“I’m sure he’ll be a good companion for you,” he said. “You’ll be able to help each other kill time and avoid feeling lonely until you both get out of here, hale and hearty, God willing!”
Ahmad spent some time chatting with his brother and the other young man. He discovered that his name was Anis Bishara; he was a final year student in the School of Engineering. However, it was obvious that the journey had exhausted Rushdi—he simply lay there on the bed in a kind of stupor—so Ahmad chatted with them both for a bit longer until he was sure that Rushdi was settled in, then he stood up to leave. As he clasped his brother’s hand to say farewell, he could feel tears welling up inside him and had to grit his teeth to stop them emerging from his eyes. Once he had left the room, it occurred to him that Rushdi had also been on the verge of tears when bidding him leave. He was on the point of going back, but rejected the idea and continued on his way out of the building. Walking down long corridors with patient rooms on either side, he shuddered as he noticed ghost-like human beings all wearing billowing white garments. On his way back to the station he kept looking back at the imposing sanitorium building and muttered yet another prayer.
The Akif family spent a miserable evening together. The father looked totally distracted, and the mother wept so much that her eyes were red. Ahmad tried to make things easier for them by talking in hopeful terms, but the fact of the matter was that he too needed someone to lighten his own burden of misery.
40
The family had to wait impatiently until Friday, which was visiting day at the sanitorium. Kamal Khalil decided that he and his family would go with them. Both families made preparations for the visit. Ahmad bought his brother a box of chocolate biscuits, while Sitt Tawhida, Nawal’s mother, prepared a pastry dish for which she was renowned. At noon they all went together—the three men, two wives, and Nawal—to Bab al-Luq Station and sat opposite each other, the men on one side and the women on the other. That is how Ahmad found himself directly opposite Nawal. From the very first moment he avoided looking at her. He had not seen her since that fateful day when he had discovered what had been going on between her and Rushdi, but the fact that she was sitting so close to him now brought back old memories and triggered some painful feelings. He was afraid of succumbing to his emotions, so he decided to avoid the possibility by engaging Kamal Khalil in conversation for a while and then reading the al-Ahram newspaper. However, even though he managed to avoid looking at her, the flood of emotions he was feeling got the better of him. How was he supposed to forget his thwarted hopes or the bitter anger he had once felt toward his own brother? How could he overlook the terrible disease that had converted his anger into an unstaunchable wound in his own conscience? How could he forget that at one point he had even been worried in case the girl herself got infected? He had even considered accusing his brother of exposing her to all kinds of risk. All these worries had turned his entire life into a firetrap. He was quite ready to believe what he had once told himself, “Rushdi may have a lung disease, but my disease is in the mind!”
He started wondering what kind of feelings Nawal was having now that she was sitting directly opposite him in the train. Sorrow? Shame? Wasn’t it reasonable for her to feel sad that the illness had afflicted her beloved and to pay no attention to his middle-aged brother? There was absolutely nothing unfair or unreasonable about that. But he still had to ask himself: what was the point of his own life, and how was he supposed to make use of the fact that he was healthy? He immediately began to feel the familiar sensation of being persecuted, one that was both painful and enjoyable. There was something else as well that he had to admit: he was happy to know she was there in the train compartment with him, even though he was avoiding looking at her. Why was that? he wondered. Was he testing his ability to forget and feel dismay? Or was it rather that he wanted to slake his old urge to show her how easily he could ignore her and rise above his feelings?
He came to himself for a moment and decided that it was wrong to be entertaining such thoughts when he was on his way to visit his dear brother at the sanitorium. Such was the pain he felt inside him that he found himself wishing that there were some kind of operation that could suture the wounds in the human soul as was possible with the limbs of the body.
