On the whole, this is a valid description of Mahfouz’s fictional world. But it is not this which inflamed my imagination and so much stirred my feelings that I was eager to translate The Beginning and the End. More often than not, critics focus their attention on the social, political, and documentary aspects of Mahfouz’s work, reducing him to a mere producer of sociopolitical commentary. They very regrettably ignore his powerfully tragic vision of life. There is something Shakespearean about the unfortunate lot of the miserable family which unfolds in The Beginning and the End, just as there is something Shakespearean about the tragic fate of the family in Thomas Hardy’s Tess of the D’Urbervilles. Nevertheless, a gleam of the hope for regeneration penetrates the almost overwhelming gloom of both novels.
RAMSES AWAD
ONE
The master in charge of school discipline cast a gloomy look down the long corridor which overlooked the upper school classes. The Tawfikiyah School was enveloped in deep silence. He went to one of the junior classes, knocked apologetically, and approached the teacher, whispering a few words to him. The teacher looked intently at a pupil in the second row and called out, “Hassanein Kamel Ali.”
At the sound of his name, the pupil arose, casting his eyes in suspense and anxiety from his teacher to the school proctor. “Yes, sir,” he murmured.
“Go with the proctor,” said the teacher.
The boy left his desk and followed the proctor, who walked slowly out of the classroom. Uneasy about the reason for this summons, Hassanein kept asking himself: Could it be those recent demonstrations? He had taken part in them, shouting together with the others, “Down with Hor. Down with Hor, son of a bull!” He thought he had escaped the bullets, the canes, and school punishments altogether. Had he been optimistic? Thoughtfully, he followed the proctor along the long corridor, expecting him to turn around at any moment and confront him with whatever charges he had against him. This train of thought was interrupted when the man halted in front of one of the senior classes and excused himself before entering. He heard the teacher calling out, “Hussein Kamel Ali.” He wondered: My brother, too! But how can he be charged with anything of the sort when he never participated in any demonstrations? The proctor returned, followed by the dumbfounded boy. As soon as he saw his brother, Hassanein murmured in astonishment, “You, too! What’s wrong?”
They exchanged puzzled glances, then followed the proctor as he strode off in the direction of the headmaster’s office. “Why,” Hussein asked him gently and politely, “have we been called out of class?”
“You’re to see the headmaster,” the proctor answered hesitantly.
Silently, they continued along the remaining part of the corridor. The two brothers looked very much alike. Both had long faces, large hazel eyes, and deep, dark complexions. Yet the nineteen-year-old Hussein, the elder by two years, was shorter than his brother. Hassanein had fine features, which made him look more radiantly handsome than his brother. Nearing the headmaster’s office, they became more alarmed. In awe and apprehension, they saw his stern countenance in their mind’s eyes. The proctor buttoned his jacket, knocked on the door, gently opened it, and entered, nodding to the boys to follow. They went in, staring at the man, who was bent over his desk facing the door. He was carefully reading a letter; as if he were unaware of their presence, he did not raise his eyes to the newcomers. The proctor greeted the headmaster with extreme courtesy.
“Here are the two pupils, Hussein and Hassanein Kamel Ali,” he said.
Folding the letter in his hands, the headmaster lifted his head. He extinguished a cigarette butt in an ashtray, and glanced steadily from one brother to the other.
“Which class are you in?” he asked.
“Four D,” answered Hussein, his voice trembling.
“Three C,” said Hassanein.
“I hope you can take what I have to tell you as brave young men should,” he said, looking at them intently. “Your elder brother has informed me that your father is dead. My condolences.”
They were stunned and deeply perturbed. Hassanein was unable to comprehend the news.
“Dead!” he exclaimed. “My father dead! Impossible!”
“But how?” Hussein murmured as if to himself. “Only two hours ago we left him in good health, getting ready to go to the Ministry.”
For a moment, the headmaster was silent. “What does your elder brother do for a living?” he asked them gently. “Nothing,” Hussein absently replied. “Don’t you have another brother?” the man continued. “A public servant, perhaps, or something of that sort?” Hussein shook his head. “No,” he answered.
“I hope you can bear up under the shock like men,” said the headmaster. “Now, go home. May God help you.”
TWO
They left the school and walked along Shubra Street, groping their way through their tears. Hassanein was the first to weep. Nervous, Hussein wanted to scold him, but his own tears gushed forth, his voice was choked with sobs, and he kept silent. They crossed to the other side of the street and quickened their pace toward the blind alley, Nasr Allah, a few minutes’ walk from the school.
“How did he die?” Hassanein asked his brother as if he were looking to him for help. Stunned, Hussein shook his head. “I don’t know,” he murmured. “I can’t imagine how it could have happened. He had his breakfast with us and we left him in good health. I don’t know how it happened…”
Hassanein tried to recall the details of this morning’s events. The first time he saw his father, he remembered, was when he came out of the bathroom. As usual, he said good morning to his father. Smiling, his father replied, “Good morning. Isn’t your brother up yet?” Then they gathered around the breakfast table. His father asked their mother to share their meal; saying that she didn’t feel like eating, she excused herself. “Join us and you’ll have an appetite,” the man said, but she insisted. Shelling an egg, he said indifferently, “Do as you like.” Hassanein couldn’t recall having heard him again, except for a brief cough. His last sight of his father was the man’s back as he went into his bedroom, wiping his hands with his towel. Now he was gone! Dead! What a horrible word. Secretly casting a fearful glance, Hassanein saw his brother’s sad, grief-stricken face, set hard as though he had suddenly grown old. Memories returned to him in painful anguish. I don’t believe he’s dead. I can’t believe it! What is death? No, I can’t believe it! Gone! Had I known that this would be his last day on earth, I would never have left the house. But how could I have known? Does a man die while he’s eating and laughing? I don’t believe it. I can’t believe it. Hassanein was recalled from his thoughts as his brother pulled him by the arm toward Nasr Allah, which in his distraction he had almost passed by. They walked along the narrow alley, lined on both sides with old houses and small shops and cluttered with paraffin oil and vegetable and fruit carts. Their eyes sought their three-storied house with its huge dusty yard. Then they heard the wailings and screams. Distinguishing the voices of their mother and elder sister, they were so deeply moved that they burst out crying. They ran on heedlessly, climbing the stairs two at a time until they reached the second floor. They found the door of their flat open and rushed in, crossed the hall to their father’s bedroom at the far end, and entered it, panting. Their eyes fixed on the bed, the form of a dead body apparent under the coverlet. They approached the edge of the bed and, weeping hysterically, flung themselves upon it. Their mother and sister ceased their wailing and two strange women in the room departed. Their mother, dressed in black, her eyes red with weeping, her nose and cheeks swollen, composed herself to help her sons in their pent-up grief. Their sister threw herself on the sofa, hiding her face in its back. Her body was shaking with sobs. Hussein was weeping, mechanically reciting short verses from the Koran asking for God’s mercy to fall on his dead father. Fear-stricken, distracted, and incredulous, Hassanein was crying, too. He stood in the presence of death, protesting and rebellious, yet helpless and frightened. This cannot be my father. My father would never have heard all this crying without stirring. Oh, my God, why is he so still? They are wailing, as resigned, helpless people do. I had never conceived of this; and I still don’t. Didn’t I see him only two hours ago walking in this very room? No, this is not my father, this is not life. Waiting seemed endless. Then, Samira, the mother of the two young men, moved toward them. “That’s enough. Hussein,” she said, leaning forward. “Get up and take your brother outside.”