Khan Al-Khalili (32 page)

“You heard what the lady said,” he told him. “This is typical of the first phase in the illness. With God’s help you’ll be past it in no time and then you can get well again.”

“Wouldn’t it be better for me to come home?” Rushdi pleaded.

Ahmad noticed that his mother was on the verge of agreeing to the idea. “God forgive you!” he said hurriedly. “Absolutely not. You’re not going to leave this room until you’ve completely recovered. Then you’ll be able to walk back to Cairo! Fortunately, you’re already looking a lot better.”

Kamal Khalil wanted to put an equally positive face on things. “That’s right, Rushdi Effendi,” he lied, “you’re definitely looking better.”

The boy’s mother took a closer look to see if what they were saying was believable.

“You need to be patient, Rushdi,” said his father, his calm voice cracking a little. “Be patient. May God care for you and take you by the hand.”

Rushdi said nothing, although not willingly. Ahmad was
well aware of that, knowing that Rushdi was only ever convinced by his own opinions and used them alone as a basis for his actions. Ahmad was sure that if Rushdi disliked the sanitorium enough, he would not be patient nor would his stay there produce any beneficial results. That thought depressed him even more.

Just then he noticed a movement in the other bed and watched as his brother’s roommate sat up in bed. Ahmad was embarrassed because the overwhelming sadness he was feeling had made him forget to say hello to Rushdi’s roommate.

“I’m terribly sorry, Anis Effendi,” he said raising his hand in greeting. “How are you?”

“No problem!” the young man replied with a laugh. “Rushdi’s obviously eager to get out of here and leave us!”

“I’ve kept you awake a lot,” said Rushdi apologetically.

“There’s no need to apologize,” the young man replied. “I don’t mind being awake at night.”

“You seem to be a night owl,” Ahmad said with a laugh, “just like Rushdi!”

“Absolutely right! And now here comes fate to tell us we have to abandon the things we used to love.”

They all wished the two young men a speedy recovery. Ahmad’s mother went over to the table and brought over the box of chocolate biscuits. She put one down beside Rushdi where he could reach it. “Won’t you try one, Rushdi?” she begged.

He shook his head. “Not now,” he said firmly. “Later.…”

That made her sad, but she managed to put on a good front as she put the box back. Even now, she could not
forget the necessary etiquette, so she went over to Anis’s bed and offered him some too.

Ahmad kept staring disconsolately at his brother, but when Rushdi turned toward him, he managed to fake a smile. He was utterly stunned to see how weak and pale his brother looked. He seemed exhausted and listless; he just lay there, a prisoner, with no interest in the outside world. He looked scared as well, and the expression in his eyes betrayed both pain and resignation to fate. Ahmad got the impression that Rushdi wanted to tell him something; so strong was this feeling that he thought that he should spend some time alone with Rushdi after his visitors had left. But then the thought occurred to him that Rushdi was going to beg to be brought home, and that made him change his mind. He clenched his fist for his brother in a show of solidarity, pretending to make light of the whole thing.

Time came to leave, and everyone said fond farewells. They all left the room, with prayers for a speedy recovery on their lips. Rushdi’s mother was the last to leave, kissing her younger son on his cheeks and forehead. On the way back she broke down, and tears welled up in her eyes. Nawal too was tearful and had no idea how to hide it. For his part, Ahmad kept his grief to himself until he got home and went to his own room. He remained optimistic and told himself that next time he would find Rushdi much improved. God, when would he ever recover that bloom, energy, and
joie de vivre
that he had possessed before? Would he ever again hear his brother’s touching songs, that gentle teasing and ringing laugh?

The Akif family slept that night feeling the same sorrow
and grief they had felt on the night they’d parted with Rushdi. Early next morning they were all jolted awake when the doorbell started ringing. Ahmad sat up in bed. The bell kept on ringing as though no one was taking any notice. A horrendous thought suddenly occurred to him; he leapt out of bed and rushed out of his room. There he found his parents almost running toward the apartment door. No one mouthed a word, as they surrendered to whatever the fates had ordained. Swallowing hard, Ahmad made for the door, turned on the outside light, and opened it. Looking outside, he found nobody there. But the bell kept on ringing.

“There’s no one there!” he told his parents flabbergasted.

He went over to check on the bell’s battery, took off the cover, and separated the wires. Immediately the bell stopped ringing. As he closed the door, he felt tears welling up in his eyes. They all looked at each other, completely devastated.

“God protect us from Satan the accursed!” was his father’s reaction.

“Wouldn’t it be better to bring Rushdi home, if that’s what he wants?” his mother said with a sigh that came from the depths of her heart.

“My revered mother,” said Ahmad, “you must put your faith in God Almighty!”

O
n Sunday afternoon Ahmad was sitting with his parents, sipping coffee. A letter arrived, and Ahmad immediately recognized the handwriting.

“That’s strange,” he said. “It’s Rushdi’s handwriting.”

His parents both sat up and watched as Ahmad slit the envelope open. The letter was written in pencil and in a sloppy hand totally unlike Rushdi’s normal script:

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.

W
hen 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.…”