Naguib Mahfouz - Khan Al-Khalili

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Your ever-loyal brother

,

Rushdi

Ahmad read the letter in a kind of stupor, then reread parts of it over and over again. When he had finished, he felt almost dizzy, unwilling to accept what his brother was telling him. Even so, by the time he looked up he had managed to recover some of his self-control and could face his mother calmly enough to tell her an outright lie. His consideration for his mother’s feelings and the fact that she was sitting so close to him allowed him to forget about himself for a while and keep a firm grip on his nerves. He looked at his parents and saw that they were both anxiously waiting for him to say something, like a person waiting to be shot by a firing squad with no blind over their eyes.

“Rushdi’s insisting on coming home,” Ahmad said, feigning exasperation. “What’s the matter with him?”

“But he’s doing fine!” his mother said.

“All’s well and good,” Ahmad went on, “but he loathes the sanitorium.”

“Bring him home to me, Ahmad. There’s no point in keeping him at the sanitorium against his will.”

Ahmad stood up. “I’ll go to Helwan tomorrow and bring him back,” he said.

With that he gave his father the letter and went to his own room, with his mother behind him.

Next day he went back to Helwan without delay or hesitation. All the way there he felt conflicted and agitated. For the first time in ages he was contemplating the prospect of death as an imminent reality, considering its direst aspects and feeling the pain, despair, and fear that came with it. He could envisage the family tomb far away, the one that had swallowed up his baby brother and that would now pile up its earth again to create a hole to envelop his dear brother, Rushdi, someone without whom he had no idea how to live his own life. As he drew ever closer to the sanitorium, he became more and more depressed. Terror now had its heavy foot planted firmly on his chest. Good God, he wondered, how would he find Rushdi today, when he hadn’t been getting any sleep at all?

The sun was slowly setting as he walked out of the train station. Taking a taxi to the sanitorium, he went up to the third floor without paying attention to anything else. As he approached the door to Rushdi’s room, his heart was pounding. He went in and looked straight at the bed. There was Rushdi, exactly as he had described himself in his letter, sitting up, with his head leaning on a cushion folded in his lap.

“Rushdi!” he exclaimed, swallowing hard.

His brother looked up quickly. Ahmad noticed how very pale his face was and how hard he was finding it to breathe. A glimmer of happiness showed in Rushdi’s eyes.

“You’ve come,” he said in a quavering voce. “Take me out of here, please.…”

“That’s why I’ve come, Rushdi,” Ahmad said to calm himself down a bit.

He turned to Anis Bishara, and they exchanged greetings.

“Poor Rushdi!” Anis said in a tone of voice that clearly showed how worried he was. “He never gets any sleep. Last night was terrible. It’ll really be better for him to spend this next week at home. But he should come back here later!”

Ahmad nodded his head in agreement. “Do you know what the procedures are for requesting to take him home?”

“Go and ask the doctor immediately,” he replied in the same serious tone of voice.

Ahmad encountered no difficulties in getting permission; in fact, he was not a little scared by the alacrity with which the doctor agreed to the request.

He went back to his brother’s room and collected his things. Rushdi could not take his pajamas off and put on outdoor clothes, so he made do with a dressing gown. They brought a wheelchair to take him to the elevator. Anis Bishara accompanied him to the outer door of the sanitorium to say farewell and shook his hand warmly as he uttered a prayer for his recovery. Ahmad watched as his brother submitted meekly to the arms of the people carrying him; his eyes rolled and he looked so incredibly thin. Ahmad could not help remembering how fresh and handsome his younger brother had always looked, and how elegant, witty, and energetic he had been. Ahmad was so devastated that he could not avoid biting his lip, sensing as he did so a huge sob rising from the very depth of his soul.

When they got home, they found his parents and Kamal Khalil’s family all waiting for them. Sitt Tawhida and Nawal had come to pay a visit to the sick young man’s mother. When they heard that his elder brother had gone to the sanitorium to bring him home, they both stayed on until he arrived. When Rushdi finally appeared, everyone was completely shocked, and no one made any effort to hide their feelings. The young man seemed to have no idea of what was going on nor did he seem to realize that anyone else was there. They sat him down on his bed; his chest was heaving up and down and his eyes were closed. Everyone stared at him, unable to say a single word. Sitt Dawlat, his mother, turned pale and started trembling. She rushed over to his bed and sat behind him so he could lean back on her much-troubled breast. After a while Rushdi opened his eyes and looked round the room at the people gathered there. There was now a glint of awareness and recognition, and a hint of a smile appeared.

“Thank God!” he said in a husky voice that seemed to come from the depths of his chest, “thank God, I’m back in my own room!”

Everyone repeated a prayer of thanks, and Sitt Tawhida reiterated it.

“God willing, I’ll get better here,” he said with a smile. “Please don’t leave, dear lady!”

She kissed him on the shoulder. “I won’t, dear Rushdi, God willing!” she replied. “My heart can’t deceive me.”

His eyes met Nawal’s several times, and on each occasion he was greeted by a sweet smile that managed to combine in one all her prayers, hopes, and fears. Ahmad moved off to one side, never taking his eyes off his brother. Every time Rushdi’s eyes glazed over, Ahmad shuddered. “God Almighty,” he thought to himself, “show us your mercy!”

“It would be best,” said Rushdi’s father wisely, “for us to leave him so he can get his breath back and rest.”

Everyone went out except for his mother. The two visitors went home. For a while Ahmad stayed in his own room, but he could not stand it for long and went back to his brother’s. There he found Rushdi still pleased to be back and talking to his mother.

“I’m so happy to be home,” he was telling her in a soft, quavering voice. “The sanitorium was so awful; I didn’t eat anything and I didn’t get any sleep. I saw one patient bleed so much that he basically drowned in his own blood. They went past our room carrying another patient to the isolation wing where they put people who are close to death. It was a shame that my poor health had a negative effect on Anis Bishara, my roommate. I got the impression that my condition scared him, so he started crying. Now I feel much more relaxed.…”

He looked up at Ahmad. For a moment he said nothing, his chest still going up and down. “I’m so sorry, Ahmad,” he went on. “I’ve worn you out. Don’t hold my disobedience against me. From now on, I’m going to take care of myself, I promise. I’m not going to go against any advice you want to give me. If God grants me a cure, I’ll never play fast and loose with my life again.”

Ahmad had to grit his teeth to stop himself from bursting into tears.

“There’s no need to blame yourself, Rushdi,” he said with a smile. “Everything happens in accordance with God’s command. God willing, you’ll start getting better tomorrow. You’ll remember this entire ordeal the same way people remember nightmares after they’ve woken up!”