That evening Farid Effendi and his wife came to visit them. Samira and Nefisa welcomed the visitors and led them to the sitting room. The two felt quite at home as they entered, Farid Effendi wearing an overcoat over his gown, and his wife a dressing gown. To accommodate his obesity, the man sat on the sofa. He spoke softly, affectionately, and entertainingly. Um Bahia, his wife, was rather short and as plump as he; yet because of her blue eyes and pale complexion, she was considered the most beautiful woman in the building. Gently reproaching Samira, she asked her, “Why do you stay at home the way you do? Why don’t you get some relief by visiting us as you used to?”
“The cold of the winter assails us,” the mother replied. “In the evening, we grow lazy, and in the course of the day the burdens of managing the house never leave us an hour’s rest.”
“We are one family,” said Farid Effendi, “so we ought to spend most of our leisure time together.”
Farid Effendi was the type of man who never left his home except in cases of emergency. He spent his leisure time squatting on the sofa, surrounded by his wife, his daughter Bahia, and his younger son Salem. They told stories, chewed sugarcane, and roasted chestnuts. Samira felt genuine affection for his kind and generous heart. She never forgot his care and thoughtful assistance on the day of her husband’s death. In addition, he had lent her some money until she received her husband’s pension. He never failed to go to the Ministry of Finance to inquire about the pension and give the papers a push. But contrary to her flattering notion of his position, he was just a minor official, promoted only recently to the sixth grade when he reached the age of fifty. His neighborly relations with the dead man’s family went far back, and ties of friendship between the two families were strengthened by their mutual good-naturedness and similar standards of living. Theirs was not a bad life, nor was it devoid of entertainment. The family of the late Kamel Effendi had enjoyed new prosperity when he had been promoted to the sixth grade, five years before his death. Farid Effendi had entered on a new era two years earlier when he inherited a house in El Saida Zeinab, which brought a monthly rental of ten pounds. Thus his income had amounted to twenty-eight pounds a month, which was considered very substantial in 1933. Farid Effendi became master of Nasr Allah alley, grew fatter than ever, and if not for his wife’s insistence on saving for the future of their daughter and young son, he would have satisfied his desire to move into a flat on Shubra Street.
Their conversation ranged widely, and then Farid Effendi expressed a wish which was probably the chief reason for his visit.
“Madam, I ask you to do me a favor.”
“Anything you wish, sir,” Samira replied.
“My son Salem, who is in the third year of primary school, is weak in English and arithmetic. Teachers being greedy, as you know, I have thought, with a view to economizing, of asking Hussein and Hassanein to undertake the job of tutoring him for an hour a day or every other day. This is the favor I am asking, Um Hassan.”
Samira realized what the man was offering: a face-saving means of assisting her sons by providing them with a monthly supply of pocket money. This was as clear as broad daylight, and in keeping with the man’s gentle, kindly character. “Hussein and Hassanein are your sons, and both are at your disposal,” she said softly and shyly.
“They will really be helping me out. I hope they can start next Friday,” he replied happily.
They went back to their conversation, and the man and his wife left at about nine o’clock.
Nefisa hurried to her brothers’ room with this happy piece of news. Regaining some of her former disposition, she told them merrily, “There’s a surprise for you!”
They raised their heads inquiringly.
“Farid Effendi,” she continued, “wants to choose a tutor for Salem.”
“What has this got to do with us?”
“He will choose from you.”
“For what subject?”
“English.”
“He will choose me, of course,” Hassanein cried.
“And arithmetic, too,” she said with a smile.
“Me.” Hussein heaved a sigh.
“He wants to employ both of you, gratis, of course,” she added slyly.
Understanding her insinuations, both shouted with delight, “Of course!”
FIFTEEN
Since they felt no need to put on their suits when they visited a flat in the same building, they merely pulled on their coats over their pajamas and went out. Furthermore, to avoid unnecessary wear, their mother forbade them to dress in their suits except in cases of extreme emergency. The shining forenoon sun tempered the cold weather. Filled with hope and delight, the two young men climbed up the stairs. On their way, they passed the door of their old flat, casting silent looks at it, then continued to climb until they reached the top flat. Finding its door partly open, they hesitated for a few moments. Hassanein approached and raised his hand to knock on the door, but it stopped in midair as, in spite of himself, he stared inside the house. There he saw a girl, her back to the door, her head bent over something she held in her hands; perhaps she was looking for something in a drawer of the sideboard. Her shapely buttocks protruded and her dress, slightly raised, exposed her naked legs and the backs of her knees. The color of her legs was sparkling white, and the eye could almost sense their softness. The sight so attracted Hassanein that he stood entranced, and Hussein began to wonder at the cause. He came near his brother, craned his neck to cast a look over his shoulder, and was overcome with astonishment. But like an escaping fugitive, he quickly retreated, pulling his brother by the arm away from the door and looking sharply at him, as if to say: Are you mad? They stood for a while, overcome by a vague sense of guilt, for the spectacle made their blood run hot. Hassanein leaned toward Hussein and whispered, “Bahia!” in his ear.
His brother pretended to be indifferent. “Perhaps,” he murmured.
Hassanein hesitated, a diabolic smile in his eyes. “Shouldn’t we steal another glance?” he said.
Striking him on the shoulder, his brother pushed him aside, then knocked on the door. They heard footsteps approaching, and when the door opened, a beautiful round face appeared, chubby, white and slightly pale, adorned with eyes of pure blue. As soon as she saw the two newcomers, she retreated shyly. Then from afar came the voice of Farid Effendi, shouting, “Please come in, great masters!”
They entered the hall, which also served as a dining room. Farid Effendi sat on a sofa facing the sideboard; his loose garment made him look like a balloon. As they shook hands, he welcomed them warmly and closely studied their faces. Then he called Salem. The boy came in to stand before them, embarrassed and uncertain. “Shake hands with your masters,” Farid Effendi told him. “You know them, of course. But from now on, they are different people. They are your masters. So you must behave in their presence as you would with your teachers in school.”
The boy approached politely, doing his best to conceal a smile at the two young men, for whom he had not yet developed the habit of respect. His father pointed to a room to the left of the entrance.
“The sitting room,” he said, “is the most suitable place for your lessons. There is a balcony, too, if you want to be in the sun.”
The two instructors proceeded to the room, with their pupil leading the way. The boy hurried to the balcony and opened its French windows, then closed the door. Since Farid Effendi had no son of their own age with whom they might have exchanged visits, this was the first time the pair had entered the flat. They discovered that the sitting room was much like their own. It contained an old set of seats, two European sofas, half a dozen chairs, and a huge mirror whose lower section was a basin filled with artificial flowers. But whereas their own sitting room had looked much the same for years, here the carpenter’s hand had renovated the interior and its coverings for Farid Effendi.