Naguib Mahfouz - Khan Al-Khalili

She burst into tears once again.

“That’s your fate,” her mother said with a sigh. “What are we supposed to do? But remember, you’re still young, and there are a host of opportunities in front of you. God will heal your wounded heart. Let’s pray to God that He gives Rushdi back his youth and compensates you for what you have lost.”

“How can you be so unkind?” her daughter sobbed. “You’re cruel and unkind!”

She ran off to her own room. By now it was evening. Teary-eyed she went over to the window and looked toward the much-beloved window opposite. It was closed, and there was a faint light visible through the cracks. She could imagine Rushdi lying on his side in bed, with that gloomy look on his face, then coughing violently.

“How sorry I feel that you have to lie there helpless, Rushdi,” she said to herself, “your eyes betraying the pain you are feeling. Where have our young dreams and ideals gone, our conversations, our hopes, where have they all disappeared? O God, what wretched luck I’ve had, and what a gloomy world I live in!”

She threw herself down on the settee, sobbing uncontrollably. She kept trying to stop crying, but it was hopeless; the whole thing had totally sapped her energy. Her thoughts ranged far and wide with no focus to them. In a single instant her life with Rushdi flashed before her eyes, providing whatever confirmation she might need that fate had dealt her a cruel blow. She had noticed how sad and despondent both her parents had been as they spoke to her. Suddenly she became really scared. The only thing she knew about death was the word itself, but now here it was looming in front of her like a wild beast just waiting to pounce on her heart. O God! And now her parents were telling her not to visit Rushdi and placing themselves between the two of them with a merciless determination. Her teary face showed a frown, and she felt a cold shudder go through her entire body. Placing her hand on her chest, she felt deep down that she was as scared of this disease for herself as she was for her dear beloved Rushdi: bed rest, coughing, emaciation, and agony. Misery, despair, sadness, and fear — all these emotions hit her at the same time. Between her worries about her beloved Rushdi and her concerns for her own health and happiness she found herself being ripped to shreds. O God, hadn’t she been living a devout, secure, and hopeful life up until now? What required her to go through all this hardship and misery?

The following afternoon she returned from school to discover that her parents had changed her room; she was now in another one far removed from the window overlooking Rushdi’s. Her contact with that ray of light in her life was now forever severed.

Rushdi no longer mentioned Nawal’s name, which came as a surprise to Ahmad. He wondered whether his younger brother was suffering his agonies in silence or rather was trying to forget by rising above things. Ahmad devoutly wished that his brother would manage to put it all behind him and find a little peace. From looking at Rushdi he could not tell what was going on inside his head. His expression was frozen, and the look in his eyes was almost permanently grim and depressed. Ahmad continued to commiserate with his brother, feeling hopelessly confused, as did his parents. It wasn’t the emotional aspect of the affair that concerned them, but rather its effect on Rushdi’s health, since he was fighting for his life. What made things worse was that as time went by their initial despair turned into a glimmer of hope. If anyone were to have asked why that was, the only answer would have been that time kept passing and things remained essentially unchanged. Rushdi could still not get out of bed, and his thinness still caused a good deal of alarm and worry. His complexion had a yellowish hue to it with a bit of blue mixed in, and his cough only gave him occasional respite.

In the first half of May, Rushdi was visited by the bank’s doctor for another examination and extension of his sick leave as he saw fit. He gave Rushdi a cursory examination.

“As I believe you’re aware,” he said, “your official leave ends on May 30, 1942.”

Yes indeed, he was well aware of that, and yet it was as though he were hearing it for the very first time.

“Really?” he said softly. “Yes, I do know that.…”

“The amount of sick leave you still have is clearly not enough for a full recovery; that’s going to take a long time. For that reason, you’ll have to be fired by the bank as of May 31.”

The doctor’s voice sounded strange to Rushdi’s ears. “Is there no hope of my being cured,” he asked in an even weaker voice, “before the remainder of my sick leave comes to an end?”

The doctor was completely nonplussed by the question. “Do you really think you can get better, recover your strength and normal weight, and resume your job at the bank with just twenty days to go?” he asked. “That’s out of the question. You’ve at least a year ahead of you before you’ll be well again.”

Rushdi stared at him distractedly and then looked at the floor. The doctor handed him a form stating that his sick leave would come to an end on May 30, 1942, and that he would be considered dismissed from his job as of May 31, 1942, if he had not returned to work before that time.

“Please sign this form indicating …,” the doctor said in a tone that made it quite clear that he wanted to leave as soon as possible.

He thought of his brother, Ahmad, as though summoning his aid in this crucial moment. Rushdi looked first at the doctor, then at the piece of paper, clearly sensing that the man was running out of patience. He was not a little flustered, but managed to take his pen and sign the form with a trembling hand. The doctor left the room, and his mother came in to check on him, her expression showing clearly how much it was all taking out of her.

“Mother,” he told her, his voice cracking, “I’ve just signed the form officially dismissing me from my job at the bank!”

His mother’s heart gave a jolt, but she managed to control herself by not giving way to her true feelings. “Is that all that’s making you sound so sad?” she asked, making light of it all. “My dear son, God has blessed us by saving you from a dangerous illness, so we should mention His name with all due gratitude. Everything else is trivial. Don’t worry about it. You may lose your job today, but, God willing, you’ll get it back.”

“It’s all over!” he said in the same tone, as though he had not heard a single thing she had said, “I’ve lost my job. Now past and future are forever gone!”

“Rushdi,” she went on, gritting her teeth to stop herself from bursting into tears, “don’t give up and don’t be so sad. Through God’s command and mercy, this misfortune will be removed, and you’ll get your job back or find an even better one. You may be glum now, but, by God, you’re going to end up smiling. May my heart prove me right!”

But he did not hear what she was saying. His eyes had wandered off to unknown horizons, and his mother had disappeared from view.

“How vile it is to be so sick!” he said as though talking to himself. “The direst pain and agony! It turns strength to weakness, youth into old age, and hope into despair. It brings down those who stand upright, idles those who work, and disfigures the loved one. My future is lost forever, my light has been extinguished, my bones have been weakened, and my hand has been crippled. O God Almighty, protect us all from the evil of disease, protect us all from the evil of disease.”

With that his mother lost all control and burst into tears. “Have some pity on me, Rushdi,” she sobbed.

“God doesn’t want to show us any pity!” was his angry reply.