The two women eyed him with surprise.
“I’ve thought this matter over for a long time,” he added. “I have come to the conclusion that I should choose either the Police College or the War College.”
“How wonderful!” Nefisa exclaimed happily.
Preoccupied with the obstacles standing in the way of his hopes, he paid no attention to Nefisa’s delight. “After only two years of study, I’ll become an officer,” he said. “Since the course of study is like playing games, success is almost certain. Eventually there will be a secure job waiting for me. These are advantages to be reckoned with.”
“A two-year study after which you become an officer!” Nefisa exclaimed with the same enthusiasm. “How dreamlike this is!”
“What about the fees?” his mother inquired fearfully.
Rather bewildered, he stared at her. “The Police College is very expensive,” he replied. “But the fees of the War College are reasonable, only thirty-seven pounds.”
Stunned, the two women stared at him.
“There is some possibility of exemption from paying the fees,” he hurried to say, “or at least half the fees. In this case, we have to appeal to Ahmad Bey Yousri, whose intercession will carry a great deal of weight.”
In her anxiety his mother still looked stunned.
“Farid Effendi Mohammed told me about the Primary Education Training Institute,” she said. “I find that it has certain advantages worth considering. No fees, and after finishing the three-year course, you get a teaching job.”
“I would hate working as a teacher and I would hate even more to enroll in a free institute,” the young man said resentfully.
“But you don’t object to joining the War College gratis.”
“There is a vast difference between an institute designed to be free and another which exempts me from all the fees or half of them. If I joined the former institute, people would say that I received my education gratis. But if I joined the latter, nobody would ever know about it except the college clerk.”
Unconvinced, the mother shook her head. “Our situation,” she muttered, “is too grave to consider such a thing.”
“Nothing can be more grave than this. Not only do I loathe poverty but I hate the mere mention of it. I can’t bear to walk with my head lowered among people with their heads raised.”
This was not his only reason for preferring an officer’s career. In fact, his motive in joining the War College was a thirst for domination, power, and a dazzling appearance. His mother remained anxious, unconvinced.
“And if you are unable to obtain an exemption from the fees?” she inquired.
He became grimly thoughtful. “As a start, I need the first installment of the fees, which I hope to get from Hassan,” he said. “I don’t think he will let me down, since he didn’t let Hussein down. As for the rest of the fees, these can be managed if you give me the money Hussein sends, plus whatever Nefisa will be generous enough to offer.” He looked at his sister. “I don’t think she will be miserly with me, especially because her earnings are good enough.”
He looked from his mother to his sister to observe the effect of his words. Seeing no sign of encouragement, he continued tenderly: “We’ll have two more lean years, after which there’ll be comfort and happiness!”
He directed his hopeful glances from one to the other, and added cajolingly, “You’ll become the mother and sister of an officer! Imagine it! Imagine that we’ll leave this alley for a respectable flat on the main street!”
Touched by his entreating glances, Nefisa was overcome by a generous, altruistic impulse.
“Don’t worry as far as I’m concerned. I’ll give you whatever I can,” she said.
There was a look of gratitude in his eyes. “Thank you, Nefisa,” he said. “Mother won’t be less generous than you are. Thus everything will be all right.”
His mother wished him good luck. She had no great expectations from him. Her maximum hope was that after getting a job, he would postpone his marriage for two years to give her the opportunity to get her family back on its feet. However, she gave him the rescue money provided by Hussein, wishing him the best of luck from the bottom of her heart. Still under the sway of her generosity and altruism, Nefisa had reached the lofty peak of eagerness, peace, and happiness. Only for a few precious moments did she enjoy real delight, for assailed by a cloud of dark memories, her happiness soon disappeared. No longer did it flow abundantly; instead, it was strangled and smeared with the mire of those memories. Her enthusiasm subsiding, she lowered her eyes, dispirited and feeling that she had no right to unalloyed joy. Anyhow, what could happiness do to console a miserable, disfigured, tainted soul?
FIFTY-EIGHT
As he left Al Khazindar Square for Clot Bey Street, it occurred to Hassanein that Hassan would mention that they visited him only when they needed money. Though the thought distressed him, he tried to alleviate his discomfort by arguing that it was Hassan who did not want any of his family to visit him at home. Inquisitive, he started to wonder what he might find in this forbidden place! Sensing something unnatural about it, he thought it was perfectly in keeping with Hassan’s character.
Remembering the money he needed, he felt appalled. He wondered what would happen if Hassan was unable to help him. He felt as though cold fingers gripped his heart, ready to crush his hopes. Finally he found his way to Gandab alley. He walked up the filthy incline in search of house number seventeen. Reaching it, he saw a sweet potato seller close by, squatting on the earth in front of his cart. Pointing to the house, Hassanein asked the hawker, “Does Hassan Effendi Kamel live here?”
The man asked in his turn, “You mean Hassan the Head?”
“I mean Hassan Kamel Ali, the singer,” Hassanein said.
“This is the house of Hassan the Head, who works in Ali Sabri’s coffeehouse in Darb Tiab,” the man replied.
Shamefully lowering his head, Hassanein became terribly upset. When he heard the mention of Ali Sabri, he was sure that he was approaching his brother’s house. But he could not have imagined his brother working in such a darb, the name fulminating against his ears like a charge of explosives. Hassanein also wondered at the epithet “the Head” attached to his brother’s name and what it meant. Extremely reluctantly, he entered the house. The putrefying smell of the staircase filling his nostrils as he climbed the spiral stairs, he experienced a feeling that he was descending into a bottomless abyss. When he knocked on the door, a woman’s voice reached him, shouting vulgarly, “Who is it?” As the door opened, he saw a short, plump, dark-complexioned woman whose features exhibited an insolent sort of beauty. Casting a piercing look at him, she inquired, “What do you want?”
Hassanein was so confused that he answered in a low voice, “Hassan Kamel.”
“Who are you?”
“His brother.”
The woman smiled. Standing aside, she asked, “Are you Master Hussein?”
“No. Hassanein,” he muttered with amazement.
Embarrassed and awe-stricken, he entered. Who was the woman and how did she know their names? Was Hassan married? He felt a shudder passing down his spine. Was it possible for his brother to marry such a woman? And for his mother to be her mother-in-law? He desperately wished her to be a mere mistress. The woman walked up to a door at the end of the corridor and knocked on it. When it opened after a while, Hassan appeared on the threshold. As though sensing his presence, Hassan’s eyes were riveted on his brother, and he exclaimed with astonishment and delight, “Hassanein!”
With welcome and solicitude Hassan hurried toward his brother and shook hands with him. Before either opened his mouth, a number of men stealthily streamed out of the room in succession, casually glancing at Hassanein. Before departing some of them said to Hassan, “This afternoon, by God’s will, we’ll leave for Suez, and you’ll catch up with us tomorrow.”