Khan Al-Khalili

  “How about tomorrow morning?” he immediately replied, totally oblivious to the consequences of what he was saying.

  It was then that he thought of his brother who was now serving as his jailer. He told himself that, if Ahmad acknowledged that he had to go out at nine o’clock in the morning, then how could he object if he went out three-quarters of an hour earlier?

  The next day Rushdi got up early, had his nutritious breakfast, waited until Ahmad went into the bathroom, then hurriedly left the apartment. He spotted his beloved girl a few steps ahead of him, wearing her usual gray coat and with her school bag under her arm. He was so overjoyed that he forgot all about his own miseries. As he followed her up the road to al-Darrasa, he fondly recalled the times when he had felt fit and well as he did this routine. The entire idea made him sigh in regret.

  “How precious health is,” he told himself.

  He looked up at the Muqattam Hills shrouded in cloud. The sky always put him in mind of his Lord, and he now begged Him to take him in hand.

  After the turn off in the road he caught up with her and clasped her right hand in his. She turned toward him with a smile.

  “So,” she teased him in a tone that was not without a touch of reproach, “you have decided that this little jaunt isn’t worth your time, you fickle boy?”

  He shook his head remorsefully. “It’s this awful cold,” he muttered.

  “You’re supposed to have gotten over your cold a while ago,” she said. “So why so slow?”

  “You’re right. It’s hanging on, but it’s nothing really. The truth is that it’s my negligence that’s to blame.”

  Obviously she was aware that he had stopped their morning excursions because of his cold. Since the cold had now gone, she encouraged him to resume their walk together since she was keen for them to be alone together.

  She sneaked a quick glance in his direction. “Do you know what my grandmother says about you?” she asked.

  His heart gave a leap, fearing that he might be about to hear something relevant to the question of an engagement. “What does she say?”

  “She asked me with a laugh, ‘How come your professor is as thin as a rake? Do you want me to suggest some recipes to put some weight on him?’ ”

  Nawal gave a gentle laugh, and he laughed with her so as to cover up the intense feeling of sorrow that came over him. He started to feel alarmed, but could see no way out of his predicament other than to put a bright face on things.

  “I don’t need to get fat. Being thin is all the rage now. Thank your grandmother for me and tell her that I’d actually like to get even thinner!”

  Just then she frowned as though she were remembering something. “By the way, you naughty boy,” she chided him, “sometimes when we’re gathered around the table for our lessons, you play footsie with me. You seem to forget that you’re wearing shoes but I’m barefoot!”

  Rushdi blushed. “My heart and soul would sacrifice itself for your lovely little feet!” he laughed.

  They were passing by the café called The Desert Club. She pointed at the waiter who was eating his breakfast. “Do you realize,” she said, “that cunning waiter over there has cottoned onto our rendezvous every morning? As soon as he spotted me walking on my own these last few days, he started clapping his hands whenever I walked by.

  “ ‘Where’s your mate, little bird?’ he’d say as though talking to himself. ‘All lovers work in pairs!’

  “Good heavens! How embarrassed I felt; it almost made me pass out!”

  Once again they burst into laughter. They had almost reached the turn in the road where the Akif family’s wooden tomb lay on both sides. Nawal looked over at it.

  “You owe me at least a hundred prayers,” she said. “Every single day I recite the Fatiha by your family tomb.”

  “My dear Nawal,” Rushdi replied with a smile, “you’re a mercy for my grandfather who’s buried there and a gigantic tease to his grandson!”

  He too looked over at the tomb. Suddenly a scary thought crossed his mind, like some demon emerging out of a graveyard. Would fate soon decree that this girl of his would be walking past this tomb and reciting the Fatiha over his departed spirit? His heart froze, and he looked wonderingly at her lovely face. She was his everything in life, he realized; if there was one single thing that could scoff at death, it was surely the deep love shared by two hearts. He now had a very powerful motive for his relationship with her, for holding her close to his heart, indeed inside his heart if possible. She looked back at him and noticed his dreamy-eyed gaze.

