The Beginning and the End by Naguib Mahfouz

nargileh and lose all that he had won at cards with his luck and quick hands and eyes. But soon he forgot his worries and watched his visitor’s face. Ali Sabri was about twenty-five, of medium height, slim, and with delicate features. His hair was very much like Hassan’s, with whiskers that crept down to the middle of his cheeks. His general appearance showed how bad his condition was, but he covered it up with unlimited false pomp and self-conceit. Searching his face, Hassan said with regret, “We haven’t heard your voice for a long time.”
    On several occasions he had broadcast songs for private companies, and it had seemed as though fortune was beginning to smile upon him. But when these private stations were closed down and an official national broadcasting station established, his performances came to a standstill, and his attempts to renew them failed. Hassan was a member of his unemployed band. Naturally, he earned no more than a few piasters from that kind of work; but he loved it and preferred it to a serious job, which, from his point of view, was hard, degrading labor, in which he had never achieved much success.
    “I’ll be starting new work very soon,” said the master.
    Hassan’s heart beat hard. “We are your men,” he replied, “always at your service.”
    The master nodded with satisfaction, for he was never treated with dignity except when he was addressed by one of the tramps who constituted his band—especially the fierce and tyrannical Hassan, who turned into a gentle flatterer when he was speaking to him.
    “Of course, of course. You’re good at singing refrains, and your voice is not bad,” came the answer.
    Hassan’s face lit up. “I have memorized a lot of popular songs,” he said.
    “Such as what?”
    “Such as ‘He Who Loved You,’ ‘Why Are You Unjust to Me?’ and ‘When I Was Burnt with the Fire of Love.’ ”
    Belittlingly, the master shrugged his shoulders. “Chanting and Laiali are the cornerstone of true art,” he replied. “But what do we hear on the wireless nowadays? Nothing of value. Just yelling, not singing. If the station were really aware of art, I should stand next to Um Kalthum and Abdul Wahab. Even Abdul Wahab himself is often afraid that his voice might fail him. So he avoids the kind of singing that requires long breath, and, under the guise of innovation, divides up what he is singing into short parts. Then he uses musical instruments to camouflage the weaknesses of his voice. Here is how he sang ‘Ya Lil’ in his last performance.”
    He coughed before he started to imitate Abdul Wahab’s singing of “Ya Lil.” When the waiter came with the nargileh and coffee, he was busy singing. So he held the sucking pipe of the nargileh, and did not stop singing until he was done.
    When he finished, Hassan’s companions cheered. He inhaled a puff of smoke from the nargileh without paying attention to them. Then he whispered to Hassan, “They admire my voice and not my art. Now, listen to the same Laiali as it should be sung.”
    His singing filled the small café. The proprietor raised his head from the till, half smiling, half objecting. Master Ali Sabri finished singing and returned to his nargileh. This time he intended to thank the company for admiring his singing. But silence prevailed, interrupted only by the gurgling water in the phial of the nargileh. The master frowned.
    “This,” he said confidently, “is the way of true art.”
    “No doubt about that,” said Hassan enthusiastically.
    “Train your voice and continue practicing. Sing more Laiali and never stop sucking candy,” was the man’s advice.
    “You don’t say!”
    “That’s very useful. It is also advisable that you wake up at dawn and chant the summons to prayers. This is the best practice for the throat. It’s what the great singer Salama Hijazi used to do.”
    Hassan laughed and said, “But usually I sleep just before dawn.”
    “Then do Al Aza’n before you