Albert Cossery

Proud Beggars

BIOGRAPHICAL NOTES

ALBERT COSSERY (1913–2008) was a Cairo-born French writer of Lebanese and Greek Orthodox Syrian descent who settled in Paris at the end of the Second World War and lived there for the rest of his life. The son of an illiterate mother and a newspaper-reading father with a private income from inherited property, Cossery was educated from a young age in French schools, where he received his baccalauréat and developed a love of classical literature. At age seventeen he made a trip to the French capital with the intention of continuing his studies there. Instead he joined the Egyptian merchant marine, eventually serving as chief steward on the Port Said — New York line. When he was twenty-seven his first book, Men God Forgot, was published in Cairo and, with the help of Henry Miller, in the United States. In 1945 he returned to Paris to write and live alongside some of the most influential writers and artists of the last century, including Albert Camus, Jean-Paul Sartre, Tristan Tzara, Alberto Giacometti, Lawrence Durrell, and Jean Genet. He was also, briefly, married to the actress Monique Chaumette. In 199 °Cossery was awarded the Grand Prix de la francophonie de l’Académie française and in 2005 the Grand Prix Poncetton de la Société des gens de lettres. In recent years several of his books have been newly translated into English, including A Splendid Conspiracy, The Colors of Infamy, and The Jokers (which is available as an NYRB Classic).

ALYSON WATERS has translated several works from the French, including two by Albert Cossery. She has received a National Endowment for the Arts Translation Fellowship, a PEN Translation Fund grant, and residency grants from the Centre national du livre, the Villa Gillet in Lyon, France, and the Banff International Literary Translation Centre. She teaches literary translation in the French Departments of Yale University and NYU, is the managing editor of Yale French Studies, and lives in Brooklyn, New York.

INTRODUCTION

PROUD BEGGARS was the third of seven novels written by Egyptian-born Albert Cossery, who moved to France as a young man in the 1940s and remained there until his death at the estimable age of ninety-four in 2008. The book has lost none of its comic freshness since it first appeared in 1955, and Cossery’s concern with the struggle between the poor and the powerful is certainly as pertinent as ever. Proud Beggars is an excellent introduction to the work of a writer who is greatly admired in France and, in the aftermath of the Arab Spring, is garnering interest around the world.

The French title of the book is Mendiants et orgueilleux—literally “Beggars and Proud People.” When asked what he had in mind, Cossery replied:

It comes from an Arabic saying. The precise phrase … in Arabic means “a beggar who sets his own conditions.” A beggar in Egypt to whom you would give a piaster would say to you “No, no, keep it, you need it,” which means “what’s one piaster to me?” He wouldn’t even want it. That’s where the title comes from. (Michel Mitrani, Conversations avec Albert Cossery)

Pride is important to Cossery, for whom the concept cuts two ways. The pride of the powerless is a good thing: among those born to poverty, it shows strength and dignity; among those who enjoy greater prosperity, a principled rejection of the trappings of a bourgeois life — money, physical comfort, social standing, fame of any kind. By contrast the pride of the powerful and affluent shows nothing but “arrogance,” “haughtiness,” and “condescension.”

Proud Beggars, like many of Cossery’s novels, centers on a small circle of male friends. The friends are three here: Gohar, an intellectual and ex — university professor, hashish lover, and sometime bookkeeper in a brothel; Yeghen, a poet and drug dealer; and El Kordi, a low-ranking civil servant and romantic revolutionary. None of them is an actual beggar — they all have ways of making money, if only a pittance — but they are certainly free of ambition and otherwise indifferent to social convention. They are poor and they live happily among the poor. Early in the book, we get a sense of Gohar’s extraordinary joie de vivre:

Gohar stopped instinctively, as though intuiting a peaceful zone, the promise of a delectable joy amid the surrounding din. In front of an empty store, he saw a well-dressed older man sitting with dignity on a chair, with a detached and royal air, watching the crowd pass. The man had a strikingly majestic appearance. “Here’s a man after my own heart,” he thought. This empty store and this man who sold nothing were a priceless discovery.

El Kordi — the romantic revolutionary — has a similar epiphany:

When he was prey to despair, as he was now, he easily imagined the people’s misery and the frightful oppression of which he was a victim; he then enjoyed dreaming about a brutal and bloody revolution. But when he was once again in the street mingling with the crowd, the people’s misery became a myth, an abstraction, and it lost all of its explosive virulence. He felt especially attracted to the picturesque details of this poverty, to the grandeur of its inexhaustible humor, and he immediately forgot his savior’s mission. By some inexplicable mystery, he found such an intense faculty for joy among this miserable people and such a strong will to happiness and security that he had come to think that he was the only ill-fated man on earth. Where were the ravages of oppression? Where was the unhappiness? … El Kordi had to strain to find the pitiful element indispensable to his revolt. Just when he should have been sad and choked with tears, an immense laugh shook him.

