Khan Al-Khalili

by Naguib Mahfouz

  That is the way his thought processes developed. What made it much easier for him to convince himself was that he still had his basic functions in place and was able to move around. While keeping his condition a secret, he had in fact begun the prescribed routine, until quite by chance his brother had come into the bathroom; after that his secret had been no more. The truth is that he was not sorry, not only because his elder brother was so much a part of himself, but also because the process of keeping it hidden away was preying on his mind, so he felt a sense of relief when his brother found out. He unloaded all his sorrows on to Ahmad, except the part involving the sanitorium, about which he still felt a need to be a bit cautious.…

  35

  Ahmad listened silently to his younger brother talking, his heart full of the most profound sadness. He completely forgot about the mixed feelings he had felt toward his brother, wavering between love and aversion. All he could feel now was just one irrepressible, instinctual emotion—a genuine love in which was combined extreme worry and overwhelming sadness. Memories from the recent past still impinged, but he squelched them immediately, feeling not a little ashamed. He was even annoyed with the girl who was the root cause of them.

  When Rushdi finished the account of his visit to the doctor, the two brothers stared at each other, sadness and worry written all over their faces.

  “This is God’s will,” said Ahmad, “but we’ll never despair of His mercy. We have to believe what the doctor says. It’s not like doctors to offer false hope to their patients. The lesion is a small one, he says. From now on, we’ll have to devote as much care and attention as we can to treating it. I must say that I’m shocked that you didn’t tell me as soon as you knew about it!”

  “I only found out just before the feast,” Rushdi replied quickly, even though he knew it was not the truth. “I didn’t want to bother anyone. I was waiting for the right moment to tell you, and only you, about it.”

  “It’s God’s will,” said Ahmad sadly. “So let’s endure His judgment until such time as He bestows a cure, He being far more merciful to us than we are to ourselves. Now, tell me what you’ve decided to do.”

  The question made Rushdi panic, and he looked warily at his brother. “Needless to say, I’m going to follow the doctor’s instruction,” he said. “He’s told me to take things easy, eat good food, and have some injections.”

  Ahmad’s expression made it clear that he was not entirely convinced by what he had just heard. “But people with this disease normally go to the sanitorium,” he said.

  Once again Rushdi lied to his brother. “The doctor doesn’t think it’s necessary.”

  Ahmad now looked more hopeful. “Well, Rushdi,” he said, “maybe it’s a minor attack after all!”

  “For sure! That’s what the doctor told me.”

  “Maybe you won’t need to take a lot of time off.”

  Once again Rushdi felt awkward. “I’m not going to ask for time off,” he told his brother in a low voice.

  That shocked Ahmad. “How on earth can you recover then?” he asked in disbelief. “You may have been told it’s a minor case, but don’t treat this illness lightly, Rushdi. We’ve had enough of that kind of behavior already!”

  “Heaven forbid, Ahmad, that I should play fast and loose with my own life! From now on, you’ll see that, apart from going to work, I’m going to take things very easily. I’ll compensate for the effort I put into going to work by eating carefully and taking fortifying medicines. If I request sick leave, it’ll put my job and future at risk.”

  “Aren’t you exaggerating?”

  “No, Ahmad, certainly not! If the bank’s doctor finds out about my illness, I won’t be allowed back until I’m completely cured. That may require a long time, and I’ve no guarantee that I won’t be dismissed. Actually, it’s virtually certain in such cases, in view of the fact that I’ve taken sick leaves both here and in Asyut before.”

  Ahmad frowned and looked even more anxious. “Good God,” he protested, “health’s far more important than a job. How can you possibly get better when you’re still working hard?”

  “The doctor told me I can do it,” Rushdi replied optimistically. “He knows best. God willing, I can be cured without sacrificing my future or raising any kind of scandal.”