  “Why are you staring at me like that?” she asked.

  “Because I love you, Nawal,” he replied with a break in his voice. “Looking at those graves by the light of your lovely eyes, I’ve come to realize the true meaning of the saying that life is love. The graves have told me that every hour we allow ourselves to be apart from each other is in fact a crime whose penalty is the darkness of the tomb. I heard a voice yelling at me: ‘What a fool you are! All you bother about is trivialities. You’re gambling away the real pleasure of life.’ ”

  She blushed, and her eyes sparkled with emotion. Neither of them felt the cold wind that was blowing in from the desert. He clasped her hand, and they walked on together. He started asking himself how he could possibly avoid bringing up the topic of an engagement after everything he had just said. For her part she was expecting him to raise the much beloved topic with every step she was taking. But he said nothing more until they were at the end of the road. They said farewell and parted. He slowed down and watched her walk on, his gaze full of all the love, emotion, and sadness he was nursing in his heart. She turned off toward Abbasiya, and he headed for the trolley stop. It was only then that he began to feel totally exhausted. He felt short of breath and so dizzy that he almost threw up.

  Rushdi now made a point of talking to his brother about the possibility of an engagement and the bad impression her family would get if he did not raise the subject. His brother was already annoyed because Rushdi had gone out so early in the morning and so told him that he was not prepared to broach the topic with Kamal Khalil Effendi until he was completely cured.

  “You can make whatever excuses you like,” he told his brother. “You certainly know how to do that. But it’s not right to make anything official until you’re completely well again, God willing. The engagement announcement can be a reward for getting better. We’ll see how strong your resolve really is!”

  Ahmad found that he could not dissuade his brother from going out early and exposing himself to the cold. He gave up and entrusted his brother’s welfare to God, begging Him to show mercy and kindness. Ahmad was one of those types who take the sufferings of their nearest and dearest on themselves. In such weak hearts, deeply buried fears and worries can find fertile ground for all sorts of sorts of sorrows and delusions. From the very first his brother’s illness had become his overriding concern, a poisonous thorn in the side of his own sense of security.

  His anxieties extended to other spheres as well, so much so that he ended up having to deal with the most delicate of ethical issues, one that had not even occurred to him before. He was well aware that his brother was meeting the girl every morning; he may even have spent time alone with her in the evening when he was tutoring her. If passion got the better of him—as happens when people are in love—and he stole a kiss, might not the girl be exposed to some serious kind of harm. Did Rushdi not realize the risks he was taking? Was his conscience not serving as a kind of restraint? But then, how could someone who was treating his own life with such levity give any value to those of other people? Ahmad thought about this for a while. He was both exasperated and worried, but he had no idea how to rescue this innocent girl from disaster. His indecisiveness was based entirely on the purest of ethical motives; he was convinced of that and also of the profound moral obligations on which it was based. Even so, he did not seem to realize his natural propensity to indulge in self-examination, or that all too ofte
n the eye only sees what it wants to see, so he was both exasperated and worried, both of which only complicated his thinking even more. He could not tell Kamal Khalil the truth since such a betrayal of his beloved brother would be an appalling crime, nor could he reveal his fears to his brother, since that would strike his sensitive soul in its most vulnerable spot. The reluctance, fear, and worry that Ahmad was feeling were all torture for him, but now as always he had neither resolve nor will to act. Disconsolate and confused, he gave up. His worries continued to plague him and prick his conscience, so much so that the entire process wore him out and made him desperate.

  “Perhaps the kind of stupor that Boss Zifta enjoys is better than the kind of life I’m living!” he thought to himself in despair.

  38

  Rushdi’s health went from bad to worse, and he became even thinner and paler. Even so, he refused to change his behavior, as though the whole thing had nothing to do with him. From this point on, he was no longer content merely to take his early morning walks. Whenever he felt like seeing his friends at the Ghamra Casino, he would rush over there and spend a riotous evening with them.

