She kept repeating the same words until Hussein got up and pulled his brother to his feet. But they did not leave the room; instead they stood there, staring through misty, streaming eyes at the body laid out upon the bed. Hussein couldn’t resist a mysterious inner urge. He bent over the body and lifted the cover from the face, not heeding the movement which his mother made. He looked upon the strange countenance, frightfully blue, mute evidence of the extinction of every living thing. An unearthly stillness hovered over it, as deep and infinite as nothingness itself. His limbs shuddered. Neither brother had seen a dead man before. They were frightened as well as sad. Deep within them, they experienced a piercing, all-conquering sorrow which they had never known before. Bending over the dead body, Hussein kissed the forehead; and once more he shuddered. Hassanein also bent over it, and, almost in a trance, kissed it. The mother pulled the bedcover back over the dead face; standing between them and the bed, she firmly said to her sons, “Go out.”
They took two steps backward. Suddenly obstinate, Hassanein stopped. Emboldened by his brother, Hussein did the same. In a semi-trance, their eyes roved about the room, as if expecting a mysterious transformation to change it all. Yet they found it exactly the same. At the right of the entrance stood the bed; the wardrobe in front, the peg next to it. At the left was the sofa upon which their sister had flung herself. A lute lay against the edge of the sofa, the quill in place between the strings. Surprised and disturbed, their eyes focused on the lute. Their father’s fingers had often played upon those very strings; often delighted friends had gathered around him, begging him to repeat the same tune — as he always did. How thin is the line between joy and sorrow, even thinner than the strings of the lute! Their wandering eyes fell upon the dead man’s watch, still softly ticking as it lay on a table near the bed. On its face, the dead man might have read the date of his departure from this world and of his sons’ initiation as orphans. Perspiration stains on the collar, his shirt still hung on its peg. They looked at it with profound tenderness. At that moment, it seemed to them that a man’s sweat was more lasting than his life, however great. The mother watched them in silence, uninterested in the thoughts crossing their minds, for she realized the full impact of the catastrophe which had befallen them — and that her sons were not yet completely aware of all that it would mean. A deep sigh escaped from Hassanein, catching his brother’s attention. Hussein placed his hand upon his brother’s shoulder.
“Let’s go,” he whispered. The two young men cast farewell glances at the dead body, sharing the traditional belief that, even in death, their father’s eyes could still see them. Lest they hurt his feelings, they avoided turning their backs to him. With a warm parting greeting, they retreated backward to the door and left the room. Hassanein noted the profound sadness on his brother’s face, and his heart quivered in compassion and a pressing need for mutual sympathy.
THREE
The two brothers left the flat and went downstairs to the entrance of the house, where some chairs had been placed in rows. There sat Hassan, their eldest brother, silent and gloomy. They sat down beside him, sharing his quiet melancholy. What to do now? They had no idea. Hassan, however, was an experienced man of the world. He closely resembled his two brothers, yet the look in his eyes was very different from theirs — daring and devil-may-care. Moreover, his ostentatious manner of styling his bushy hair and the way he wore his suit implied, on the one hand, that he took good care of himself and, on the other, that he possessed great cheapness of character. Hassan always knew just what to do. Yet he remained there sitting in his place, doing nothing, for he was expecting an important person to arrive.
“How did our father die?” Hussein inquired, deeply agitated.
“He died suddenly, to our amazement,” he answered with a frown. “He was putting on his clothes, and I was sitting in the hall. All of a sudden I heard our mother calling me in such a terrified voice that I rushed into the room to find him flung on the sofa, his breast heaving up and down. He was motioning, in pain, to his heart and breast. So we carried him to bed. We offered him a glass of water, but he couldn’t drink. I hurried out of the room to call a doctor; but no sooner did I reach the yard than sharp wails struck my ears. When I came back, terrified, it was all over.”
Watching his brothers’ faces as they twisted in pain, Hassan’s own countenance became even gloomier than before. He was afraid his brothers might think he was not really sad. Obviously, they knew about the differences and quarrels he had had with his parents over his recklessly irresponsible life; and he feared they might think him less grief-stricken than themselves. For he really was sad. In fact, despite their strained relations, he had never hated his father. If his sorrow differed from theirs, this was because, at twenty-five, he was older and more experienced in life, with its pleasures and frustrations; indeed, the latter made death seem less bitter. True enough, his heart kept telling him, never after today would he hear anyone yell at him, “I can’t support a failure like you forever. As long as you’ve chosen to leave school, you’ll have to make your own living and stop being a burden to me.” Indeed, nobody would say such words to him again. But it was also true that, whenever he was in desperate straits, as was often the case, he could never find anyone else who would give him shelter. He could better understand the catastrophe which had befallen them than those two big infants. How, then, should he be lacking in sorrow and grief? With glistening eyes, Hassan stealthily cast a glance at the distressed faces of his two younger brothers and bit his lips. He loved them both, regardless of all the circumstances which might have provoked his spite — in particular, despite their success at school and their father’s love for them. He did not think that school was an enviable privilege, and he was convinced that his father loved him as much as he loved Hussein and Hassanein, although in his case paternal love was tainted with anger and resentment. Above all, thanks especially to their mother, the Kamels’ family ties had always been very strong.