Khan Al-Khalili (35 page)

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!”

Rushdi’s response was not a little gruff. “The doctor’s already given a different interpretation of that dream,” he said. “He’s assured me that it’ll be at least a year before I can get out of bed.”

“Heaven forbid, Rushdi Effendi!” the women chided him. “You’re always so pessimistic.” She pointed at her daughter. “Here’s Nawal,” she went on. “She’s come to see you. She wouldn’t have stayed away if she weren’t so busy with her studies, and if she hadn’t gotten ill recently. She will be taking her exams at the end of this month.…”

“Exactly the same date that I’m due to lose my job,” Rushdi fired back.

Nawal turned pale as she realized how angry Rushdi was and why.

“That’s shocking,” Sitt Tawhida said, “absolutely shocking! Every calamity has to come to an end.…”

“Except this one,” said Rushdi clasping his chest. “The only end will be when my own life is ended.”

“My dear Rushdi,” she said, “your illness is not that severe. God willing, you’ll get better.”

He shrugged his shoulders. “What illness are you talking about?” Rushdi shot back, his hands still across his chest. “This one is called tuberculosis. Haven’t you heard of it? It’s tuberculosis; it’s eating away at my chest; it’s turning my saliva into blood. It is a very severe, dreadful disease. And it’s very contagious, so take care!”

The whole thing was too much for him and he was overcome. His mother begged him to stop talking, then begged her two guests to go into the lounge with her. She apologized for the fact that Rushdi’s illness was making him so intolerant. The two brothers were now left alone.

“It would have been better,” said Ahmad sadly, “if you hadn’t lost your temper.”

“My dear brother,” Rushdi replied emotionally, “she doesn’t deserve the slightest sympathy! Her lack of loyalty was disgusting. As you well know, that girl is to blame for the calamity that has brought me down. If it weren’t for her, I would have realized how dangerous this illness was and rid my life of it for ever. It was my fondness for her that forced me to keep it all hidden. Now you can see for yourself what it has done to me.”

He sat up in bed. “What on earth possessed Nawal’s mother to bring her over here?” he asked, still upset. “The crafty old woman’s thinking long-term. What’s more likely, a cure or death? She’s holding the options close to her
chest. But, I can tell you, Ahmad, from now on I’m never going to even think of getting married. Should God will that I get better, I hereby pledge to do whatever’s necessary for my shattered body. Even if things work out for the best, all that lies ahead of me is genuine old age under medical supervision. Dear brother, I’ve a sum of money on deposit in the bank that I was saving up for marriage. I’m going to take it out and then go back to the sanitorium in Helwan. Once I’m there, I’m going to put myself at the mercy of the fates until God decides to execute His ordained decision. Take the money out tomorrow, and buy me some clothes and necessities. I’ll be at the sanitorium before the month is out. And let God’s will be done.…”

A
t noon the following day (a Friday), Ahmad did what his brother had asked. He took his money out of the bank, bought him some pajamas, household clothes, and a few other necessities, and then returned home. He was delighted that his brother had decided to go back to the sanitorium in Helwan.

When he got back to the apartment, he found his brother smoking a cigarette. He was utterly shocked. Rushdi had stopped smoking as soon as the disease had made its first appearance. He looked sheepish as his brother came in and gave him a bashful smile.

“Who on earth gave you that cigarette?” he shouted, forgetting all about the things he had just purchased. “What on earth are you trying to do to yourself?”

He gave his mother an inquisitorial look.

“Rushdi insisted,” she said by way of self-defense, “and I couldn’t resist. He wouldn’t keep quiet until he got what he wanted.”

“Don’t be hard on me, Ahmad,” Rushdi said without putting the cigarette away. “I had this sudden irresistible urge to smoke a cigarette.”

“This is absolute insanity!” Ahmad replied angrily.

“One cigarette’s not going to hurt,” Rushdi said by way of excuse. “It’s so good! Let me take a few puffs in peace.”

He finished smoking his cigarette with obvious relish. “Don’t get angry, Ahmad,” he said. “That’s my last cigarette. Now, what new clothes did you buy?”

Immediately after lunch he suddenly felt very weak, but did not feel like lying down. He sat on his bed, stretched his legs out, and rested his back against a folded pillow. His legs looked like two sticks, and his complexion was a pale yellow with a tinge of blue. There were dark circles around his eyes, and his eyes had an unfamiliar look to them, different from the normal sadness, as though gazing at some distant point invisible to the eye.

Late in the afternoon Ahmad came to chat with his brother before taking off for the Zahra Café.

“Are you going to the Zahra Café?” Rushdi asked him. “Say hello to all my friends there. How I wish I could spend the evening with my friends in al-Sakakini!”

Ahmad was much affected by his brother’s words. “God willing,” he replied, “you’ll get better, then you can go back to your friends and their Sakakini nights!”

“Am I ever going to get better?” Rushdi asked despondently. “Just look at my legs. Will they ever look like human legs again?”

“Do you think God cannot make that happen if He so wishes?”

Rushdi shook his head, spoke to his brother in a way he
had never done before, as a kind of sage counselor. “Always keep a close watch on your health, Ahmad,” he said. “Never treat it lightly.”

For a second he stared at the floor. “Illness is like a woman,” he went on in a different tone of voice, “it sucks the youth out of you and destroys all hopes.”

Ahmad wondered to himself why Rushdi was talking like this and stared at him despondently.

“Microbes work unseen,” Rushdi went on. “Once they have grabbed their victim, they finish him off.”

“Rushdi, what are you saying?”

“I’m sharing a truth before parting. You may not see me any more after today.”