  Now Ahmad was really annoyed. “Scandal?” he said in disbelief. “There’s no scandal involved. God is testing you. Everyone is liable to get sick unless God ordains that they be protected and saved. What I’m afraid of is that.…”

  “Don’t be scared,” Rushdi interrupted. “Pray to your God for me. You’re going to be happy with the way I handle things.”

  Ahmad felt overwhelmed and said nothing more. Rushdi sighed in relief and started telling his brother about the precautionary measures he was proposing to take. He would get some carbolic acid so he could sanitize the bath and sink every morning and would buy special cutlery and crockery for when he ate and drank. He would tell his parents that they were a present from a dear friend of his. His brother listened carefully. For the first time he started to worry about himself, thinking about the possibility of infection. He was a bit of a hypochondriac in any case.

  At this point Rushdi made ready to broach another sensitive topic no less tricky than the first one, if not even more so. “There’s something else, Ahmad,” he said, “something that’s of extreme importance to me. I’d like to ask you to stick to it as carefully as I’m going to. I want this entire conversation we’ve had to remain between us only.”

  Ahmad was utterly astonished. Then he remembered the way Rushdi had just talked about the crockery and cutlery being a present. “But what about our parents?” he asked.

  “They don’t need to know anything about it,” Rushdi replied firmly. “There’s no point in getting them all worried. If my mother gets scared, that’ll be enough to publicize the whole thing.”

  Ahmad felt distinctly uneasy, realizing that all this implied a peculiar and unhappy family life. “Have it your way, Rushdi,” he sighed. “If you start getting better, then maybe we can keep things a secret, but if not, then.…”

  “Don’t worry! From now on recklessness is no longer an option.”

  Ahmad realized full well what Rushdi’s motivations were in wanting to keep it all a secret from his parents. Rushdi was worried that the news would soon spread to the girl’s family; for that reason he was making light of the whole thing. This realization had a profound effect on Ahmad, and he was deeply saddened by it. Rushdi may have been staying at work because he was anxious for the girl and her family to think he was still fit and well, but in fact his longing for the girl was causing him real harm. At this point he plucked up his courage and turned to Rushdi again.

  “Rushdi,” he whispered, “if you wanted to request a leave without revealing your secret, then I’m sure we could come up with some kind of pretext other than your illness to justify such a request.”

  Rushdi shook his head angrily. “Oh Ahmad,” he replied wearily, “it’s all settled. Don’t go back to it again!”

  Ahmad said no more. After a while he stood up. “Be strong then,” he told his brother, “and act like the kind of man I’ve always known you to be. You know that whether you get better or not is entirely in your own hands. May God protect you and care for you!”

  Ahmad went back to his own room feeling sad and depressed. News of this dangerous illness had managed to arouse all his latent anxieties, and he felt a genuine sympathy for his beloved brother. At this moment he entirely forgot that his brother had been the instrument that fate had used to demolish his own hopes or that Rushdi had been the one to hurt his self-esteem and crush his pride. Now he could see Rushdi as he really was, a beloved younger brother, someone who had grown up in his embrace and given him a sense of fatherhood for twenty years.

  He looked over at the closed window that he had once named Nawal’s, then looked away in anger. His heart was still unwilling to remember the girl; the mere act of doing so involved
committing an unforgivable crime against his sick brother. This new disaster now required that all such memories be expunged.

  “It’s all over and done with,” he told himself. “Any pangs of regret I may feel are a stinging blow to the deep love I have for my own brother.”

  Just then he became aware of quite how furious he was as he talked to himself. In truth, the fury was self-directed. He could not forget the way he had wanted to see the whole of Cairo obliterated and the fearsome dream he had experienced when he had woken up to the sounds of his brother’s fever-induced moans. Good God, he asked himself, what kind of atrocious devil was residing inside him to spew forth such ideas?