As for Yeghen, he lives for poetry and drugs. Scrawny though his body may be, he sits imposingly at the novel’s symbolic core. Yeghen turns abjection into art, much as Cossery does, writing his poetry in

the very language of the people among whom he lived, a language where humor flowered despite the worst miseries. His popularity in the native quarter equaled that of the monkey trainer and the puppeteer. He even believed he wasn’t as deserving as these public entertainers; he would have preferred to be one of them. In no way did he resemble the man of letters who worried about his career and his posthumous reputation; he sought neither fame nor admiration. Yeghen’s poems were composed using simple everyday words, felt with his infallible instinct for life at its most authentic.

Such is the cheerfully unconventional world of our unconventional heroes, which, however, near the beginning of Proud Beggars, is abruptly upended by an apparently motiveless murder. Gohar, waking up in desperate need of the hash he depends on, has gone looking for Yeghen, who will give him his fix for free. He thinks Yeghen might be at the brothel, but the only person he finds there is Arnaba, an illiterate young prostitute, who asks him to write a letter to her uncle while he awaits Yeghen’s return. Seeing her gold bracelets, Gohar begins to hallucinate:

He felt like he was drowning … and that the tumultuous waves of the river in full spate were swallowing him in their depths. He desperately tried to remain afloat, to save a scrap of lucidity. It was hopeless. Nothing remained of his immeasurable desire for peace. Only his savage wish to steal the bracelets resisted the collapse of his consciousness. In his hallucination, he caught a glimpse of vast fields of hashish spread out under the immensity of the sky beyond the bracelets. The vision was so sharp, so pressing, that Gohar stopped breathing. He dreamt he was going to commit a crime, and it seemed simple and easy. Yes, he had to kill this girl; he saw no other way to get the bracelets. This certainty filled him with a dreadful calm.

And so he kills her, after which he leaves the brothel unobserved. (The bracelets, for what it’s worth, turn out to be paste.) It is a shocking moment, and yet what is perhaps even more shocking is that after it Gohar and the novel calmly go their way for some hundred and fifty pages, as if the murder were almost a natural phenomenon and the murderer a mere instrument of fate.

What is the reader to make of this? Not what you might expect. For one thing, as the Egyptian author and poet Georges Henein has noted,

the idea of guilt … is completely absent from [Cossery’s work]. Gohar is a blend of poverty and poetry. He began by taking his distance, by excluding himself from the usual reasons for living. We believe he is helpless because we see him wandering aimlessly, at the mercy of an ounce of drugs. Yet we must convince ourselves that he belongs to an invulnerable breed that subsists through the grace of innocence and guile combined in one gaze — a gaze that the all powerful adult world is too weak to bear.

Innocence and guile! The same words might describe the response Cossery himself gave when asked why Gohar kills Arnaba. Dismissing the crime as “a blunder, a minor incident,” Cossery explains that he had Gohar commit it “to bring the policeman on the scene, to create a confrontation with a policeman, because the policeman represents a repressive society.” The policeman Nour El Dine, who now enters, is the book’s other major character, and the ensuing confrontation between him and Gohar and Gohar’s friends will take a number of unexpected turns before reaching its surprising, deliberately anticlimactic finale.

Nour El Dine may be a representative of repressive society, but, like Chief of Police Hillali in Cossery’s 1975 novel A Splendid Conspiracy, he is a nuanced figure — not one of those brutish, stupid street cops that Cossery describes as plying their trade “with skillful sadism.” Nour El Dine is in fact one of those whom society represses: a pariah, a guilty homosexual scorned by the world at large and scorned in particular by Samir, the handsome and very straight young man with whom he is hopelessly infatuated. (Nour El Dine’s pitiful and pitiable attempts to seduce Samir are the source of a good deal of humor.) He is also extremely intelligent. Bored by his profession and the petty criminals who surround him, Nour El Dine seeks a higher meaning to life, and his great dream is to come across a crime committed by someone who is his intellectual equal. Now, investigating the crime, he becomes fascinated with Gohar:

it seemed to him that this man was not only what he appeared to be, that is, a failed intellectual reduced to poverty. His ascetic face, his refined speech, the nobility of his attitude — all denoted a sharp and penetrating intelligence. How could such a man have fallen so low on the social ladder? And, especially, why did he give the impression of enjoying it and taking pride in it? Had he by some chance discovered peace in the depths of this extreme deprivation?