“What do you mean, Rushdi,” Ahmad asked in a panic, “I may not see you after today?”

Rushdi paused for a moment’s thought. “Isn’t it likely that you’ll lose patience?” he asked as though in his normal sarcastic tone. “You’ll either get fed up with the illness or else your studies will keep you preoccupied, so you’ll forget all about me in Helwan!”

“Heaven forbid, Rushdi, heaven forbid!”

Rushdi gave him a very odd look. “Why don’t they simply burn sick people?” he asked. “That would put them out of their misery and stop making them a burden on others!”

“Rushdi,” Ahmad protested, “why on earth are you talking this way?”

Again Rushdi paused for a moment. “God curse all illness,” he went on. “May God protect you from the evil of disease!”

Ahmad was totally stunned. His mother came back
with a cup of coffee that he sipped in silence. He was worried in case Rushdi started talking the same way with his mother there, but he said nothing. Ahmad relaxed a bit and assumed that he was back to his normal behavior. He stole a glance in Rushdi’s direction and was struck by how weak and pale he looked and how skinny his legs were. “Can this really be you, Rushdi?” he asked himself sadly. “A pox on this disease!”

It was late when he got to the café. He always found that his time there helped calm his shattered nerves and grieving heart. He stayed there until nine-thirty, then came back to the apartment. As he walked past his brother’s room, he noticed that Rushdi had taken a sleeping pill to help him sleep but was not asleep as yet.

“Good evening!” Rushdi greeted his brother. “You’re back!”

“Yes,” Ahmad replied looking at his brother carefully. “How are you feeling?”

“Praise be to God. How was the tea at the Zahra Café?”

“As usual.”

“Drink it in good health then,” Rushdi said in a barely audible voice.

Ahmad left him to get some sleep, went to his own room, and got undressed. He was feeling tense, and his nerves were on edge. He could smell something foul, and that made him even more tense and nervous. Could the anxieties that populate the deepest recesses of the human soul actually smell bad? For an hour he tried to take his mind off things by reading, then he got up to go to bed. He spent a long hour, lying there prey to dreadful thoughts and misgivings.

Next morning he woke up early to the sound of movement inside the house. His senses were immediately on the alert. Looking at his watch, he saw that it was five o’clock. He wondered what could have woken anyone up at such an early hour. He got out of bed and rushed out of his room in a panic. Before he had gone even a couple of steps toward Rushdi’s room, the door was opened suddenly. Their mother emerged, holding her hands above her head as though begging for help. Then she lowered them and started slapping her cheeks violently, crazily.…

I
t was a truly awful day, one long procession of pain, grief, and agony. The very memory of it grieved Ahmad, digging a pit inside his heart as deep for him as it was for his poor parents.

It began with him going into Rushdi’s room, quaking in fear at the very idea of what was awaiting him there. Looking toward the bed, he saw Rushdi lying there. His mother had covered his body with a blanket, and his father was standing close by, weeping, his head downcast. Ahmad went over to the bed and pulled back the blanket. There was Rushdi, lying there as though he were sleeping, his appearance and pallor unchanged. Had the disease left anything for death to change? Leaning over, Ahmad kissed his cold forehead, then pulled the blanket back over him. Now he surrendered to the flood of tears that, fueled by so much grief, had been gathering inside him day after day until they clustered together in the chill of death and flowed in profusion.

Then his stop at the store in al-Ghuriya. As Ahmad purchased a shroud, he remembered that only yesterday he had bought his brother some clothes for this world. He had chosen the brightest colors because he knew how much Rushdi liked to look well-dressed. In a complete daze he watched the salesman’s hands as he measured out the cloth and then folded it up.

Next he had to go to get a burial certificate.

“Name of the deceased?” asked the official casually.

Ahmad dearly wished that he could not hear his own voice. “Rushdi Akif,” he replied.

“Rushdi Akif has died,” he told himself. “How horrible can this reality be?”

“How old?” asked the official in the same cold tone.

“Twenty-six,” he replied.

“What illness?”

As he told the official, he felt increasingly angry. How could he ever forget what it had done to his ill-starred brother? The way his legs and neck had looked, the color of his skin, the hacking cough? He now received a copy of the document that was required before Rushdi could disappear into the bowels of the earth forever. He expressed his thanks to the official and left. The way this official and the bank’s doctor had acted in such an unfeeling fashion had aroused his anger against all human relationships in general. How could anyone be so casual about death when it was the direst thing that ever happened in life? Did a day ever go by without the sight of a coffin being carried on people’s shoulders? How could they be so casual about the whole thing, as though it didn’t bother them at all? Shouldn’t everyone envision themselves being carried in such a coffin?

Then the profiteers of death. They came in succession, carrying washing equipment and the coffin itself. Eyes glinting, arms flexing, they all invoked false expressions of sympathy in order to hide the glee they felt as merchants about to make a good profit. For them Rushdi’s beloved body was merely a commodity.

Then the casket proceeded on its way, carried on the shoulders of men decked in the white garb of youth. Ahmad let his gaze follow it as it went on its usual downward path, passed from hand to hand and shoulder to shoulder. A fez was placed on top, reminding everyone that its owner had always tilted it to the right until it almost touched his eyebrow, a sign of someone with a rakish streak who was well aware of how attractive he was. My God, all his friends were there in force, crying their eyes out. Kamal Khalil was crying too, while Ahmad Rashid looked stone-faced. Ahmad was far from delighted to see the latter among the mourners. He also avoided looking at Boss Nunu, who was flippant by nature; unlike Ahmad, he would always make light of misery and smiled his way through misfortunes.