“Hassan!” Hassanein repeated in amazement.
Supporting Hassan’s neck with his shoulder, one of the men who helped carry him growled, “We must put him to bed at once.”
Astounded, Hassanein advanced toward them. Bending over his brother’s feet, he grasped and gently raised his legs and helped the two men carry Hassan to his bedroom. There they laid him on the only bed in the flat. Followed by Hassanein, the two men hurried out of the room, while Samira and Nefisa rushed in indescribable fear toward the bed. On reaching the hall, one of the men, in gallabiya and skullcap, was the first to speak.
“Excuse me,” he said, pointing to the other, who was dressed as an Effendi, “this is the taxi driver.”
Realizing that he was hinting at the unpaid taxi fare, Hassanein walked out with him to the taxi. He paid the driver and dismissed him, but he held the other man.
“What happened?” he asked in fear and confusion.
“Master Hassan is my brother and friend,” the man said. “Perhaps you know he’s a fugitive from the police. Seizing this opportunity, some of his enemies hid themselves in a spot they knew he was accustomed to pass, treacherously ambushed him, robbed him of his money, and fled. Suffering from his injuries, the poor man arrived at my house and begged me to take him to his family. We took a taxi to Nasr Allah alley, and the neighbors told us you had moved to this flat. So we came here immediately.”
Hassanein listened absentmindedly. Though his heart was charged with emotions, fear and worry predominated. When the stranger finished his story, Hassanein muttered, “Thank you, sir, for your kindness. Would you be so good as to stay with him for an hour until he gets some rest?”
But raising his hand to his head in an expression of thanks for the invitation, the man said, “I must go at once. I’ve got to tell you something more before I go. You must take care of this wound at once. But I warn you, don’t call the police or take him to the hospital, as this will lead to an investigation and the meddling of the police.”
The man saluted and departed. As if he were groping his way through the murky dark on shaky ground, Hassanein returned to the room where Hassan had been placed. He found his brother lying senseless, as before. Obviously worried, the women bent over him, and at the sound of Hassanein’s approach, they turned to him for help. For a long time, he looked closely at his brother.
“Didn’t he speak?” he inquired in a strange voice.
Swallowing hard, the mother said, “He muttered a few meaningless words before he fainted. Go get a doctor!”
The injured man moved his hand with a strenuous effort. When there was need for it, he seemed able to overcome his weakness. With a feeble voice, devoid of its usual vigor, he said, “No doctor. The doctor…informs…the police.”
Hassanein studied his brother. The bloodstained bandage covered his head, his forehead, and parts of his cheeks; beneath it nothing appeared except his wan, tired eyes and an unshaven chin. His mouth was agape, his breathing heavy and rattling. His necktie and jacket pocket were torn. He moaned from time to time, and his right hand kept opening and closing. Stunned at the sight, Hassanein forgot his fears in a powerful upsurge of pain and compassion. For a moment he forgot everything; he had to do something for his prostrate brother, something to save him at whatever cost. But the feeling of fear and anxiety which had pursued him in recent days emerged from his depths and floated on his consciousness, threatening his career and reputation. Shame for such sentiments and remorse for entertaining them now cut him to the heart. Talking offered an escape from this heavy weight upon his conscience, and Hassanein spoke gently to the wounded man. “Let me get you a doctor. Your life is much more important than anything else.”
“Yes, Hassan,” Samira and Nefisa entreated him. “Let’s get a doctor.”
Raising his heavy eyelids, Hassan said in a tired, muffled tone, “No. Don’t be scared. This is a trifling wound.”
When he tried to take a deep breath, he had to rest for a while. With his eyes closed, he said, “They betrayed me and I’ll punish them. If I survive, I’ll punish them. But don’t call a doctor; a doctor will inform the police.”
Conflict still stirring within him, Hassanein replied, “We must get a doctor. It won’t be difficult to persuade him to keep quiet.”
“Hassan, have mercy upon me and allow us to get a doctor,” his mother begged him.
Snorting, Hassan murmured impatiently, “Have mercy upon me and leave me in peace! Oh!”
Their mother kept turning her eyes from Hassan to Hassanein in his inner struggle. All ambivalence resolved, Hassanein became aware of his true feelings. He realized that his sympathy for his brother was nothing compared with the fear that weighed heavily upon him. We’re done for, he thought. My heart tells me no lies, at least not when I expect evil to occur. Now we’re done for in Heliopolis as we were done for in Shubra. The police will pursue us all like criminals. I can almost see the officer searching the rooms and arresting this fleeing culprit. Is there no way out? But should I deny my brother? Despite everything, he’s still my brother. But he is trampling down my life while he moves on his own thorny way. Oh! How sick I am of this!
He heard his mother shouting at him, “Help me, Hassanein! Can’t you see that he’s dying?”
No, he won’t die, Hassanein thought. It is I who will die a slow, cruel death. My dignity is mortally wounded. Now, if he dies here, a doctor will come to examine his body. Soon the police and prosecutor will follow. While they can’t hurt him after he’s dead, the rotten stench from his decaying corpse spreading throughout the place will be scandalous in itself.
Suddenly he turned to his mother; her frightened, distracted eyes moved from the prostrate man to Hassanein. Silent though she was, her glances seemed to him as vocal as heartrending screams. He wondered about himself. At first he had hated his mother; then, attacked by quick, vague flashes of memory, he softened and his attitude changed abruptly. As once more he focused his attention on the bloodstained bandage, he recovered his vigor of mind. A bright idea dawned on him. “Why didn’t I think of this before?” he murmured. He spoke hurriedly to his mother. “I’ll go get a friend of mine,” he said, “a doctor at the Army Hospital. Wait, I won’t be long.”
He rushed to his clothes, dressed quickly, and having determined on a course of action, left the house.
EIGHTY-SEVEN
Hassanein leaned on the windowsill, watching the doctor as he carefully went about his delicate work. Samira and Nefisa had left the room, their breathing almost audible from behind the closed door. At first frightened and deeply agitated, Hassanein gradually calmed and became self-absorbed. In a fight with a member of the family, he had told the doctor, his brother received an injury in the head. He begged him to aid his wounded brother and keep silent about the incident so as to spare the family a public scandal. With some reservations, the doctor accompanied him. After a preliminary examination of Hassan’s injured head, he said, “It’s a deep fracture with profuse bleeding. I don’t understand why you refuse to inform the police.”