  36

  Rushdi set about confronting his dangerous illness with zeal. He regularly took the medicine and injections that the doctor had ordered for him and, in addition to the usual food he ate at home, he started eating other things that were especially nutritious: yogurt, eggs, honey, liver, and pigeon, all of which cost him quite a bit of money. He kept his brother fully informed about the steps he was taking so as to allay his fears.

  January went by with its freezing cold wind, and everything seemed to be going well. Rushdi made do with one single hour of pleasure each day, the one he spent with his two pupils. No later than ten o’clock each night he would go to bed and fall fast asleep. The hoarseness in his voice disappeared, and his cough improved too, almost to the point of stopping completely. That thrilled him since it seemed to confirm that he was on the road to recovery. But he was still skinny, and his color did not come back. Every ten days he went to see the doctor who continued to give him advice and suggested that he maintain or even increase his self-care.

  The early days of the illness were black indeed. He fell victim to all sorts of worries and delusions and felt such despair that it actually scared him. Life seemed almost at an end, and yet his joie de vivre was certainly no less than that of other people. Whenever he recalled that he was staying in Cairo, when the best thing for him was to stay at the sanitorium outside the city in Helwan, and that he was carrying on working when he should really have taken a leave. All of which made him feel even more afraid and anxious. However, emotional types like him never know how to pause for thought when it comes to pursuing their desires; their thought processes are just like those of a criminal who has a clever lawyer working for him. Thus, even when these worries were at their peak, he still managed to convince himself that he was on the right track. When his voice lost its hoarseness and his coughing stopped—or almost—he was delighted. His self-confidence, sense of security, and hope all came back. This new feeling of calmness afforded him a degree of tranquility and respite.

  However, this situation did not last very long. His old brashness and ribald tendencies came back, bringing with them a deep-felt longing to indulge in life’s pleasures once again. His illness and the dangers it posed no longer bothered him much. He was full of admiration for his patience and willpower, as he recalled the month of January when he had trained himself to do exactly what he had promised his brother to do. It shocked and amazed him at the same time; it was almost as though he believed himself incapable of changing direction and living an upright existence for an entire month. Now, with hope smiling at him, he could hear life’s pleasures—his own life’s pleasures—summoning him with magic whispers, like the songs of the nightingale in the early morning.

  In his current lonely state he remembered his friends, the Ghamra Casino, and the nights of revelry. Their happy, smiling faces appeared before him, and his ears rang with echoes of their pealing laughter; the way they called him “the Lionheart,” the nickname he loved, relished, and was afraid to forget. What wonderful friends they were! Life could be nothing without them—so much fun and such good company! How could he ever forget the way they had pestered him with phone calls at the bank when he had stayed away.

  “Where are you, brother Rushdi? Why this long absence? When you were in Asyut, it seems, you were closer to us than you are now in Cairo! Is the Lionheart’s chair to remain empty? And we’re missing your cash too!”

  How hard he had laughed with them, parried their protests, and then offered important business as his excuse for his prolonged absence. He longed to see his friends, to have a bit of fun. The life of pleasure kept beckoning him.

  He started to wonder whether one night would be all that harmful. Could it really be fatal? Truth to tell, his relish for life had not diminished because of his illness; if anything, it had become that more acute and vigorous. Eventually, the temptation proved too much and he threw caution to the winds. The very thought of being released from the tortures of despair thrilled him, and he started humming to himself the tune, “I Can’t Forget You.” He hadn’t sung anything for a month and a half.

  When evening came, he put on his coat, slung a scarf around his neck, and went to al-Sakakini. No sooner did he spot the garden of the Ghamra Casino than he yelled out from the very depths of his soul, “Hello, hello, how wonderful to see you!” His friends were overjoyed to see him again, and he simply surrendered himself to their unstoppable energy. They chatted in their usual crazy way, then went inside to smoke, drink, and gamble. He was afraid of not indulging himself in case they started getting suspicious. At the same time he was anxious to forget—such was his hope at the time—that his left lung was infected with that disease whose very name made people shudder in fright. He smoked and drank two glasses of cognac that warmed up his cold body. He gambled as well, although he hesitated a bit because the costs of the drugs he was taking were playing havoc with his budget. But fate smiled on him, and he won almost two pounds.

