Hasan Effendi’s life was darkened by the continual shadow of boredom and weariness. A so-called musician in a band that performed at wedding celebrations in the poorer quarters, he was more often idle than working and would spend his days sitting and yawning on his chair in front of the shop in Muhammad Ali Street where the band hung out.
All day long he would sit staring at the women passing by, at the trams, at the carts bearing professional women mourners going along behind some ‘dear departed’ toward the cemetery of the Imam Shafi‘i.
Biting his nails or pulling at his mustache nervously, his tarboosh, the edge blackened with sweat and dirt, pushed back from his forehead, he would sit and stare. Though he appeared to stare long and searchingly, yet in actual fact they were but the casual, passing glances of a man distracted by memories, the worries of life, the contemplation of the past and the future. In this manner he spent his free time, immersed in sadness and regret for a life that had been wasted—yes. and alarm at the misery and privation that was in store for him.
He was now in his forties. In his youth he had worked as an assistant at a barber’s shop, but success had not been decreed to him—the razor had the habit of slipping and drawing blood from the customer’s chin, and once a man had had his hair cut by him he never put his foot inside the shop again. It was soon noticed by the bosses that Hasan was scaring away customers, the result of which was that he found himself out of work. He took on various types of jobs before ending up with the band. The job was a wretched one, providing him with scarcely enough to keep starvation at bay, for the times when people used to have weddings in the grand style had long ago passed: now they preferred spending the money on a dowry or other essentials. So it was that the band used to wait for work without any real hope, like an undertaker in a town where the people enjoy perfect health and whose relations with the Angel of Death are few and far between.
Hasan Effendi used to live in Bulaq in a house of a seamstress. The woman was a widow and had a daughter, named Nafusa, who was not bad looking.
Hasan thought about marrying her, for the row of gold teeth that glittered in the mouth of Nafusa’s mother indicated that she was comfortably off. Apart from which, Nafusa herself possessed a pair of heavy earrings, a dozen gold bangles on her arms, and round her neck a large pendant. The two of them obviously made a good thing out of their business—thanks to the Singer sewing machine which was never silent.
Marriage, he told himself, would do away with a lot of his present worries. He would no longer find himself at the end of the month being asked for the rent, would not be faced with having the bailiff in to remove his bed because of the past months that hadn’t been paid or because he owed money to the baker and the grocer.
He would return home to find something clean and decently cooked waiting for him; he would be freed from the slavery of the little shop that sold dishes of beans, from the butcher who sold offal.
Nafusa’s mother was encouraging him, hinting that he would be happy, that he would have no worry in the world. . . .
When still in his thirties, Hasan Effendi had married Nafusa. He had now been with her for ten years and had four children by her. Yes, through marriage he had insured his future and his daily bread, but in return he had given up his personality and self-respect. His whole life had become humility and submission. At his work he had to obey Gaber Effendi, the head of band, for fear of losing the five piasters he took at the end of the day, while at home he obeyed his mother-in-law, handing over to her the five piasters to help with house.
It was from this moment that his life became oppressive, darkened by the shadow of boredom and weariness. The whole world now seemed to gaze on him with contempt. In his filthy yellow shoes, his black trousers, his yellow coat and faded tarboosh, his checks puffed out from all the blowing he’d done, he was like a clown moving about in the midst of life; coming and going under glances of contempt from his fellow creatures. In the quarter he was known, not as Hasan Effendi, but as “the husband of the daughter of Umm Nafusa.” At the local café he sat with head lowered, for seldom did Umm Nafusa give him any pocket money, so that he would spend night after night yearning to smoke a pipe of tobacco or to gamble a little at cards. A friend would pass, and he wouldn’t be able to invite him to a pot of tea.
At home he commanded no respect whatsoever. His miserable wage scarcely sufficing to provide them with bread, his children regarded their grandmother as the mistress of the house. His own wife came and went as she liked, refusing to tell him where she’d been.
To escape from all this Hasan Effendi volunteered as an air-raid warden. Having learnt something about the job, the government provided him with a helmet and uniform.
Cairo was plunged into darkness and Hasan Effendi went out on inspection, and was astounded to find out that everyone in the district obeyed his least word. He only had to raise his head toward the stately houses of the rich and shout “put out those lights” for them to be put out instantly. Even the local constable would call him “Sir.”
Hasan Effendi was amazed and overjoyed. Once, seeing a light at one of the windows of a villa, he had gone up, and rapped boldly at the door. Only as he was doing so did he notice the name on the brass plate—it was the house of the head of the local police station. Before he could take to his heels an elegant young girl had come out to inquire who it was. On seeing his uniform she was full of apologies and rushed off immediately to see about the window . Another time he spotted a car whose headlights hadn’t been blacked out properly. He stopped it, but when he began to tell off the driver, the man answered him haughtily: “The Pasha’s in a hurry. He’s got a meeting at the Chamber of Delegates.” But. nothing abashed. Hasan Effendi shouted back at him: “Orders are orders. I’m telling you; you’ve got to black out those headlights of yours.” The Pasha took Hasan Effendi’s side and began apologizing to him in a loud voice—no doubt in the hope that some journalist would hear of the discussion and would bring out in the morning papers an article under the title “The Democratic Pasha.”
His mother-in-law had not yet got up by the time Hasan Effendi arrived back home. “Hasan, me lad, go up on the roof. All the chickens . . .,” she called at him from her bed. “‘Lad’ be damned, you shameless wench,” he shouted back at her. “Get up yourself.”
“Don’t you shout at me like that,” she screamed at him, taken completely aback by the way he had dared to speak to her.
“Shut up,” he said, drowning her voice. “Shut up if you know what’s good for you.”
She took one look at the glint in his eyes—and she shut up.
Hasan Effendi went out and returned at noon. Not finding his wife at home he inquired where she was. “Nothing to do with you,” answered his mother-in-law, at which Hasan Effendi calmly removed one shoe and gave her a good beating. Only then, begging for mercy, did she provide him with the information.
“That’s better,” he answered her, haughtily.
He then proceeded to inform the children that he was going to take a nap and that if he heard a sound from any of them he’d wring their neck. Generally they took no notice of him, but this time they too saw the glint in his eyes.
On awaking he ordered a cup of coffee, though previously he had always prepared it for himself. His mother-in-law brought it along to him. She was surprised and perplexed. “Perhaps,” she told herself, “he’s won the first prize in a lottery.” Hasan Effendi tested the coffee, then flung it across the room, shouting at her that it was far too sweet. “I want things done as I like them.”
Umm Nafusa’s astonishment was redoubled.
That evening he rounded off his day bringing back some bananas for the children. His mother-in-law, on furtively searching his pockets, discovered only two piasters but could not find the courage to say anything.
The following morning he greeted his boss casually, seated himself on his chair, crossed his legs and began watching the passersby. The boss, in his turn, was amazed. None of his employees had ever shown him such disrespect; the man’s manner and tone of voice were nothing less than arrogant. “Perhaps he’s won the first prize in the lottery,” said the boss to himself.
At the end of the day Hasan Effendi tackled him.
“Look here, Gaber. The money you’re paying is no good to me. It’s either ten piasters or goodbye and I’ll find my living somewhere else.”
The other agreed and changed his opinion about Hasan Effendi.
That night Hasan Effendi called out in his sleep “Put out those lights . . . put out those lights.” His wife jumped out. thinking the order was addressed to her, and put out the light in the room; she then went out into the hall where she encountered her mother who had also heard the order.
Meanwhile Hasan Effendi snored contentedly, dreaming about authority, about a man named Hasan Effendi whose every word commanded blind obedience.