The journey came to an end, and everyone walked along the road, their eyes glued to the sanitorium looming in front of them. Even though Rushdi had only been there for three days, the fact that he was now forced to relax and take things easy led Ahmad to hope that his brother would already be feeling better. He walked ahead of the rest of them, went into the room and looked at Rushdi’s bed. His brother was lying down. Even though he was aware of their arrival, he did not move. He received their greetings with a wan smile on his pale lips, and then they all gathered around his bed. Ahmad’s hopes rapidly faded. His brother’s appearance shocked him, and he immediately realized that his condition had actually worsened since the day he had brought him there. That confounded him, and his heart sank. Rushdi’s visitors sat down, and Ahmad put the chocolate biscuits and pastry down on a small table near the bed.
“I’m hardly eating anything,” Rushdi said weakly as he spotted them. “I don’t feel hungry at all.”
His mother kept staring at him, trying desperately not to show how absolutely devastated she was. “Don’t you like the sanitorium food, Rushdi?” she asked.
“The food’s fine, but I’ve lost my appetite.”
“Don’t worry,” Sitt Tawhida said. “This always happens when the disease is in its early stages. Tomorrow this pure, dry air will make you feel hungry again.”
Rushdi gave her a smile and then Nawal too, since she was sitting beside her mother.
“The last three nights have been dreadful,” he told Ahmad. “I keep waking up and can’t get back to sleep. The pain is much worse, and the.…”
He didn’t finish the sentence. Ahmad realized at once that he was avoiding the word “coughing.” It was at this moment that he realized that the decision to bring Kamal Khalil’s family with them had been a huge mistake. Even so, he was anxious to give his brother as much encouragement as possible.
“You heard what the lady said,” he told him. “This is typical of the first phase in the illness. With God’s help you’ll be past it in no time and then you can get well again.”
“Wouldn’t it be better for me to come home?” Rushdi pleaded.
Ahmad noticed that his mother was on the verge of agreeing to the idea. “God forgive you!” he said hurriedly. “Absolutely not. You’re not going to leave this room until you’ve completely recovered. Then you’ll be able to walk back to Cairo! Fortunately, you’re already looking a lot better.”
Kamal Khalil wanted to put an equally positive face on things. “That’s right, Rushdi Effendi,” he lied, “you’re definitely looking better.”
The boy’s mother took a closer look to see if what they were saying was believable.
“You need to be patient, Rushdi,” said his father, his calm voice cracking a little. “Be patient. May God care for you and take you by the hand.”
Rushdi said nothing, although not willingly. Ahmad was well aware of that, knowing that Rushdi was only ever convinced by his own opinions and used them alone as a basis for his actions. Ahmad was sure that if Rushdi disliked the sanitorium enough, he would not be patient nor would his stay there produce any beneficial results. That thought depressed him even more.
Just then he noticed a movement in the other bed and watched as his brother’s roommate sat up in bed. Ahmad was embarrassed because the overwhelming sadness he was feeling had made him forget to say hello to Rushdi’s roommate.
“I’m terribly sorry, Anis Effendi,” he said raising his hand in greeting. “How are you?”
“No problem!” the young man replied with a laugh. “Rushdi’s obviously eager to get out of here and leave us!”
“I’ve kept you awake a lot,” said Rushdi apologetically.
“There’s no need
to apologize,” the young man replied. “I don’t mind being awake at night.”
“You seem to be a night owl,” Ahmad said with a laugh, “just like Rushdi!”
“Absolutely right! And now here comes fate to tell us we have to abandon the things we used to love.”
They all wished the two young men a speedy recovery. Ahmad’s mother went over to the table and brought over the box of chocolate biscuits. She put one down beside Rushdi where he could reach it. “Won’t you try one, Rushdi?” she begged.
He shook his head. “Not now,” he said firmly. “Later.…”
That made her sad, but she managed to put on a good front as she put the box back. Even now, she could not forget the necessary etiquette, so she went over to Anis’s bed and offered him some too.
