Fahmy was so overcome by emotion that he could no longer bear to face his father. He fled from the room, almost colliding with Yasin and Kamal, who were listening behind the door, their dismay visible on their faces.
63
Yasin was heading for Ahmad Abduh’s coffee shop when he ran into one of his mother’s relatives in Bayt al-Qadi. The man approached him solicitously, shook his hand, and told him, "I was on my way to your house to see you".
Yasin guessed that this statement presaged some news about his mother, who had already caused him so much trouble. He felt uncomfortable and asked listlessly, "Good news, God willing?"
The man answered with unusual concern, "Your mother’s ill, actually very ill. She’s been sick for a month or more, but I only learned of it this week. At first they thought it was nerves and didn't worry about it, until it became entrenched. When the doctors examined her, it was diagnosed as a serious case of malaria".
Yasin was astonished by this totally unexpected news. He had anticipated word of a divorce, a marriage, a row, or something along those lines. He had not considered illness. He scarcely knew what he felt, since his emotions were so conflicting. He asked, "How is she now?"
The man replied with a premeditated candor not lost on Yasin, "Her condition’s grave… In spite of the prolonged treatment there has not been the least hint of progress. To tell the truth, her condition has continued to deteriorate. She has sent me to tell you frankly that she feels her end is near and that she wants to see you at once". He added in a tone that implied Yasin should carefully consider what he was saying, "You must go to her without any delay. This is my advice to you and my plea. God is forgiving and compassionate".
Perhaps there was a certain amount of exaggeration in the man’s words, intended to induce him to go, but they could not be a total fabrication. So he would go, if only from a sense of duty.
Here he was, once again traversing the curve in the road leading to al-Gamaliya, between Bayt al-Mal and Watawit Alley. On his right was al-Tih Street, where the woman who sold doum palm fruit had her place in shimmering memories of darkness. In front of him lay the road of sorrows. He would shortly see the store of the fruit merchant, lower his eyes, and slink past like a fugitive thief. Whenever he thought he would never return here, misfortune brought him back. No power short of death could have brought him to her this time… Death! "Has her time really come?" he wondered. "My heart’s pounding… with pain? Sorrow? All I know is that I'm afraid. Once she’s gone, I'll never return to this place again… All the old memories will succumb to forgetfulness. What’s left of my property will be returned to me, but I'm afraid… I'm angry at these vicious thoughts. O God, preserve us.
"Even if I gain a more comfortable life and greater peace of mind, my heart will never escape from its pains. On her death I will bid farewell to a mother, with a son’s heart… a mother and a son, isn't that the way it is? I'm a person who has suffered a lot, not a beast or a stone. Death is new to me. I've never witnessed it before. I wish the end could come without it. We all die… really? I've got to resist my fears. Nowadays we hear about people dying all the time, on Ministries Street, in the schools, and at the mosque of al-Azhar. There are victims of the violence in the city of Asyut daily. Even the poor milkman, al-Fuli, lost his son yesterday. What can the families of the martyrs do? Should they spend the rest of their lives weeping? They weep and then forget. That’s death. Ugh… it seems to me there’s no way out of trouble now. At home there’s Fahmy and his stubbornness. In front of me there’s my mother. How hateful life is. What if it’s all a trick and I find her in the best of health? She'll pay dearly… Shell certainly have to pay a high price for it. I'm not a toy or an object to be ridiculed. She won't find her son until she dies. Do you suppose there’s any money left for me? When I go in the house, will I find that man there? I won't know how to treat him. Our eyes will meet for a dreadful moment. Woe to him! Should I ignore him or throw him out? That’s a solution. There are violent alternatives the man won't have considered. The funeral will certainly bring us together. What a joke! Imagine her coffin with her first and final husbands following behind it, while her son walks between them with tears in his eyes. By that time there definitely will be tears in my eyes. Isn't that so? I won't be able to evict him from the funeral. Scandal will accompany me to the very end. Then she'll be buried. Yes, she'll be buried, and everything will end. But I'm afraid, hurt, and saddened. May God and His angels pray for me… Here’s the sinister store… There’s the man. He won't recognize me. Far from it… I'm disguised by age. 'Uncle… my mother says…'"
The servant opened the door for him, the same servant who had received him the year before. At first she did not recognize him and looked up curiously, but the questioning look quickly left her face to be replaced by a flash of recognition that seemed to say, "Oh… you're the one she’s waiting for". Then she made way and pointed to a room on the right as he entered. She said, "Step this way, sir… No one else is there".
Her final phrase attracted his attention immediately, since it addressed one of his major concerns. He realized that his mother had removed this obstacle. He headed for her room, cleared his throat, and entered. His eyes met his mother’s as she looked up from her bed, to his left. Her eyes, known for their clarity, were clouded, so that her gaze seemed faint, as though coming from far away. Despite the feebleness of her eyes and their apparent disinterest, occasioned by their fading strength, she fixed them on him with a look of recognition. The delicate smile of her lips betrayed her feelings of victory, relief, and gratitude. Since she was wrapped in a blanket up to her chin, only her face was visible, a face that was far more changed than her eyes. Once full and round, it now looked withered and elongated, pale instead of rosy. Her delicate skin revealed the outlines of her jaw and protruding cheekbones, giving the pitiable appearance of a face wasting away. He stopped in stunned disbelief, incredulous that any power in existence would dare play such a cruel joke. His heart was seized by alarm, as though he were staring at death itself. He was stripped of his manhood and seemed to have become a child again, searching everywhere for his father. Irresistible emotion drew him to the bed. He bent over her, murmuring in sorrowful tones, "Never mind… How are you?"
He felt genuinely sympathetic. In the warmth of this emotion his chronic pains disappeared. Similarly, in rare cases the symptoms of a hopeless medical condition, like paralysis, may disappear because of a sudden, overwhelming onslaught of terror. He seemed to be rediscovering the mother of his childhood whom he had loved, before pain had hidden her from his heart. Gazing at her faded face, he clung to this rejuvenated feeling which had also rejuvenated him, taking him back years before the pain, just as an exhausted invalid clings to a moment of lucidity he fears intuitively may be almost his last. Yasin clung to this sentiment with all the intensity of a man fully conscious of the strength of the forces threatening him. The very way he clung to this emotion revealed that those pains still existed deep inside him. He was aware of the sorrow awaiting him if he carelessly allowed this pure emotion to become spoiled by letting it mix with other feelings.