“Please,” he said, “release my brother and me from membership in the Shubra Club.”
The captain looked astonished. He was particularly troubled because Hassanein was the right wing on the team. “What’s troubling you?” he protested.
Hussein was touched. “Our father is dead,” he said.
The captain fell into deep silence, then gently expressed his sorrow. After several speechless moments, he inquired, “Need this really mean that the club should be deprived of two skillful members like you?”
“Mourning dictates it,” Hussein quickly replied.
“Mourning is not incompatible with sports,” said the captain with compassion.
“Our circumstances warrant this. I’m sorry,” said Hussein amiably.
He made his farewells and walked away, avoiding his eyes. Joining his friends, he found them discussing politics. One was saying, “God be merciful to the martyrs of the Faculties of Art, Agriculture, and Dar el-Ulum!”
“Sacrifices must be made,” said another, “for blood is the only language the British understand.”
“The pure blood of the martyrs has never been shed in vain.”
“Don’t you hear the call for unity now?” said a third.
“And here is The Times hinting at negotiations.”
The bell rang and, still arguing, they went to their classes.
TEN
Carrying their books, they silently crossed the courtyard of the house. “The Shubra Club football team will soon be starting its training for the next match!” said Hassanein as they went upstairs. Hussein did not answer. He kept imagining the playground and the players, and he mentally heard the voice of the captain telling the others of their withdrawal from the team “on account of the recent family circumstances.” There would be no play, no joy, and no escape from Hassanein’s continuous complaints. They knocked and were let in. Inside they stopped in astonishment at the strange, unexpected sight that met their eyes. They saw all the furniture of the house piled into the hall in complete disorder, the chairs on the sofa, the carpets rolled up, and the wardrobes undone. There stood Samira and Nefisa, their sleeves rolled up, covered with dust and sweating in spite of the mild weather.
“What’s the matter?” cried Hassanein.
“We are leaving this flat,” their mother answered.
“But where to?”
“Downstairs. We shall exchange flats with the landlady.”
A ground-floor flat, on the same level with the dusty courtyard and with no balconies! Its windows, which overlooked a side blind alley, all but exposed the rooms to the people passing by; no sunlight, no fresh air.
“But why?” asked Hassanein discontentedly, although he had already guessed the answer.
“Because the rent is only one pound and fifty piasters,” their mother replied in a clear voice.
“The difference in the rent is less than fifty piasters. It doesn’t match the difference between the two flats!” the young man complained.
“Would you undertake to pay that little difference?” the mother asked indignantly.
“Why, then, did we allow Nefisa to become a dressmaker?”
His mother gave him a fiery look. “So that we can eat!” she cried. “To keep you from dying of hunger!”
Trying to keep his face pleasant and not show any resentment, Hussein asked his mother, without a trace of objection, “When did all this take place, Mother?”
“I suggested it to the landlady, and did not hide anything from her,” the woman replied as she wiped her forehead with the sleeve of her black dress. “She was good enough to agree without hesitation.”
“If she were really good, she would let us stay in our flat without asking for the difference in the rent!” Hassanein grumbled.
“People have other things to attend to than your welfare!” His mother answered sharply.
“How are we going to sleep tonight?”
In a downcast voice, which indicated that she had not yet recovered from the shock of her father’s death, Nefisa answered, “We shall sleep in the new flat.”
At that moment Hassan emerged from his dead father’s bedroom carrying the peg, the last piece of furniture. “Stop bickering,” he said quickly, “and let’s take the furniture downstairs. We have only two hours before dark.”
Wishing them to follow his lead, he lifted one side of a sofa, saying to his brother Hussein, “Lift the other end.”
Nefisa opened the door wide, and the two brothers passed through with their load. Going carefully downstairs, Hussein wondered if anyone in the family of their good neighbor Farid Effendi Mohammed, who lived on the third floor, would see them.
Separation, he thought, is not the worst part of death. It is only secure people who experience sadness on account of their separation from the ones they have lost. But as for us, our troubles succeed one another so fast that they leave us no time to be sad. How our condition deteriorates! But we have to be patient or at least to pretend that we are. The worst thing we can do is increase, through our anxiety, the misery of our mother. I shall speak more firmly to Hassanein! Their mother and sister followed with whatever pieces they could carry. Hassanein could not bear to stand there as a spectator, so he joined them. The members of the family climbed up and down the stairs, moving in. The landlady had emptied her flat and all her furniture was lying in the courtyard. Her porters were standing nearby awaiting their turn to start working. All the members of the family, whether or not they showed their emotions, shared the same feelings of sorrow and pain. Samira’s face was not easy to decipher, but Nefisa’s eyes were filled with tears. Hassan was working hard as if to ingratiate himself with his mother through his labor, lest she criticize him for his idleness. Being used to a vagabond’s life, it was natural that, of the three brothers, he should be the least affected by the radical change that had been visited upon the family. Panting with exertion, Hassanein whispered to Hussein, “Don’t you see that we will never make up for the loss of our father?” Two tears rolled down his cheeks.
ELEVEN
Hassan left early in the morning immediately after his brothers’ departure for school. There was no need for him to go out so early, but he wanted to avoid friction with his mother so as to spare her a quarrel which, in her grim and unfortunate circumstances, she could very well do without. He left Nasr Allah behind, and walked on aimlessly and hopelessly. “Find yourself a job.” That’s what she is telling me all the time. Where am I to find that job? As an apprentice in a grocery? But that will end in a quarrel, an ambulance, and the police. Yet, he did not feel as hopeless as he should have. He was too self-confident and optimistic for that. He could not, however, ignore his precarious position and he kept talking to himself: Your father (God be merciful to him) is dead now. You’ve lost your shelter. True, you’ve always made your living through quarrels and rows, and you had to put up with insults and abuse, but, anyhow, that was a sure living. Even this suit you’re wearing, which makes you look not too bad an Effendi, comes with his money. Yes, at first he refused to buy it for you, but you threatened him that you would walk along the streets in your underwear, and burst almost naked into the palace of Ahmad Bey Yousri, where he usually spent his time, and so he gave in and instructed the tailor to make this suit. Now, if you go around completely naked, nobody will mind except the police!