Ahmad kept staring disconsolately at his brother, but when Rushdi turned toward him, he managed to fake a smile. He was utterly stunned to see how weak and pale his brother looked. He seemed exhausted and listless; he just lay there, a prisoner, with no interest in the outside world. He looked scared as well, and the expression in his eyes betrayed both pain and resignation to fate. Ahmad got the impression that Rushdi wanted to tell him something; so strong was this feeling that he thought that he should spend some time alone with Rushdi after his visitors had left. But then the thought occurred to him that Rushdi was going to beg to be brought home, and that made him change his mind. He clenched his fist for his brother in a show of solidarity, pretending to make light of the whole thing.
Time came to leave, and everyone said fond farewells. They all left the room, with prayers for a speedy recovery on their lips. Rushdi’s mother was the last to leave, kissing her younger son on his cheeks and forehead. On the way back she broke down, and tears welled up in her eyes. Nawal too was tearful and had no idea how to hide it. For his part, Ahmad kept his grief to himself until he got home and went to his own room. He remained optimistic and told himself that next time he would find Rushdi much improved. God, when would he ever recover that bloom, energy, and joie de vivre that he had possessed before? Would he ever again hear his brother’s touching songs, that gentle teasing and ringing laugh?
The Akif family slept that night feeling the same sorrow and grief they had felt on the night they’d parted with Rushdi. Early next morning they were all jolted awake when the doorbell started ringing. Ahmad sat up in bed. The bell kept on ringing as though no one was taking any notice. A horrendous thought suddenly occurred to him; he leapt out of bed and rushed out of his room. There he found his parents almost running toward the apartment door. No one mouthed a word, as they surrendered to whatever the fates had ordained. Swallowing hard, Ahmad made for the door, turned on the outside light, and opened it. Looking outside, he found nobody there. But the bell kept on ringing.
“There’s no one there!” he told his parents flabbergasted.
He went over to check on the bell’s battery, took off the cover, and separated the wires. Immediately the bell stopped ringing. As he closed the door, he felt tears welling up in his eyes. They all looked at each other, completely devastated.
“God protect us from Satan the accursed!” was his father’s reaction.
“Wouldn’t it be better to bring Rushdi home, if that’s what he wants?” his mother said with a sigh that came from the depths of her heart.
“My revered mother,” said Ahmad, “you must put your faith in God Almighty!”
41
On Sunday afternoon Ahmad was sitting with his parents, sipping coffee. A letter arrived, and Ahmad immediately recognized the handwriting.
“That’s strange,” he said. “It’s Rushdi’s handwriting.”
His parents both sat up and watched as Ahmad slit the envelope open. The letter was written in pencil and in a sloppy hand totally unlike Rushdi’s normal script:
8/3/1942
My Dear Brother,
Greetings to you and my parents! I’m writing this at 2 a.m., but don’t be surprised at that; I’ve been robbed of the pleasure of sleep forever, and no sleeping pills have any effect. Just imagine, yesterday I took a dose of a well-known sleeping medicine; when it had absolutely no effect whatsoever, the doctor gave me a powerful drug and told me I’d sleep like a lamb. I’m still wide awake. This torture just goes on and on, and I’m actually sitting up—or rather resting my back against the pillows—because lying down aggravates my cough, which is now much worse. That means that I have to sit up in bed; the only way I can get any rest is to fold the pillow, put it in my lap, and then lean my head on it.
Dear Brother, I hate to cause you any sorrow or pain, but there’s a bitter truth, one from which there is no escape, that I have to share with you. After all, you are my first and last resort. Well, dear brother, I now know the results of the X-rays that were taken the day after I arrived here. I have a new spot on my right lung, and the old one on my left lung has created a cavity the size of a quarter. My general health is grave. Here’s the report of the resident physician: “Absolutely no tolerance for food, no sleep at all, clear cough, breathing continuously impaired.” I’m going to die, there’s no doubt about that, none whatsoever. As I write these words to you, tears are pouring down my face, and I can’t even see the words I’m writing to say good-bye to you. Every time I think of you all, I burst into tears.
