Khan Al-Khalili

by Naguib Mahfouz

  “You’re so unkind, Mother! I feel as if I’m going to die of grief!”

  “It would be a thousand times better for people to curse me than for me to condemn my own child to perdition.”

  Hot tears were still running down Nawal’s face, and her voice broke. “He’s going to hate me,” she said in a different tone. “He’ll despise me. Then, if he gets better.…”

  She burst into tears once again.

  “That’s your fate,” her mother said with a sigh. “What are we supposed to do? But remember, you’re still young, and there are a host of opportunities in front of you. God will heal your wounded heart. Let’s pray to God that He gives Rushdi back his youth and compensates you for what you have lost.”

  “How can you be so unkind?” her daughter sobbed. “You’re cruel and unkind!”

  She ran off to her own room. By now it was evening. Teary-eyed she went over to the window and looked toward the much-beloved window opposite. It was closed, and there was a faint light visible through the cracks. She could imagine Rushdi lying on his side in bed, with that gloomy look on his face, then coughing violently.

  “How sorry I feel that you have to lie there helpless, Rushdi,” she said to herself, “your eyes betraying the pain you are feeling. Where have our young dreams and ideals gone, our conversations, our hopes, where have they all disappeared? O God, what wretched luck I’ve had, and what a gloomy world I live in!”

  She threw herself down on the settee, sobbing uncontrollably. She kept trying to stop crying, but it was hopeless; the whole thing had totally sapped her energy. Her thoughts ranged far and wide with no focus to them. In a single instant her life with Rushdi flashed before her eyes, providing whatever confirmation she might need that fate had dealt her a cruel blow. She had noticed how sad and despondent both her parents had been as they spoke to her. Suddenly she became really scared. The only thing she knew about death was the word itself, but now here it was looming in front of her like a wild beast just waiting to pounce on her heart. O God! And now her parents were telling her not to visit Rushdi and placing themselves between the two of them with a merciless determination. Her teary face showed a frown, and she felt a cold shudder go through her entire body. Placing her hand on her chest, she felt deep down that she was as scared of this disease for herself as she was for her dear beloved Rushdi: bed rest, coughing, emaciation, and agony. Misery, despair, sadness, and fear—all these emotions hit her at the same time. Between her worries about her beloved Rushdi and her concerns for her own health and happiness she found herself being ripped to shreds. O God, hadn’t she been living a devout, secure, and hopeful life up until now? What required her to go through all this hardship and misery?

  The following afternoon she returned from school to discover that her parents had changed her room; she was now in another one far removed from the window overlooking Rushdi’s. Her contact with that ray of light in her life was now forever severed.

  45

  Rushdi no longer mentioned Nawal’s name, which came as a surprise to Ahmad. He wondered whether his younger brother was suffering his agonies in silence or rather was trying to forget by rising above things. Ahmad devoutly wished that his brother would manage to put it all behind him and find a little peace. From looking at Rushdi he could not tell what was going on inside his head. His expression was frozen, and the look in his eyes was almost permanently grim and depressed. Ahmad continued to commiserate with his brother, feeling hopelessly confused, as did his parents. It wasn’t the emotional aspect of the affair that concerned them, but rather its effect on Rushdi’s health, since he was fighting for his life. What made things worse was that as time went by their initial despair turned into a glimmer of hope. If anyone were to have asked why that was, the only answer would have been that time kept passing and things remained essentially unchanged. Rushdi could still not get out of bed, and his thinness still caused a good deal of alarm and worry. His complexion had a yellowish hue to it with a bit of blue mixed in, and his cough only gave him occasional respite.

  In the first half of May, Rushdi was visited by the bank’s doctor for another examination and extension of his sick leave as he saw fit. He gave Rushdi a cursory examination.

  “As I believe you’re aware,” he said, “your official leave ends on May 30, 1942.”

  Yes indeed, he was well aware of that, and yet it was as though he were hearing it for the very first time.

  “Really?” he said softly. “Yes, I do know that.…”

  “The amount of sick leave you still have is clearly not enough for a full recovery; that’s going to take a long time. For that reason, you’ll have to be fired by the bank as of May 31.”

  The doctor’s voice sounded strange to Rushdi’s ears. “Is there no hope of my being cured,” he asked in an even weaker voice, “before the remainder of my sick leave comes to an end?”

  The doctor was completely nonplussed by the question. “Do you really think you can get better, recover your strength and normal weight, and resume your job at the bank with just twenty days to go?” he asked. “That’s out of the question. You’ve at least a year ahead of you before you’ll be well again.”

  Rushdi stared at him distractedly and then looked at the floor. The doctor handed him a form stating that his sick leave would come to an end on May 30, 1942, and that he would be considered dismissed from his job as of May 31, 1942, if he had not returned to work before that time.

  “Please sign this form indicating …,” the doctor said in a tone that made it quite clear that he wanted to leave as soon as possible.

  He thought of his brother, Ahmad, as though summoning his aid in this crucial moment. Rushdi looked first at the doctor, then at the piece of paper, clearly sensing that the man was running out of patience. He was not a little flustered, but managed to take his pen and sign the form with a trembling hand. The doctor left the room, and his mother came in to check on him, her expression showing clearly how much it was all taking out of her.

  “Mother,” he told her, his voice cracking, “I’ve just signed the form officially dismissing me from my job at the bank!”

  His mother’s heart gave a jolt, but she managed to control herself by not giving way to her true feelings. “Is that all that’s making you sound so sad?” she asked, making light of it all. “My dear son, God has blessed us by saving you from a dangerous illness, so we should mention His name with all due gratitude. Everything else is trivial. Don’t worry about it. You may lose your job today, but, God willing, you’ll get it back.”

  “It’s all over!” he said in the same tone, as though he had not heard a single thing she had said, “I’ve lost my job. Now past and future are forever gone!”

  “Rushdi,” she went on, gritting her teeth to stop herself from bursting into tears, “don’t give up and don’t be so sad. Through God’s command and mercy, this misfortune will be removed, and you’ll get your job back or find an even better one. You may be glum now, but, by God, you’re going to end up smiling. May my heart prove me right!”

  But he did not hear what she was saying. His eyes had wandered off to unknown horizons, and his mother had disappeared from view.

  “How vile it is to be so sick!” he said as though talking to himself. “The direst pain and agony! It turns strength to weakness, youth into old age, and hope into despair. It brings down those who stand upright, idles those who work, and disfigures the loved one. My future is lost forever, my light has been extinguished, my bones have been weakened, and my hand has been crippled. O God Almighty, protect us all from the evil of disease, protect us all from the evil of disease.”

  With that his mother lost all control and burst into tears. “Have some pity on me, Rushdi,” she sobbed.

  “God doesn’t want to show us any pity!” was his angry reply.

  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 tri
ed 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!”

  46

  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!”

  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.…”