“An old lawsuit between my mother and uncles over some entailed property,” Hassanein said with steady confidence. “The court handed down a decision giving Mother her full share!”
“Congratulations! Congratulations!” the man replied.
Proud and relieved, Hassanein rose to his feet. “Your Excellency,” he said, smiling, “I’m sorry I’ve delayed you.”
They all rose and went down the stairs to the parked car. Hassanein hoped they might offer him a lift. But the Bey merely gave him his hand, bidding him goodbye. The young man bowed to the two ladies and hurried off. Apparently the visit was a failure since he hadn’t accomplished his purpose. But he considered himself lucky for this unexpected meeting with the girl, and he thought that his spontaneous happy lie was more significant. The real purpose could wait for a few days.
SEVENTY-ONE
Before leaving Taher Street, Hassanein lifted his face to the sky. Looking at the pale sunset, he wondered whether he would find his brother Hassan at home if he ventured to pay him a visit. Though Hassanein had faint hopes of reforming his brother, he was determined to confront him. He was engrossed in thoughts about his own and his family’s future, and his meeting with Hassan was his main preoccupation. Though he proceeded with unbending determination, his heart was heavily laden with worry and doubt. He took the tram to Al Khazindar Square, then walked toward Clot Bey Street.
Now Hassanein’s attention was diverted to his uniform. He reflected that it had been purchased, in part, with the money his mother received from selling his old clothes. He was concerned that circumstances forced him to appear in a suspect area. But he had no alternative. He saw in Hassan the family’s most serious, thorny problem. Nefisa had abandoned her dressmaking business, and soon he would be leaving Nasr Allah alley, even the entire district of Shubra. Probably a curtain of oblivion would fall on his family’s whole detestable past. Yet the problem of Hassan would remain unsolved. And as long as this brother continued his evil life, security would be impossible. Approaching Gandab alley, he headed for his brother’s house, avoiding the people’s astonished and searching glances, hurriedly crossing the alley like a fugitive.
His nostrils offended by the putrefying smell, he disgustedly climbed the spiral stairs, remembering with both annoyance and embarrassment his first visit to this house a year ago. Halting on the darkened threshold of his brother’s flat, he knocked. A strange man opened the door, one of the disfigured faces indelibly imprinted on his memory from his first visit. No sooner did he see Hassanein than the man slammed the door shut with a loud cry: “The Police!”
Surmising what had happened, ashamed, pained, and disturbed, Hassanein thought of withdrawing. But filled with an obstinate determination to carry out his objective at whatever cost, he stood his ground. To him, this was no insignificant question but a matter of life or death; he would be unable to make progress in the world as long as this house haunted him. He knocked on the door again and waited, realizing how useless it was. He knocked again, violently. Perhaps, he wondered, they might have escaped from the flat through one of the windows. Perhaps his brother would recognize his voice if he called his name aloud. But he was too ashamed to reveal his identity; to reassure his frightened companions, Hassan might tell them of their relationship — which Hassanein would rather bury forever. Yet how could he be sure that Hassan, to show off, had not already told someone or other who his brother was? As he gnashed his teeth, shame and despair made him all the more obstinate, and he violently hammered on the door with his fist, shouting, “Hassan, Hassan, it’s Hassanein!” Soon the door was opened. Appearing behind it, Hassan stared at him in amazement. As though recovering from shock, Hassan, motionless, fixed his eyes for a while upon him. Finally, he came alive, smiling. “Hassanein an officer!” he exclaimed. “I can’t believe my eyes!”
Pressing Hassanein’s hand with one of his and patting his arm with the other, he pulled him inside the flat with a loud, nervous laugh. Hassan walked by his side to the bedroom. “An officer! What a surprise! Congratulations! Congratulations! This is a happy day!”
Hassanein sat on the sofa. Hassan closed the door and sat by his side. Trying hard to overcome his confusion and excitement, the young officer smiled at his brother. “I deserve to be congratulated,” he said, “but you deserve to be thanked.”
Hassan laughed with pleasure, pleasure doubled by a sense of relief following the flurry. “Why should I deserve thanks?” he asked. “I’ve only given part of what’s due to you. But forget about that and tell me about our family. How are Mother and Nefisa? And how is Hussein?”
Pretending to be interested, Hassanein kept the conversation going. Their rambling talk brought Hassanein to the point of asking Hassan why he had stopped coming to see the family. But then he remembered that the ending of his brother’s visits afforded an unintended benefit; under the present circumstances, any continued relations would be most disastrous. Thus at the last moment he refrained from asking him.
“In fact,” Hassan said, “I miss the family very much. But my kind of life no longer allows me to satisfy my longing for them. True, we live in the same city. Yet I feel, indeed, that I’m the inhabitant of a remote place cut off from the rest of the world. Perhaps I worry less about them since I know that they no longer need my help and that I’ve performed part of my duty to them. Besides, I’m not always prosperous. Though my pockets may bulge with cash for several days, they soon become empty for several weeks. And when my pockets are full, I’m compelled to spend extravagantly whatever money I have. But never mind. Now that you’ve become an officer, I should congratulate you on your good fortune and keep my happiness for it pure. Congratulations to our respected officer!”
As he listened attentively to his brother, Hassanein studied his face. He was appalled at the disfigurement and the strange changes in it; it was as though Hassan in one year of his precarious life had gone through what would normally have been many years. Hassan had already stopped talking. Depressed and pessimistic, Hassanein realized the heavy weight of the task he had come to perform, but not for a moment did it occur to him to abandon what seemed to be his sense of duty. Determined to approach the purpose of his visit gently, he said, “I’m afraid my visit may have upset you.”
“Spit those words out of your mouth! What’s that I’m hearing from our respected officer?”
Pretending astonishment, Hassanein pointed to the exterior of the flat. “A strange man opened the door for me. Horrified, he cried, ‘The Police!’ and shut the door in my face!”
“An unfortunate misunderstanding,” Hassan said, laughing aloud. “But when I recognized your voice, everything ended up all right.”
Finding himself in difficulty, Hassanein hesitated before asking him, “But why was he so scared?”
Hassan looked at his brother inquisitively. Was he really ignorant or just playing the fool? “There are people, you know,” he replied indifferently, “who have a phobia about the police.”
“Isn’t it dangerous for you,” Hassanein asked, “to shelter such people under your roof?”
“Yes, it is,” Hassan said after a pause. “But a man isn’t free to choose his companions.”
“How is this, brother?” Hassanein inquired with astonishment. “Certainly a man is free to choose his companions!”
“Forget about it. Let’s change the subject.”
“I can’t, until I’m reassured about you.”
“Then be reassured and don’t worry about me,” Hassan answered with a laugh.
“I wonder what makes you befriend such evil people. You’re a respectable artist and you can choose your friends from your fellow artists.”