Various impediments, some hilariously preposterous, are put in the way of Nour El Dine’s solving the case, but in the end he succeeds. This, however, does not lead to the restoration of order that the reader might anticipate. Proud Beggars is not so much a tale of crime and punishment as it is Nour El Dine’s bildungsroman, in which his way of seeing the world and his life are dramatically transformed:

No doubt Gohar was right. To live like a beggar was to follow the path of wisdom. A life in the primitive state, without constraints. Nour El Dine dreamed of how sweet a beggar’s life would be, free and proud, with nothing to lose. He could finally indulge in his vice without fear or shame. He would even be proud of this vice that had been his worst torment for years. Samir would come back to him. His hatred would vanish automatically when he saw him dispossessed of his emblems of authority, washed of his prejudice and his slimy morality. He would no longer have to fear Samir’s disdain or his sarcasm.

But if Nour El Dine has cast off the shackles of respectability, whether he has it in him to embrace the beggar’s life with proper pride remains uncertain: “A beggar, that was easy — but proud? Where would [Nour El Dine] find pride? There was nothing left in him but an infinite weariness, an immense need for peace — simply for peace.”

The seven novels and single collection of short stories that Cossery wrote at leisure over the course of his long career constitute a tightly unified oeuvre, a sort of Egyptian comédie humaine. “The same idea is in all my books; I shape it differently,” Cossery remarked. “The true writer has limited material at his disposal: his vision of the world.” Cossery’s thinking evolved in various ways over the years, but throughout his vision of the world was based on an abhorrence of abusive power and wealth. And he, unlike the existentialists he lived among, always refused to see man’s condition as “absurd.” Like Gohar, Cossery

rebelled with all of his soul against the concept of an absurd universe. Indeed, it was under the cloak of this so-called absurdity of the world that all crimes were perpetrated. The universe was not absurd; it was simply ruled by the most abominable gang of scoundrels that ever soiled the surface of the planet.

Indeed, a revolutionary strain permeates all of Cossery’s work. In his early books the struggle is violent and moralized. The House of Certain Death, from 1944, ends on this note:

The future is full of outcries; the future is full of revolt. How to confine this swelling river that will submerge entire cities? Si Khalil can visualize the house collapsing into dusty ruin. He sees the living arise from among the dead. For they will not all die. They will have to be reckoned with when they rise up, their faces bloody, and their eyes filled with vengeance.

Fifty-five years later, in Cossery’s final novel, The Colors of Infamy, the attitude has become subtler:

This easy obedience to tyrants, which often verged on devotion, always surprised him. He had come to believe that the majority of human beings aspired only to slavery. He had long wondered by what ruse this enormous enterprise of mystification orchestrated by the wealthy had been able to spread and prosper on every continent. Karamallah belonged to that category of true aristocrats who had tossed out like old soiled clothes all the values and all the dogma that these infamous individuals had generated over centuries in order to perpetuate their supremacy. And so his joy in being alive was in no way altered by these stinking dogs’ enduring power on the planet. On the contrary, he found their stupid and criminal acts to be an inexhaustible source of entertainment — so much so that there were times when he had to admit he would miss this mob were they to disappear; he feared the aura of boredom that would envelop humankind once purged of its vermin.

In between, we find our proud beggars, who dream of revolution but love life too much to bother rising up (El Kordi); who rebel by “non-cooperation” and a refusal to “collaborate with this immense charade” imposed by the powerful (Gohar); and the poets of the world, who resist the allure of money and fame, contenting themselves with friendship, drugs, and the beautiful language of the people (Yeghen).

A NOTE ON THE TRANSLATION

Growing up in a well-to-do Cairene family, Cossery was educated at the Lycée Français and began reading and writing in French at a very young age. The voice of the narrator in all his work is unique, containing a strong, idiosyncratic dose of hyperbole and comic simile, but his French prose is not unidiomatic. As has often been pointed out, the dialogues, however, are on the whole supposed to imitate “literal” translations from the Arabic. They are peppered with “By Allah,” “Peace be with you,” and “This is indeed a day of honey!” or phrases such as the lovely “in its mother’s eyes a monkey has the grace of a gazelle” found in Proud Beggars.

Unlike Cossery’s other books, this novel draws the reader’s particular attention to the fact that, although it is written in French, the characters are not speaking French, and for me this is one more of its charms. There is a delicious passage that takes place in the brothel where Arnaba worked. Nour El Dine is interrogating El Kordi about the murder, and as he begins to realize he is attracted to El Kordi, he tries to create some intimacy between them:

Nour El Dine gloated over [El Kordi] with a kind of lubricious tenderness, as if on the lookout for a sign of complicity.

