Classic Short Fiction: Mahmud Taymour’s ‘The Grand Funeral’

The Grand Funeral

By Mahmud Taymour

Translated by Amr El-Zawawy

Bashir Agha walked the doctor through the winding corridors, guiding him to Mustafa Hassan’s sickbed. The doctor followed, stepping cautiously until they arrived at a dim, dust-coated chamber littered with refuse. A feeble ray of sunlight seeped in through a narrow aperture high on the wall. The room’s furnishings were scant and decaying, bearing witness to the cruelty of fortune. The most prominent of these was an ancient, decrepit wardrobe; its battered exterior belied the wealth and possessions concealed within.

Mustafa Hassan had always been a miserly man, enduring self-deprivation with unwavering patience. Whenever money or valuable possessions fell into his hands, he would hoard them in his beloved wardrobe, forcing himself to guard them scrupulously, never indulging or using them up.

The doctor examined the patient, feeling his pulse, listening to his breathing, and pressing down on his chest. Soon, he covered him once more and took Bashir Agha by the hand. As they exited the room, the doctor solemnly declared that the moment of Mustafa Hassan’s death was near, and that he had but two hours left in this transitory world.

No sooner had the doctor left than Bashir Agha hastened upstairs to inform his Lady. He struggled to climb the stairs, his corpulent frame quivering with each laborious step. Upon reaching her chamber, he found the lady seated upon a prayer rug, intoning verses from the Holy Quran, while beside her, the venerable Sheikha Hafiza listened attentively, ensuring the recitation adhered to the proper rules of tajweed.

Sensing Bashir Agha’s presence, the lady removed her golden spectacles and moved her gaze away from the sacred text.

“Has the doctor come?” she inquired.

“He has, my lady,” Bashir Agha replied breathlessly. “And he has now gone.”

“What did he say?”

Wiping the beads of sweat off his brow and steadying his breaths, Bashir Agha lowered his gaze and murmured with mournful reverence, “He is dying.”

The lady’s voice rose in alarm. “Has he passed?”

“He is breathing his last.”

Her eyes filled with tears, which she swiftly wiped with her kerchief, murmuring, “Verily, to God we belong, and to Him we shall return.”

Sheikha Hafiza followed in a guttural voice: “Recite the Fatiha for Mustafa Hassan’s soul.”

The three of them bowed their heads, reciting in solemn unison. When they had finished, Bashir Agha glanced at his watch. It was ten o’clock.

“Mustafa Hassan will die at noon exactly,” he mused.

He made his way back to the dying man’s room, settling himself on a chair by the door, keeping watch over the chamber and, more importantly, over the treasured wardrobe within.

He cast a glance at the bed. Mustafa Hassan had slipped into unconsciousness. “God’s will must be done,” Bashir Agha muttered under his breath.

As he sat, his thoughts drifted back to the sick man’s past. He remembered how, as a child, Mustafa had been brought into the palace by the late Pasha himself, nurtured and raised under his care. The boy had grown into a trusted servant, held in high esteem, wielding considerable influence. But after the Pasha’s death, Mustafa’s fortunes declined. Afflicted by illness and misfortune, he had fallen from his lofty status and was now merely one of the palace’s charity cases.

Word of Mustafa’s impending death spread quickly among the palace staff. They gathered from all directions, eager to confirm the news. But Bashir Agha stood at the door, striking the ground with his cane to deter any who would dare to approach too closely.

One by one, the servants edged toward him, whispering anxiously, “Has Mustafa Hassan passed?”

With measured dignity, Bashir Agha replied, “He is breathing his last.”

Finally, the news reached Sheikh Madbouli, the elderly palace gardener. He was a devout man, never seen without his prayer beads, his lips perpetually murmuring invocations. Arriving at the scene, he took a seat on the ground beside Bashir Agha, folded his legs beneath him, and quickly lost himself in his supplications.

Bashir Agha, who held a certain fondness for the old gardener, leaned toward him and whispered, “Mustafa Hassan will die soon. What shall we do with his belongings? Would it not be best to distribute them fairly among the servants?”

At the mention of the inheritance, Sheikh Madbouli’s eyes gleamed. He stroked his beard thoughtfully before replying with a knowing smile, “Do what you think best, my master.”

Bashir Agha nodded. “I shall set aside a pair of fine shoes, a new robe, and a woolen cloak for you.”

The sheikh murmured contentedly, “Do what you think is right, my master. We all trust your fairness. But do not forget your own share.”

“I desire nothing for myself,” Bashir Agha declared piously. “I will merely take the money and present it to our lady, leaving it to her discretion.”

