But Hassanein, his face white with anger, cried, “A dressmaker?”
“Why not? There’s nothing to be ashamed of,” answered Hassan.
Hassanein retorted sharply, “No, my sister will never be a dressmaker. I refuse to be a brother to a dressmaker.”
Samira frowned and shouted angrily, “You’re just a bull that eats and sleeps, and you know nothing about life! Your foolish mind will never understand how bad our situation is.”
He opened his mouth to object.
“Shut up!” she shouted. He snorted and did not utter another word.
Seeing that she had done with his objection, Samira turned to Hussein. Their eyes met for a moment; then he lowered his and murmured reluctantly, “If it can’t be helped, let God’s will be done…”
Samira was deeply moved. She said, “As Hassan has said, there’s nothing to be ashamed of. I don’t like to see any of you humiliated; but there are things that cannot be helped. I can do nothing about it.”
There was a painful silence. Hussein was more like his mother than the rest of her children. He had her patience, sagacity, and loyalty to the family. He was greatly pained by the plans for his sister. Yet he felt it was stupid to object to the dictates of necessity. In his suffering he began to think that in these two days he had learned more than he had in the rest of his life. Nefisa remained helplessly silent. It wasn’t the first time that she heard that proposal, for her mother had already convinced her that it was inevitable. For her, dressmaking was an entertaining hobby. She had only to accustom herself to receive fees for it. Now her feeling of worthlessness doubled the grief she felt from her father’s death. It was no use.
Interrupting the silence, Hassan said in a tone of regret, “It’s a real pity that my late father forbade Nefisa to continue her school education. Imagine how things would be now if our sister had become a teacher.”
When they stared at him curiously, he understood that he had blundered. He hadn’t realized that what he said sounded like a joke. Would it not have been better if he had himself understood the value of education and continued his schooling? Frowning irritably, he said, “Education is good for those helpless ones like her.”
SEVEN
The next morning, Hassan, the eldest son, accompanied Samira to the Ministry of Education. When it became known at the Ministry that she was the widow of Kamel Effendi Ali, many of his colleagues offered to put themselves at her service. She asked for whatever part of his salary might be due and was advised about the procedure for getting the required inheritance papers. She inquired about her husband’s pension, and one of the dead man’s colleagues accompanied her to the Personnel Department. They were told that since he had worked for the government for about thirty years at a salary of seventeen pounds a month, his heirs would receive a pension of five pounds per month. She had never imagined this, nor did she know anything about the government’s share of the pension. What really terrified her was the description of the months-long procedure required before she would receive the pension. She was so shocked that she could not help saying, “But how can we wait that long?”
“We’ve nothing to live on except this pension,” said Hassan in an attempt to explain his mother’s concern. But no sooner did he utter these words than he regretted them, for they sounded strange coming from a man as tall and strong as himself. The official, however, paid no attention to these remarks.
“Madam,” he said, “I promise you that we will not waste a single moment. But we can do nothing about the formalities of the Ministry of Finance.”
What use were those nice words! But what would she gain by grumbling and complaining? Worried and despairing, they left the Ministry.
“How,” she cried, “can we face life during these months, and afterward how can we live on five pounds a month?”
The young man lowered his eyes in gloom and consternation. Desperate though she was, a gleam of hope appeared before her fatigued eyes. “I’ll visit Ahmad Bey Yousri,” she said. “He is a great, influential inspector. Besides, he was a good friend of your father’s.”
“Right,” said Hassan hopefully. “A word from him can speed up the government formalities.”
She looked at him earnestly. “Don’t waste your time with me,” she said. “Perhaps now you realize our real situation. Go and find a job for yourself.”
She returned to Shubra Street alone and remained at home until afternoon. Then she went to Taher Street, the so-called Quarter of the Wealthy. It was three blocks north of Nasr Allah alley; a side street with elegant villas and modern buildings on both sides. She asked some passersby the way to the Bey’s villa. It was a beautiful two-storied building surrounded by a blossoming garden. She gave her name to the porter as “widow of the late Kamel Effendi Ali.” He returned quickly and led her to a magnificent sitting room overlooking a wide terrace. The Bey, he told her, was dressing and would come soon. It seemed to her that she was kept waiting for a long time, but she stayed where she was, without removing her black veil, her mind too preoccupied with troubled thoughts to observe her luxurious surroundings. She had great faith in this great friend of her husband’s, of whom he often spoke with love and pride. She had herself witnessed the fruits of that friendship, manifested in the baskets of grapes and mangoes presented to them in their respective seasons. Her husband had spent most of his evenings in this villa, perhaps in the very same place where she now sat, playing on the strings of his lute far into the night. It was possible, then, that she might leave the villa comforted and recompensed. While she was thus absorbed in her thoughts, the inner door of the hall opened and in came the Bey, his body broad and tall, his plaited mustache carefully groomed. Courteously, the woman stood up. The Bey greeted her.
“Have a seat, please, madam,” he said gently. “You have honored us with your visit. God be merciful to your husband. He was a dear friend of mine and his loss distresses me, now and for the rest of my life.”
The woman saw this reception as a good omen and thanked him for his kindness. The Bey continued talking to her about her late husband until her eyes were filled with tears. She was even more moved by the situation itself and, motivated by an instinctive desire to stir up his sympathy, made no attempt to check her tears. Silence prevailed for some time. Despite her grief, she noticed that his mustache and whiskers were dyed, that he was overcareful about his appearance, and that he exuded a strong, fragrant smell of perfume. He inquired kindly about the purpose of her visit.
“Your Excellency,” she replied, “I came to seek your help in expediting the formalities for receiving my late husband’s pension. I’m told this may take months to settle.”
The man pondered. Then he said, “I will do my best. I’ll discuss the matter with the Under Secretary of State for the Ministry of Finance.”
Relieved, she thanked him. Hesitating for a moment, she said, “Your Excellency, our condition, and only God knows what it really is, requires quick action.”
“Yes, of course. I understand,” he said earnestly. “Do you need any help?”
What a question! She had nothing but those two pounds left over from the money she had found in her husband’s wallet. She wouldn’t have anything else till she received what was due of his salary. But how could she tell him that? She had never been in such a position before. One had to be shrewd and get used to it. Shyness kept her silent for a while. Then she said in a low voice, “Thank God, He has protected us. I can wait a little longer.”
The Bey was quite relieved by her answer. He had asked the question out of embarrassment and courtesy. His feeling of relief resulted from no inherent stinginess in his character, nor was it due to any resentment toward the idea of helping his friend’s widow. It was just that he was not in a position to help. In spite of his wealth, he usually spent all his money on himself and his family; so much so that nothing was left. Yet he was ready to help her, but only if she asked him for assistance. The woman was not aware that her husband had not been a friend of the Bey’s in the sense that the Bey understood the term. He might have been a friend of the third order. The Bey liked him and enjoyed his company and entertaining art, but had not considered him an equal or a friend like the rest of his friends among Beys and Pashas. But he was sincere in his desire to help the woman get her pension, in memory of the deceased, and to avoid any further obligation to help her. She stood up to take her leave and he saw her off respectfully. When she reached the street, she sighed hopefully. But she said to herself rather regretfully, “Had I been more courageous I’d not have lost that chance of help which I desperately need!”