Naguib Mahfouz - Khan Al-Khalili

The young man was delighted with his brother’s words and gave him a smile. He asked him to bring over the table so it was close to his bed and to put his bottles of medicine on it. Ahmad did so, placing it within his brother’s reach and arranging the medicines: a box of calcium, a bottle of sleeping pills, and caromin.

Rushdi thanked him. “I’m going to need a nurse,” he said, “to give me a calcium injection every day.”

“I’ll get the pharmacist to send one,” Ahmad said, “and make the necessary arrangements with her. You should stop talking now so you don’t overexert yourself. May God take care of you and keep you safe!”

Rushdi took some sleeping medicine, and with that he managed to relax. He had been kept awake for so many nights that he actually managed to fall asleep, although he had several coughing fits that cruelly interrupted his slumber.

Now came the really dreadful days. Rushdi was wracked with pain. His poor broken-hearted mother did her best to prop him up. He almost never got any sleep. Even though he took sleeping medicine, he could only doze off for a short while just before dawn. All too often morning would arrive, and he would still be sitting up in bed, his entire frame wracked by coughing fits. He stopped eating, and, whenever he forced himself to try a few bites, he would vomit them up in a horrendous fit of coughing. By now the coughing was continuous and wracked his entire body. No sooner had one bout come to an end than the veins in his neck would bulge out and prepare to launch another one, leaving his eyes red and streaming. He would seem to be going rapidly downhill, so that any thought of a cure was out of the question, but then he would appear to cross that hurdle. It was not so much that he got better, but simply that, as time went by, he kept on resisting and putting up a brave front.

Then the violent coughing began to subside, and he started getting some regular sleep. He even managed to eat some food and was finally able to lie on his side. This seemed to augur well for his recovery, and yet March went by with him still incredibly weak and exhausted. He could not get out of bed and got thinner and thinner, so much so that he was reduced to mere skin and bone. His visitors were shocked when they saw his legs, his emaciated face, his drawn cheeks, and sunken eyes. He had a sallow look about him, and his head seemed larger than usual, so much so that his neck seemed on the point of snapping because of its heavy load. The expression in his eyes was grim, a reflection of his determination to keep going, but also of pain and resignation. The very sight of it made Ahmad ache with pain, and it wore him out. Every time he looked in on Rushdi, he could see that same unforgettable expression on his face; it all compelled Ahmad’s already overburdened heart to take on all the pain and suffering his brother was going through, leaving bleeding wounds deep inside him. Those looks in Rushdi’s eyes plunged him into new depths of pain, disease, and despair. Good God, how many times was his heart destined to be torn apart and his tear-ducts to pour forth?

On one occasion Ahmad went into Rushdi’s room and discovered that he had sat up in bed and put his legs down on the floor. His mother was not there, and Ahmad was scared that this maneuver might indicate that Rushdi was going to do something that could harm him.

“Wouldn’t it be better to stay in bed?” he asked.

Rushdi looked very hurt, but then his expression changed to one of frustration. “Listen, brother,” he said somewhat exasperated, “can’t you see that time keeps going by, and I’m stuck here in bed, not moving at all. I stay in bed all day and half the night until that soporific we call sleep takes over. Good God! How restricted my life has become! I’m bored sick of staying in bed.”

Ahmad had no idea what to say. Rushdi’s obvious exasperation made him feel particularly miserable. “Be patient, Rushdi,” he said gently. “That’s the only way you’re going to get better.”

They all had to live with it; that was all there was to it. Rushdi dealt with the oppressive march of time by reading newspapers and magazines. He used to talk to his mother as well — she would hardly ever leave his room — and to his father and brother too. In spite of all the pain and tedium he still managed to avoid the kind of despair that had led him to write the letter that he had sent his brother from the sanitorium. He was still hoping to live his life and be cured of this dreadful illness. However, the pain that had etched such a profoundly melancholy expression onto his countenance had by now made him fully aware of the reality that lies behind the suffering subsumed within the essence of this worldly existence. He did indeed feel pangs of agony as the cold breaths of death hovered over him. Life’s span would probably prefer that everyone become familiar with those chilling sensations, and yet it only manages to reveal their reality to the aged and to pour them into the mouths of those who are to die young.

What was amazing was that, in spite of all the pain and frustration, Rushdi did not forget about matters of the heart. The disease could not erase thoughts of love. It may not have pulsed through his veins in the way it had once done, and yet it could still make his heart race. So many happy memories were associated with his love, memories that shone a bright light into his heart, which created its own pulsating rhythm in his ear. His heart was stimulated like a flower inspired by the breath of spring — gleaming smiles, the desert road, honey-colored eyes, they all flashed before his eyes, while his ears could hear the sounds of pacts and pledges of love. But what would happen now? What was the unknowable future hiding? Would he ever recover his former youth, energy, hope, and love? Would he ever again be able to strut about with a supercilious elegance, the way he had before? To laugh out loud without provoking a violent coughing fit? To have tunes and melodies running through his head? To have his friends spot him and yell, “Here comes the Lionheart!” To take Nawal’s arm in his and walk with her up the mountain road, the two of them shrouded from view by the clouds? Was there any hope left of buying the engagement ring and getting married?

Nawal would come to visit him with her mother, and the two of them would exchange fleeting glances full of a passion whose ardor only they could feel. O God, why could they not be left alone, if only for a moment? How he longed to hear a loving word from her, one to dampen the burning heat of his feverish heart!

March came and went, and with April came a change. Nawal no longer came to visit him, and a whole week went by without a visit from her. By the middle of the month she still had not come; only her father came. April came to an end with neither of them seeing the other. He was visited by his friends from the Zahra Café and their families, his friends from al-Sakakini, and many relatives and former neighbors. The house was always full of visitors, but never Nawal. She had suddenly vanished from his life, as though she had never been a tangible reality and a devout hope in his life. He was quite sure that his parents and brother shared his pain and disappointment, but they did not say anything about it so as not to upset him even more. His self-respect made it impossible for him to ask his parents why Nawal had stopped coming to visit him.

Was it that they had found out what his illness really was and assumed that the situation was hopeless? Was it a fear of contagion that made them keep her away? Had he now become an evil to be avoided after being a beloved suitor for so long? Had love gone back on its word? He started mulling over his grief in silence until he could stand it no longer. One day, when Ahmad was the only one in his room, he broached the subject.