then you can get well again.”

“Wouldn’t it be better for me to come home?” Rushdi pleaded.

Ahmad noticed that his mother was on the verge of agreeing to the idea. “God forgive you!” he said hurriedly. “Absolutely not. You’re not going to leave this room until you’ve completely recovered. Then you’ll be able to walk back to Cairo! Fortunately, you’re already looking a lot better.”

Kamal Khalil wanted to put an equally positive face on things. “That’s right, Rushdi Effendi,” he lied, “you’re definitely looking better.”

The boy’s mother took a closer look to see if what they were saying was believable.

“You need to be patient, Rushdi,” said his father, his calm voice cracking a little. “Be patient. May God care for you and take you by the hand.”

Rushdi said nothing, although not willingly. Ahmad was well aware of that, knowing that Rushdi was only ever convinced by his own opinions and used them alone as a basis for his actions. Ahmad was sure that if Rushdi disliked the sanitorium enough, he would not be patient nor would his stay there produce any beneficial results. That thought depressed him even more.

Just then he noticed a movement in the other bed and watched as his brother’s roommate sat up in bed. Ahmad was embarrassed because the overwhelming sadness he was feeling had made him forget to say hello to Rushdi’s roommate.

“I’m terribly sorry, Anis Effendi,” he said raising his hand in greeting. “How are you?”

“No problem!” the young man replied with a laugh. “Rushdi’s obviously eager to get out of here and leave us!”

“I’ve kept you awake a lot,” said Rushdi apologetically.

“There’s no need to apologize,” the young man replied. “I don’t mind being awake at night.”

“You seem to be a night owl,” Ahmad said with a laugh, “just like Rushdi!”

“Absolutely right! And now here comes fate to tell us we have to abandon the things we used to love.”

They all wished the two young men a speedy recovery. Ahmad’s mother went over to the table and brought over the box of chocolate biscuits. She put one down beside Rushdi where he could reach it. “Won’t you try one, Rushdi?” she begged.

He shook his head. “Not now,” he said firmly. “Later.…”

That made her sad, but she managed to put on a good front as she put the box back. Even now, she could not forget the necessary etiquette, so she went over to Anis’s bed and offered him some too.

Ahmad kept staring disconsolately at his brother, but when Rushdi turned toward him, he managed to fake a smile. He was utterly stunned to see how weak and pale his brother looked. He seemed exhausted and listless; he just lay there, a prisoner, with no interest in the outside world. He looked scared as well, and the expression in his eyes betrayed both pain and resignation to fate. Ahmad got the impression that Rushdi wanted to tell him something; so strong was this feeling that he thought that he should spend some time alone with Rushdi after his visitors had left. But then the thought occurred to him that Rushdi was going to beg to be brought home, and that made him change his mind. He clenched his fist for his brother in a show of solidarity, pretending to make light of the whole thing.

Time came to leave, and everyone said fond farewells. They all left the room, with prayers for a speedy recovery on their lips. Rushdi’s mother was the last to leave, kissing her younger son on his cheeks and forehead. On the way back she broke down, and tears welled up in her eyes. Nawal too was tearful and had no idea how to hide it. For his part, Ahmad kept his grief to himself until he got home and went to his own room. He remained optimistic and told himself that next time he would find Rushdi much improved. God, when would he ever recover that bloom, energy, and joie de vivre that he had possessed before? Would he ever again hear his brother’s touching songs, that gentle teasing and ringing laugh?

The Akif family slept that night feeling the same sorrow and grief they had felt on the night they’d parted with Rushdi. Early next morning they were all jolted awake when the doorbell started ringing. Ahmad sat up in bed. The bell kept on ringing as though no one was taking any notice. A horrendous thought suddenly occurred to him; he leapt out of bed and rushed out of his room. There he found his parents almost running toward the apartment door. No one mouthed a word, as they surrendered to whatever the fates had ordained. Swallowing hard, Ahmad made for the door, turned on the outside light, and opened it. Looking outside, he found nobody there. But the bell kept on ringing.

“There’s no one there!” he told his parents flabbergasted.

He went over to check on the bell’s battery, took off the cover, and separated the wires. Immediately the bell stopped ringing. As he closed the door, he felt tears welling up in his eyes. They all looked at each other, completely devastated.

“God protect us from Satan the accursed!” was his father’s reaction.

“Wouldn’t it be better to bring Rushdi home, if that’s what he wants?” his mother said with a sigh that came from the depths of her heart.

“My revered mother,” said Ahmad, “you must put your faith in God Almighty!”

On Sunday afternoon Ahmad was sitting with his parents, sipping coffee. A letter arrived, and Ahmad immediately recognized the handwriting.

“That’s strange,” he said. “It’s Rushdi’s handwriting.”

His parents both sat up and watched as Ahmad slit the envelope open. The letter was written in pencil and in a sloppy hand totally unlike Rushdi’s normal script:

8/3/1942

My Dear Brother

,

Greetings to you and my parents! I’m writing this at

2

a. m., but don’t be surprised at that; I’ve been robbed of the pleasure of sleep forever, and no sleeping pills have any effect. Just imagine, yesterday I took a dose of a well-known sleeping medicine; when it had absolutely no effect whatsoever, the doctor gave me a powerful drug and told me I’d sleep like a lamb. I’m still wide awake

.

This torture just goes on and on, and I’m actually sitting up — or rather resting my back against the pillows — because lying down aggravates my cough, which is now much worse. That means that I have to sit up in bed; the only way I can get any rest is to fold the pillow, put it in my lap, and then lean my head on it

.

Dear Brother, I hate to cause you any sorrow or pain, but there’s a bitter truth, one from which there is no escape, that I have to share with you. After all, you are my first and last resort. Well, dear brother, I now know the results of the X-rays that were taken the day after I arrived here. I have a new spot on my right lung, and the old one on my left lung has created a cavity the size of a quarter. My general health is grave. Here’s the report of the resident physician: “Absolutely no tolerance for food, no sleep at all, clear cough, breathing continuously impaired.” I’m going to die, there’s no doubt about that, none whatsoever. As I write these words to you, tears are pouring down my face, and I can’t even see the words I’m writing to say good-bye to you. Every time I think of you all, I burst into tears

.

So that’s the way things are. The only thing I beg you to do now is to bring me home so I can spend my final days at home with all of you until I die. This time please don’t raise any objections. Once again, I’m sorry to cause you so much grief, but what am I supposed to do? Don’t tell our parents about this. God’s blessings and peace upon you