  “Are you trying to commit suicide?” Ahmad would rail at him.

  The truth is that he was on a downhill slide toward suicide without even intending it. He was utterly incapable of resisting his natural inclination to indulge in life’s pleasures and surrendered to a frightening new instinct created by the disease itself, while his propensity for risk-taking and optimism shielded him from the dire outcome involved. He never gave up hope, or rather only occasionally; and remained the daredevil he had always been, contemptuous and always smiling.

  Then suddenly his cough came back; in fact, it came back much worse than it had ever been before. Now it was almost continuous, and once again his sputum had blood in it. His fellow workers in the bank noticed how badly he was coughing and began to get suspicious. Work now became pointless, and his parents began to be aware of how dangerous the condition that threatened their son actually was. They advised him to stop working until he had recovered, and yet he still crazily insisted on pretending he was well. Ahmad could take it no longer; one day he called him into his room.

  “Are you ignoring how dangerous things are?”

  “What are you implying?” his brother asked him in a resigned tone he had not been expecting.

  “You can’t keep working any more. Let alone going out at night and carousing!”

  “So the scandal is out, is it?”

  “This illness isn’t a scandal!” Ahmad responded emphatically. “Necessity has it own rules.”

  Rushdi looked at the floor. He had lost all will to resist. “It’s all in God’s hands!” he said with a sigh.

  The way Rushdi had given way so suddenly was a sign of exhaustion, not of conviction. No sooner did the bank’s doctor establish the real cause of his illness and give him sick leave than his strength completely collapsed. He retired to his bed, feeling utterly weak and wracked by coughing fits. Ahmad still kept the true facts from his parents, but Rushdi’s condition deteriorated with frightening speed. His mother noticed the blood in his sputum, and his father heard about it. Both of them were terrified. Rushdi’s condition demanded a consultation with the doctor. Ahmad suggested inviting him to the house, but Rushdi decided they should both go to his clinic. He got dressed, helped by his mother who was now deeply concerned about her younger son. They took a taxi to the doctor’s clinic, and Ahmad went with his brother into the consulting room. The doctor had not seen Rushdi for a couple of weeks.

  “What on earth have you done to yourself?” he asked in his usual loud voice as soon as he set eyes on Rushdi.

  “I’m coughing a lot and feel very weak,” Rushdi responded with a wan smile.

  The doctor examined him. There was a long pause. “Just one word to you,” he said. “The sanitorium now!”

  Rushdi’s sallow face showed a frown. “Is it worse?” he asked softly.

  “Undoubtedly,” the doctor replied with raised eyebrows. “You clearly haven’t been taking my advice. But if you get to Helwan as soon as possible, there’s no need to worry. Get there today if you can. You’ll find me there right beside you.”

  “Will he need to stay in Helwan for long?” Ahmad asked.

  “Only God knows the answer to that,” the doctor replied. “I’m not a pessimist, but it has to be done now.”

  The two of them returned home to find their parents waiting impatiently.

  “What’s the matter with him?” the father asked Ahmad.

  Ahmad realized there was no point in lying any more.

  “He needs to go to the sanitorium,” he replied with deliberate terseness.

  There was silence. Sitt Dawlat’s eyes turned red, a sign that she was about to burst into tears.

  “God be kind to us!” their father muttered.

  “There’s no need for alarm,” said Ahmad trying to reassure them. “But he must go to the sanitorium.”

  Rushdi still did not want to go there, but he did not dare refuse now that his condition was so bad. He called his brother over. “Okay then, so be it: the sanitorium,” he said in his mother’s hearing. Then pointing to the window he went on, “but please don’t tell them the truth!”

  Ahmad was overwhelmed and felt utterly depressed. “Don’t worry,” he said. “I can easily say that you’ve some fluid in your lungs and you need to go to the sanitorium.”

  “Will that be enough, do you think?” Rushdi asked sadly.

