Naguib Mahfouz - Khan Al-Khalili

That afternoon, when his father had come home from the al-Husayn Mosque and Ahmad had come back from the ministry, the two men had a long chat with Rushdi in which they both tried to make light of what had happened and expressed the hope that he would get something better. Eventually Rushdi actually seemed to listen to them and even find some consolation in what they were saying. Ahmad realized that the cost of the medicines was going to become — in fact, had already become — more than Rushdi’s salary could pay for; it was now fully one quarter of his monthly earnings, and that would be stopped after a while. And Ahmad’s already overburdened salary was not going to be able to compensate for this loss.

“Rushdi,” he told his brother, “you’re already better than you were just a short while ago. I think you could stand spending some more time at the sanitorium. Don’t you think it would be a good idea to go back there so you could have the fresh air and nursing care that you can’t get here?”

The very mention of the word “sanitorium” made Rushdi shudder. “At this point,” he replied, “there’s no way I can even make it to the second floor, let alone transfer to the third.”

“But don’t the rooms on the third floor have better air and treatment than you can get in your room here?”

Rushdi shook his head, which still looked huge on his thin, elongated neck. “Life out there is foul,” he said. “The sick people there frighten me. O God Almighty, protect us all from the evil of disease.”

Ahmad did not continue the conversation. That evening, Rushdi and his mother were passing the time as usual chatting and listening to the radio, the sound of which floated up from the neighboring cafés. The announcer introduced Rushdi’s doctor, who announced to the listeners that he was going to give his first talk about tuberculosis. The mother shuddered at the very mention of the word that kept her awake at night, but Rushdi perked up and started listening carefully. Nor were they the only two people listening; the father who was reading the Qur’an in his room also lifted his head toward the window in order to listen. Ahmad was sitting with his friends in the Zahra Café, but he stopped listening to their chatter in order to concentrate, heart pounding, on the radio broadcast. The doctor talked about the way the microbe responsible for the illness had been discovered and the various phases of the disease, describing each one in detail. He went on to discuss the problem of marriage for people who recover from the disease and how many years people with the disease could expect to spend in each phase. He finished by suggesting that the government should establish a special village for people who survived the third phase, somewhere in the desert by Helwan, a kind of isolation facility where people could spend a good part or even all of their life.

The members of the family all listened to the radio from their various places. The mother made an effort to hide the tears in her eyes, while the father went back to his reading. Ahmad’s heart was weeping, although he made an effort to seem happy at what Boss Nunu was telling him. Rushdi said nothing, as he thought over what he had just heard. All of a sudden memories of his life came flooding back: his happy childhood, his love of fun and games, and his magical love — fleeting images of faces, groups, and places, all crammed together. His heart was full of regret as he plunged from the acme of hope to the very depths of despair. He forgot that his mother was there with him.

“Dear God,” he yelled in despair, “if You have determined to put an end to my time on earth, then I beg you to make it quick.”

His mother was stunned. “Rushdi!” she chided him.

He gave her a sad smile. “It looks as though you’ll never get to see me married as you would have wished,” he told her in a mocking tone of voice.

When he saw her burst into tears, he felt badly and said no more. “I’m so sorry, Mother,” he apologized. “I’ve robbed you of food and sleep, and darkened your days. And now here I am torturing you with my drivel. Dear God, forgive me!”

Next day he woke up feeling more relaxed and at ease with himself. When Ahmad came into his room to say good morning, Rushdi asked if he could borrow the Qur’an. Ahmad went to get it, and Rushdi received it gladly.

“Isn’t it wrong for me to touch it,” he asked Ahmad, “when I haven’t bathed for a month?”

“God will accept your excuse!” was Ahmad’s reply.

He started reading the sacred text; if he wasn’t afraid of coughing, he would have recited it in his sweet voice. He found the process calming and pleasurable; the very mention of God soothed his troubled heart and helped him forget about his longing for happier days in the past, his regret at what he had missed, and his remorse over the excesses he had committed. In fact, it even helped him forget the permanent pain which was now part of his life, the despair of any cure that was the result of the doctor’s visit the day before, and the fear of imminent death that now loomed before him. At last he could escape all the pain and fear he had experienced, relying instead on a spirit of resignation, patience, and trust in God Almighty. By submitting to God’s will and judgment he found a certain peace. He realized that the all-powerful nature of that very will contained within its folds both his past and future. That allowed him to submit quietly to its care just as he did to his mother’s arms when he had a coughing fit.

The days went by with Rushdi peaceful, calm, and patient; there were no outbursts, no anger, and no complaints. No longer did he raise objections to anything or make sarcastic remarks. On the rare occasions when the air-raid siren went off, no one in the family left the apartment; instead, everyone felt their way to Rushdi’s room in the dark and sat around his bed, hearts pounding and nerves on edge.

Time went quietly by, but then something important happened. It was late afternoon in mid-May. The father had gone to the al-Husayn Mosque to pray the evening prayer, and Ahmad was sitting in Rushdi’s room chatting to him along with his mother. All of a sudden the doorbell rang and the door opened. The patter of feet could be heard as two women entered the room: Sitt Tawhida and Nawal! Utter amazement showed on everyone’s face, and both brothers could feel their hearts pounding. Why had Nawal come now after so long? By doing so, she was running the risk of opening up again the wound that had at last begun to heal itself. Ahmad stood up and moved to one side, close to the window. Rushdi looked up, his eyes encircled by two bluish halos, his expression one of disbelief and even denial. But the shock soon left him, to be replaced by an intense anger that roiled his newly found calm.

Sitt Tawhida was very cheerful. She told him he looked much better. For her part, Nawal just stared at him, horrified by how thin and weak he was. She was completely overcome and could not think of anything to say. All that came out, and in the quietest of tones, was “How are you?” He did not feel like responding, but simply lifted his chin and spread his hands out, as though to say, “Just as you can see!” It was obvious to everyone that Rushdi had changed. He looked agitated and annoyed; deep inside he was feeling intense pain. With her usual aplomb Sitt Tawhida made every effort to lighten the atmosphere. She chatted away and kept laughing, doing her desperate best to get the others to laugh with her.

“I’ve some good news for you, Rushdi Effendi,” she said. “In a dream I saw you carrying heavy loads and crossing a long bridge. You reached the other side safe and sound. That means that, God willing, you’ll get better very soon!”