Why did he suddenly begin to speak in English?

“You come here often?”

“As often as my physical needs require,” answered El Kordi in the same language.

“It seems that you have a marked preference for one of the girls. You are her lover, or am I mistaken?”

This conversation in English unfolded in solemn silence. Understanding nothing, the [police] reporter stopped transcribing. At first, thinking he had gone suddenly deaf, he began cleaning out his ear. Then, feeling things were too much for him, he put his indelible pencil down in front of him and assumed a helpless pose. As for Set Amina [the brothel’s madam], she believed that the use of this foreign language hid a trap meant to ruin her. She sighed and said, “On my honor! It’s the end of the world. Now they’re speaking English in my house!”

Nour El Dine resigned himself to resuming the interrogation in Arabic, not to please Set Amina but because the reporter had begun to object to being left out: he was grumbling through his teeth.

The switch to a foreign language spoken only by interrogator and interrogatee to create intimacy, the madam’s fear, the confusion of the police reporter are all part and parcel of Cossery’s humor, a constant in these pages.

As Robyn Creswell wrote in Harper’s Magazine in February 2011, Cossery’s style is “a style that draws attention to itself rather than its more or less miserable subjects, and sets up an ironic distance between their material poverty and its own lexical abundance.” It is indeed this lexical abundance that draws the reader in, and that makes “the task of the translator” particularly appealing and challenging. As the first English translator of two of Cossery’s other novels, I have revised Thomas W. Cushing’s translation slightly to retain a similar lexicon in all three books, and to attempt to keep the idiosyncrasies of Cossery’s style the same. But it remains very much Cushing’s work, and fine work it is indeed.

— ALYSON WATERS

PROUD BEGGARS

1

GOHAR had just awoken; he had dreamed he was drowning. He raised himself on one elbow and looked around with eyes full of uncertainty, still clouded by sleep. He was no longer dreaming, but reality was so close to his dream that he remained puzzled, aware of a menacing danger. “By Allah! It’s the flood!” he thought. “The river will carry everything away!” But he made no attempt to flee the imminent catastrophe; instead, he hung on to sleep as though to a bit of flotsam and closed his eyes.

It took him a long time to pull himself together. He began to rub his eyes, but stopped in time; his hands were wet and sticky. He slept fully dressed on a bed made of a thin pile of old newspapers on the ground. The water had submerged the lot, covering nearly the whole of the tiled floor. It flowed silently toward him with the oppressive fatality of a nightmare. Gohar had the impression of being on an island surrounded by waves; he didn’t dare move. The water’s inexplicable presence plunged him into shock. However, his initial fright abated as he regained his sense of reality. He now realized that the idea of a river in full spate destroying everything in its path had come to him in a moment of madness. He looked around and quickly discovered the source of this mysterious water; it was filtering out from under his neighbor’s door.

Gohar shivered as if under the spell of an unspeakable terror: the cold. He tried to rise, but sleep was still in him, dulling his limbs, holding him with indissoluble bonds. He felt weak and helpless. He wiped his hands on his jacket, where the cloth wasn’t wet. Now he could rub his eyes. He did so calmly, looked at his neighbor’s door, and thought, “They must be washing the floor. Still and all, they nearly drowned me!” His neighbors’ sudden cleanliness seemed highly grotesque and scandalous. This had never happened before. No one ever washed the floor in this sordid, ramshackle house in the native quarter occupied by poor, starving people. They were obviously new tenants, smart alecks eager to impress their neighbors.

Gohar remained inert, astounded by the revelation of this insane cleanliness. He felt he must do something to stop the flood. But what? It was best to wait; a miracle would certainly occur. This absurd situation called for a supernatural solution. Already he felt helpless. He waited several minutes but nothing happened, no occult power came to his rescue. He finally got up and stood motionless, with the hallucinated look of someone saved from a shipwreck. Then with infinite care he crossed the damp floor and sat down on the only chair in the room. Besides the chair there was nothing but an overturned wooden box crowned with a spirit burner, a coffee pot, and a jug of drinking water. Gohar lived in the strictest economy of material means. The notion of the simplest comfort had been banished from his memory long ago. He hated to surround himself with objects: objects concealed hidden germs of misery — the worst kind of all, unconscious misery, which fatally breeds suffering by its unending presence. Not that he was sensitive to the appearance of misery — he acknowledged nothing tangible in it. It stayed an abstraction forever. He simply did not want his gaze to fall on any depressing disorder. Gohar found an elusive beauty in the poverty of this room where he could breathe freely and optimistically. Most furniture and ordinary objects insulted his eyes, as they could not nourish his need for human fantasy. Only people, with their endless follies, had the power to amuse him.