  “Getting rid of fluid in your lungs takes a long time,” Ahmad replied. “Whatever the case may be, it’s more important now to look after your own health than anything else.”

  39

  Without wasting any time Ahmad followed the instructions of the doctor who had been treating his brother and immediately started making arrangements to have Rushdi admitted to the sanitorium. A bed had become available at the beginning of March because the patient involved had completed his treatment. It was therefore decided to take Rushdi to the sanitorium on that date. Only a short wait was involved, but during that period the family suffered all manner of emotions, a mixture of worry and hope.

  Rushdi’s coughing was causing him a great deal of pain and making it difficult for him to sleep. His parents sank into a deep depression, the serenity of their life totally destroyed; the expressions on their faces were a mixture of hope and anxiety.

  Now Ahmad fell victim to all his pent-up anxieties, feeling gloomy and worried all the time. Kamal Khalil Effendi came to visit and assured Rushdi that fluid in the lungs was nothing to worry about. Sitt Tawhida and her daughter, Nawal, also called in when Ahmad was not at home. The mother told him that his insistence on staying so thin was what had made him so ill; with a laugh she assured him that, once he got better, she would make sure that he got fatter. With Rushdi’s parents listening, Nawal did not know what to say; even he could not risk looking at her all the time. Even so, they managed to exchange fleeting glances that communicated messages of love, thanks, and silent sorrow.

  Rushdi was very happy that they had paid him a visit, the kind of happiness he had not felt since he had taken to his bed. When mother and daughter had both left, he shared with his mother his fears that the true nature of his illness might become public knowledge, but the poor woman managed to reassure her son that it would remain a secret known only to the people who loved him the most.

  On the first of March a taxi took the two brothers to Bab al-Luq Station. The last thing Rushdi heard inside his parents’ home were his father’s prayers; the last thing he saw were his mother’s tears.

  “If the cure takes a long time,” Rushdi told his brother on the way, “I’ll be fired for sure.”

  “Even if that happens, heaven forbid,” Ahmad replied confidently, “it’ll be easy to get your job back. The only thing you should be worried about is getting better.”

  They got on the train, which soon left for Helwan. They sat side by side. Ahmad remained silent, his thi
n face a mirror of deep anxiety. Rushdi coughed from time to time. Ahmad was struck by the string of bad luck that had afflicted his family. They had already lost one child, and now here was Rushdi afflicted with a very serious illness. He himself had been set up by fate for a series of failures and missteps. If only fate had made do with him alone, that would have been tolerable to him, but unfortunately it had not. Glancing at his younger brother, he was shocked to see how thin he was, how scrawny his neck looked, and how bleary his eyes were. Where was that bright, mocking gleam that had once been there?

  “O Lord,” he prayed silently to himself, “will this tragedy ever end? Will I ever be able to open my eyes and not be confronted by specters of memories long past?”

  Staring out of the window, he watched as a long line of buildings and villas went flashing by. The train then took them through lush, green fields and captivating rural scenery, before finally approaching the beginning of the endless, barren desert, fringed on the horizon by lofty hills. The progression of buildings, fields, and desert made him feel sad, and he found himself once again sliding into a deep depression.

  The train reached Helwan, and the two of them left the train station. The journey had exhausted Rushdi, so they took a taxi to the sanitorium. It went down a deserted road, until the sanitorium loomed in front of them at the foot of the mountains, like some forbidding castle. Both brothers stared at it, their hearts beating fast.

  “Let us pray,” said Ahmad, “that our Lord will take you by the hand, bestow a cure on you, and let you leave this place fully restored to health.”

  When they got to the sanitorium, they took the elevator to the third floor, where the nurse showed them to the room they were looking for. It consisted of two beds, on one of which a young man of Rushdi’s age was lying down; he looked just as thin and pale as Rushdi. They all exchanged greetings, and Rushdi sat down to recover his breath. With his brother’s help he changed his clothes and lay down on the bed. Ahmad sat down on a comfortable chair, then pointed to the other young man in the room.