  He left the casino feeling happy, although he could feel a certain hotness burning his tissues. It was very hard for him to walk in the freezing cold. When he reached home, he was utterly exhausted. No sooner had he closed the door than Ahmad’s door opened, and he came out. He invited Rushdi into his room. The younger brother followed him, feeling not a little ashamed and nervous.

  “What on earth have you been doing?” Ahmad yelled. “Have you gone mad? Is this the agreement we made?”

  Rushdi remained silent, although the semblance of a smile showed on his face, a mixture of contentment and worry.

  “This is unbelievable,” Ahmad went on. “I only found out because your bed was empty. I was feeling anxious, so I was only sleeping lightly. Then I heard the front door. Is this what we agreed to?”

  “As you know full well, brother,” Rushdi finally said in a low voice, “I’ve kept to the agreement for a whole month. Now my inner self urged me to break it, just a bit.…”

  “Only someone who’s either completely ignorant or pretending to be could possibly say something so stupid. Don’t you realize that the kind of behavior you’ve shown tonight can negate a whole month’s precautions?”

  “But I’m feeling a whole lot better!”

  “You’re kidding yourself!” said Ahmad angrily. “Your crass stupidity is doing you harm. Allowing you so much freedom is obviously a huge mistake. If the doctor knew the kind of tomfoolery you’ve been up to tonight, he would immediately demand that you go to the sanitorium for a check-up.”

  Rushdi looked defeated. The whole effort of coming home and facing this had completely worn him out.

  “Don’t be unkind to me, Ahmad,” he chided his brother. “You don’t usually behave this way.…”

  “Now you don’t seem to be able to tell the difference between caring and unkindness,” Ahmad responded. “You call me unkind, when I’ve stayed up in a complete panic wondering where you were. It’s yourself and me you’re being unkind to!”

  Rushdi now felt even more tired and worn-out. Tears welled up in his eyes. That made Ahmad cool his temper and feel both sorry and unhappy for his brother. He put his hand on Rushdi’s shoulder.

  “Enough of your exhaustion and my pain. You’ve never cried, so don’t start now. I won’t bother you any more. God alone can tell you what the right thing to do is. My heart is afraid for you and
is begging you to do what’s right. Go to bed and trust in God to make you well again.”

  As Ahmad went back to bed, he started wondering whether his brother would revert to his old ways despite his serious illness.

  37

  Early February was greeted by a world that was as concerned as usual about its strong winds and freezing storms. The sky was covered with a thick layer of dark clouds. The ground was like a chicken sitting on its eggs, waiting for the advent of spring that would crack open the dark cloud cover and reveal the clear sunlight and the scent of flowers.

  Rushdi still looked very skinny. Deep inside him there lurked a flame consisting of emotions and feelings that would not be quenched. He wanted to throw off the chains that his illness imposed on him. The doctor had given him another check-up and told him that his chest condition had not improved. All his hopes were dashed, and the joy he had felt when his voice and cough had improved simply vanished. He had been patient for so long, abandoning the life that he loved. He kept on hoping and hoping, but when was he going to get better? What was even worse was that the doctor had insisted that he must find a way to get to the sanitorium in Helwan. Had he given up on the idea that Rushdi could be cured while staying in Cairo? So what then was the point of enduring all this patience and agony? Apart from all that, his brother made it clear to him that he was not happy about how thin and pale he looked. As a result Rushdi was permanently disgruntled and resentful.

  One evening he was giving his two pupils their lesson. Nawal asked her brother to go and get a cup of water. When the two of them were alone, she asked Rushdi why he wasn’t meeting her every morning any longer. Couldn’t he do it just once? His heart leapt for sheer joy.