Their conversation had not gone unnoticed. Muhammadayn, the chief servant, had eavesdropped and sidled closer to address Bashir Agha in an imploring tone. “I hope, sir, that I am not forgotten.”

“How could I forget you, Muhammadayn?” Bashir Agha assured him. “You shall have all of Mustafa Hassan’s fine slippers. He had a particular fondness for them and amassed quite a collection.”

Muhammadayn’s face lit up, his cheeks flushing with excitement. “God bless you! But surely, the new velvet cloak should be mine?”

“That too,” Bashir Agha conceded. “It shall be yours.”

Overcome with gratitude, Muhammadayn pressed a fervent kiss upon Bashir Agha’s shoulder before hurrying off, his steps brimming with anticipation.

Then came Abdul Qawi, the palace water-carrier, his voice quivering with agitation. “I have served the deceased faithfully for years. Surely, I deserve a share?”

“Fool! Did you think I had forgotten you?” Bashir Agha scolded, though with a hint of amusement.

Satisfied, Abdul Qawi’s tone softened. “I am content with whatever you give me, my master. Just a few small things—a black pair of shoes, a fez he bought for last Eid, an unworn cotton undergarment, and perhaps…”

At this, Sheikh Madbouli, who had been quietly listening, could contain himself no longer. “You would take everything for yourself and leave nothing for the rest? Let Bashir Agha decide—there are many in need. What of the reciter? The cook? The doorman?”

At that moment, a feeble, broken voice echoed from the sickbed. All turned in stunned silence. Mustafa Hassan was calling out.

Bashir Agha approached. The dying man grasped his hand weakly. “What did the doctor say?” he gasped. “I heard talk of my belongings.”

Bashir Agha hesitated before muttering vague words of reassurance. Mustafa Hassan’s face contorted in distress, his body shuddered violently, and he succumbed to a final coughing fit before lapsing into unconsciousness.

A hush fell over the room. All eyes turned to Bashir Agha. With measured steps, Sheikh Madbouli reached beneath the pillow and retrieved a key. He handed it over with solemn reverence.

No sooner had the key been procured than the servants lunged toward the wardrobe. In their frenzy, they toppled it over, sending its contents spilling across the floor. Hands darted out greedily, seizing whatever lay within. A frenzied scuffle broke out, voices rising in curses and cries.

Realizing that the bag of coins was at risk, Bashir Agha strenuously fought his way through the throng with teeth, fists, and elbows. At last, he seized his prize, stuffing it hastily into his pocket before withdrawing, shaking his head in feigned dismay at his fellow men.

And so, later that day, Mustafa Hassan’s funeral procession set out from the palace gates—an opulent procession, grand and dignified. Yet, among those who followed his bier, many walked, adorned in his very own garments, as though the deceased himself were being paraded to his final rest in all his worldly finery!

Mahmoud Taymour (1894-1973) was a pioneer of Arabic short story. He was among the contributors to Al Katib Al Misri, a Cairo-based literary magazine launched in October 1945. He never took literature as a profession, but rather lived as a loving amateur; writing, publishing, and giving away his books as gifts, depending on his family’s rich resources. He frequently received young writers at his palace in Zamalek, modestly encouraging and listening to them. Mahmoud Taymour wrote blank verse, as well as recollections and reflections on life, society, and his travels. He also wrote critical essays and some plays. However, the short story was the area where he excelled. He produced 20 collections including: Satan’s Daughter, What the Eyes See, Features and Branches, Recovery of the Soul, Sheikh Goma’a and Other Stories, Literature and Literary Men, Abu Aly Plays an Artist, and To Be Filed in the Mail.

Amr El-Zawawy is Professor of Linguistics and Translation, Faculty of Education, Alexandria University, Alexandria, Egypt. He has also practiced written and simultaneous translation for more than 20 years now. He contributed important articles to different international scholarly journals, including but not limited to Babel (John Benjamins), Journal of Psycholinguistics, California Linguistic Notes and Advances in Language and Literary Studies. He published a number of books and translations, including Studies in Contrastive Linguistics and Stylistics (Novika, USA), Exploring the Cognitive Processes of Simultaneous Interpreting (Lexington Books, USA), Seminal Studies in Linguistics and Translation (Cambridge Scholars, UK), and Selections from Arabic Poetry (Kindle, Amazon).

Other stories in the Classic Short Fiction series, curated by Amr El-Zawawy:

Muhammed Taymour’s ‘The Eid Whistle’

Muhammad Taymour’s ‘A Boy Who Became a Man’

Marouan Abboud’s ‘Among the Problems of the Village’

Image: A view down an old street in Cairo. Black-and-white photograph. Suq al-Silah street, with the Madrasa of Aljay al-Yusufi in the back (1911).