So that’s the way things are. The only thing I beg you to do now is to bring me home so I can spend my final days at home with all of you until I die. This time please don’t raise any objections. Once again, I’m sorry to cause you so much grief, but what am I supposed to do? Don’t tell our parents about this. God’s blessings and peace upon you.
Your ever-loyal brother,
Rushdi
Ahmad read the letter in a kind of stupor, then reread parts of it over and over again. When he had finished, he felt almost dizzy, unwilling to accept what his brother was telling him. Even so, by the time he looked up he had managed to recover some of his self-control and could face his mother calmly enough to tell her an outright lie. His consideration for his mother’s feelings and the fact that she was sitting so close to him allowed him to forget about himself for a while and keep a firm grip on his nerves. He looked at his parents and saw that they were both anxiously waiting for him to say something, like a person waiting to be shot by a firing squad with no blind over their eyes.
“Rushdi’s insisting on coming home,” Ahmad said, feigning exasperation. “What’s the matter with him?”
“But he’s doing fine!” his mother said.
“All’s well and good,” Ahmad went on, “but he loathes the sanitorium.”
“Bring him home to me, Ahmad. There’s no point in keeping him at the sanitorium against his will.”
Ahmad stood up. “I’ll go to Helwan tomorrow and bring him back,” he said.
With that he gave his father the letter and went to his own room, with his mother behind him.
Next day he went back to Helwan without delay or hesitation. All the way there he felt conflicted and agitated. For the first time in ages he was contemplating the prospect of death as an imminent reality, considering its direst aspects and feeling the pain, despair, and fear that came with it. He could envisage the family tomb far away, the one that had swallowed up his baby brother and that would now pile up its earth again to create a hole to envelop his dear brother, Rushdi, someone without whom he had no idea how to live his own life. As he drew ever closer to the sanitorium, he became more and more depressed. Terror now had its heavy foot planted firmly on his chest. Good God, he wondered, how would he find Rushdi today, when he hadn’t been getting any sleep at all?
The sun was slowly setting as he walked out of the train station. Taking a taxi to the sanitorium, he went up to the third floor without paying attention to anything else. As he approached the door to Rushdi’s room, his heart was pounding. He went in and looked straight at the bed. There was Rushdi, exactly as he had described himself in his letter, sitting up, with his head leaning on a cushion folde
d in his lap.
“Rushdi!” he exclaimed, swallowing hard.
His brother looked up quickly. Ahmad noticed how very pale his face was and how hard he was finding it to breathe. A glimmer of happiness showed in Rushdi’s eyes.
“You’ve come,” he said in a quavering voce. “Take me out of here, please.…”
“That’s why I’ve come, Rushdi,” Ahmad said to calm himself down a bit.
He turned to Anis Bishara, and they exchanged greetings.
“Poor Rushdi!” Anis said in a tone of voice that clearly showed how worried he was. “He never gets any sleep. Last night was terrible. It’ll really be better for him to spend this next week at home. But he should come back here later!”
Ahmad nodded his head in agreement. “Do you know what the procedures are for requesting to take him home?”
“Go and ask the doctor immediately,” he replied in the same serious tone of voice.
Ahmad encountered no difficulties in getting permission; in fact, he was not a little scared by the alacrity with which the doctor agreed to the request.
He went back to his brother’s room and collected his things. Rushdi could not take his pajamas off and put on outdoor clothes, so he made do with a dressing gown. They brought a wheelchair to take him to the elevator. Anis Bishara accompanied him to the outer door of the sanitorium to say farewell and shook his hand warmly as he uttered a prayer for his recovery. Ahmad watched as his brother submitted meekly to the arms of the people carrying him; his eyes rolled and he looked so incredibly thin. Ahmad could not help remembering how fresh and handsome his younger brother had always looked, and how elegant, witty, and energetic he had been. Ahmad was so devastated that he could not avoid biting his lip, sensing as he did so a huge sob rising from the very depth of his soul.