The Beginning and the End by Naguib Mahfouz

up before his soul the gates of a paradise full of visions and dreams.
I must write a few words,
he thought,
just two sentences on a small piece of paper that nobody will detect if I throw it at her feet.
He started to write:
“Dear Bahia, I am extremely sorry for making you angry.” Is it not better to say, “Do not be angry, my dear”? Both are the same. What, then? I should confess my love to her? I want to write a decent sentence. Oh, God! Help me.
    Hussein interrupted his thoughts, inquiring, “What are you writing?”
    “A composition subject.”
    “What is it about?”
    “The influence of music on the renaissance of countries,” he replied without hesitation.
    “Dear Bahia. I am awfully sorry for making you angry. Do you have the right to get angry because I love you?” That is enough, as there is nothing better than to be brief and significant. No, that is not enough. Something is missing. Shall I quote a line of verse? No, it usually sounds ridiculous when people do that, and if she laughs once, the whole letter will misfire. Let me write another touching sentence. Oh, God! I implore you to help.
    A fairly good sentence suddenly came to his mind. He started to write:
“I swear by God that I have done what I have done…”
    But once more he was interrupted by Hussein. “Did you finish the points you plan to tackle in the subject?”
    Hassanein was disturbed and in suppressed anger he said, “Almost. Excuse me for a second.”
    He returned to the letter, determined to complete it.
    “I swear by God,”
he wrote,
“that I have done what I have done only because I love you, and shall go on loving you as long as I live. To please you gives me reason to live.”
    He carefully reread the message and heaved a deep sigh of relief. He folded the paper, tucked in its edges, and put it in his pocket.
When she comes near the door, or passes by me in the hall, I shall seize the opportunity to throw this paper at her feet, come what may.

NINETEEN
    Nefisa found herself in a medium-sized room. There were two big sofas, a few chairs on either side of the room, and an Assiut carpet on the floor. The wall facing the entrance led to a balcony on the fourth story overlooking Shubra Street. The furniture was old, and judging by the placement of the wireless close to the door, the room was arranged so that the members of the family could sit there in their leisure time. The moment Nefisa entered, it was readily apparent to her that the family occupying it was quite prosperous. This was evident from the small hall, furnished as an entry to the house, as well as from the large, luxurious hall used as a dining room. After all, she was right to believe the words of her landlady in Nasr Allah, who had said, “I have brought a rich customer to you, a bride from a good family. I hope you will take great care in making her dresses, for this might encourage other well-to-do people to come to you.” Nefisa was excited to enter a strange house for the first time. She sat on a chair close to the door, and waited. She was dressed in mourning, her black hair falling down her back in a short plait. Thus her face, free as it was from makeup and beauty, looked pale and despairing. She thought about her situation:
A strange house and strange people. A new step in the practice of my job. I am just a dressmaker. Oh, Father, I am not sorry for my humiliation so much as I am sorry for the loss of your dignity.
She did not have to wait long, for soon a twenty-year-old girl, both beautiful and graceful, entered the room. Nefisa rose to greet the girl, who cast a scrutinizing glance as she shook Nefisa’s hand.
    “Welcome,” she said. “You are Miss Nefisa, whom Mrs. Zeinab asked to come?”
    “Yes, madam,” Nefisa shyly replied. “Are you the bride?”
    The lady smilingly nodded yes and sat down.
    “Mrs. Zeinab praises you highly,” she said. “You strike me as being a good dressmaker.”
    A faint smile appeared on Nefisa’s face. Her