The whistle of a train shattered the prevailing silence and interrupted his thoughts. His heart quivered. The hotel was not far from the railroad station, so every now and then the bustle of the trains was bound to remind him of Cairo and its people. Memories of the last farewells returned to him, and his aching heart overflowed with an intense yearning to see his family. A cloud of loneliness and melancholy darkened his heart.
Perhaps this is the price I have to pay for my first day of separation. However, gradually I shall get accustomed to it, he consoled himself. He was at a loss as to what to do. Should he spend most of the day in this room, or should he go out and have a look around this new town? The idea of writing a letter to his brother rescued him from these conflicting thoughts. He began writing, describing his journey, the hotel, Kustandi its owner, his room, and his longing for the family. He sent his regards to his mother and Nefisa. Then he paused, wondering whether it was good form to send his regards to Bahia, too. Here he felt uncertain. Should he mention her by name or refer to her as his brother’s fiancée, or should he be content to send his general greetings to Farid Effendi’s family. Finally, after much hesitation, he chose the latter course.
FIFTY
He left his room early in the morning. But he found Al Khawaga, the foreigner, Michel Kustandi, sitting at his old desk at the bottom of the staircase. The hotel owner asked him if he kept anything valuable in his room. Hussein smilingly said, “I keep my valuables in my pocket.” Then he hurried out into the street and went to a restaurant that served beans, which he had discovered the day before at the farthest end of town. As he ate his breakfast, his attention was particularly drawn by a salad of roasted peas, the likes of which did not exist in Cairo.
He continued to walk around town until nine o’clock, when he went to the secondary school to introduce himself to the chief clerk and begin his official assignment. The sight of the school filled him with agitation, and recent memories returned to him as if in a dream.
Once Hussein had introduced himself at the gate, the porter accompanied him to the chief clerk’s office, asking him to wait until the official arrived. Sitting in a chair close to the desk, Hussein looked through the open door at the school playground, enveloped in heavy silence. In a week the scholastic year would start, and the school would be teeming with life. He remembered how only a few months earlier he had been spending his happiest hours at school in a similar playground, and how the sight of any of the school employees had filled his heart with awe. Now he had become one of these employees. Yet he did not surrender to conceit. As a schoolboy, he might have dreamt of becoming a counselor or a minister, but appointed to the government service, he would not be more than an eighth-grade employee. Before long, his ears were struck by a rough cough and a deep clearing of the throat, followed by a vehement expectoration. Immediately he saw a short man with a delicate body, round-faced and bleary-eyed, his bald head shining as he swept hurriedly into the room. Seizing his tarbush with one hand, he used the other to dry his bald head with a handkerchief. No sooner did he see the young man than he shouted at him, “How, in the name of God, the Benevolent and Merciful, did you get here? Did you spend last night in my room? Are you a new pupil?”
Hussein stood up, embarrassed. “Sir, I’m the new clerk, Hussein Kamel Ali,” he said.
The man burst out laughing. But soon the cough and the throat clearing returned. His mouth filled again with spittle. Looking around in perplexity, he rushed out of the room and was absent for half a minute, then returned, his condition improved.
“Damn this cold,” he said apologetically. “I catch cold at the beginning of every season of the year. Thus you find me always torn between the seasons of the year and the seasons of the school. Excuse me, Hussein Effendi. I should have greeted you first. Peace be upon thee.”
Smiling, Hussein extended his hand, greeting him more warmly. Sitting at his desk, the man asked him to have a seat. Hussein complied.
“My name is Hassan Hassan Hassan,” the chief clerk began. “It is the custom in our family for the father to call his elder son by his own name. Haven’t you heard of the Hassan family in Beheira province? You haven’t? It doesn’t matter. These curs of pupils call me Hassan cubed — see? Hassan3!”
Hussein laughed heartily. The man stared at him critically with bleary eyes.
“Why are you laughing?” he said. “Haven’t you got rid of your schoolboy mentality? By the way, I should like to tell you something about myself. Though I’m a very nervous man, I’m very good-hearted. Many a time, without meaning any harm and being fully respectful, I curse people, no matter how high their position may be. Please understand me and don’t forget I’m as old as your father!”
Hussein was very confused.
“By God’s will, nothing will happen between us to make you angry.”
“I hope so, by God’s will. I just wanted to give you an idea about myself. That’s all. Many a time I curse myself, too! Cursing is often a relief. But for that, many people would have suffocated to death in anger. Soon you’ll learn what it means to work at a school.” He sighed. “The ministerial letter concerning your appointment has arrived.” He ruffled through his papers until he found it. “It’s Number 1,175, dated September 26, 1936. You’ve come at the time when we need you most. For now, we shall start revising the lists of names and fees. The former clerk married the daughter of an inspector at the Ministry and all of a sudden was transferred to Cairo. Are you married, Hussein Effendi?”
“I was only a pupil last spring,” Hussein answered with a smile.
“Do you think that being a pupil prevents one from getting married? I was married when I was a secondary school pupil. This is another custom in our family, like calling the elder son by his father’s name. We also had other great customs, but they were uprooted by Sidki Pasha, may God forgive him.”
Hussein glanced at him inquisitively.
“My father, Hassan Bey, was an outstanding Wafdist and a member of the higher circles of the Wafd party,” the man added sorrowfully. “When Sidki Pasha came to his ill-omened office, he asked him to sever his relations with the Wafd. When he refused, as expected, Sidki Pasha deprived him of the assistance of the Loan Bank during the crisis. As a result, he was forced to sell his land and so lost his wealth.”