He remained pensive a moment, looking at his ravaged, now useless bed. The old newspapers which served as his mattress were completely submerged; they’d already begun to float along the floor. The primitive simplicity of this disaster pleased him. Where there was nothing, the tempest raged in vain. Gohar’s invulnerability lay in this total deprivation; he offered no target for devastation. Again, he remembered his extravagant neighbors and wondered about the reason for their unusual cleanliness. What were they trying to do? The house would never survive such treatment; it was rotten throughout and only waiting for an excuse to collapse. No doubt, they would all perish.

As Gohar struggled to understand what these accursed new lodgers intended, a loud cry, sprung from several breasts, a long cry like a night of horror, resounded in the neighboring flat. The walls of the old house shook from the violence of the impact. The cry, reaching its peak, subsided. Then came an anguished silence, followed by sinister shrieks. At first Gohar didn’t comprehend the meaning of this appalling frenzy. Then it came to him in a flash. They were mourners, no doubt about it. He instantly realized the total horror of the episode: there was a corpse in his neighbor’s room, and the whitish, soapy water that had attacked him during his sleep was the water with which they had washed the corpse.

First confusion, then disgust nailed him to his chair, leaving him breathless. He looked gloomily at his trembling, wet hands and his clothes soiled by death. Then he brusquely shook himself to chase away the deadly germs of death and ran for the water jug. But the jug was empty; in his distress, Gohar looked around wildly for a non-existent faucet. How could he wash his hands? He held them away, wondering what sickness had killed his neighbor. Perhaps he’d caught a contagious disease. “Germs!” he thought anxiously. But immediately the fear of germs seemed silly. “If we could die from germs, we’d all have died long ago.” Even microbes lost their virulence in this ludicrous world. He sat down again and thought at length about the humor of his situation. He grew calmer, all was clear and easy, extraordinarily deceptive. No calamity had the power to drive him to sadness. His optimism conquered the worst catastrophes. With a feeling of absolute detachment, he again contemplated the flooded ground, the scattered old newspapers, the unreal bareness of his room, and a strange smile illuminated his gentle, ascetic face.

In the next room the mourning women had settled down to their wild grieving; their howling had reached an unrelenting volume, creating an atmosphere of a bloody and permanent tragedy. No human will could stop them in their dizzying task. Gohar was under the spell of their sinister lamentations. He was possessed by a desire to discover an enjoyable aspect to their cries, but these unnatural shrieks, coming from hired throats, struck his ear like the call from a strange universe. He couldn’t recognize the mark of a human, fraternal world. This universe of sorrow, false and shrill, filled his head with a poisonous roar and made him dizzy.

He had been woken abruptly, at an unusual hour, and he was still sleepy. How could he fall asleep again with these cursed women on the other side of the wall? They would have no pity. Gohar trembled, he was cold. He stiffened, let a moment pass, then rose from his chair. He had decided to go out.

He picked up his tarboosh, which was lying in a corner of the room untouched by the flood, stuck it on his head, took his cane, and went out on the landing. His neighbor’s door was wide open. Gohar hesitated, a little wary. His instinct told him to be prudent — he feared the worst from these raging busybodies. Seeing a man, they might let themselves go even more, if only for appearance’s sake. Gohar shivered at this idea, and, without thinking, dashed onto the wobbly staircase, carrying with him the fleeting vision of a pack of giant women dressed in full black melayas, squatting on the ground in a circle, their faces and hands painted with laundry blueing. They were beating their breasts while uttering their demonic cries. Gohar suddenly felt he was fainting and that the staircase was vanishing under his feet. He never knew how he reached the street.

It was almost noon. On El Azhar, a wide street teeming with a carefree motley crowd, Gohar recovered his full faculties. This was his familiar world, among this lazy crowd that spread itself indifferently on the sidewalks and in the street, despite the busy traffic of cars, cabs, donkey carriages, and even streetcars that sped by like meteors. The gentle winter sun poured its bountiful warmth over this tangled throng. Kites hovered high above, plunged into the crowd, then flew off carrying bits of stolen meat in their beaks; no one paid attention to their clever maneuvers. Groups of women stood in front of fabric stores, haggling for hours over the purchase of some printed handkerchief. Children amused themselves by enraging drivers, standing deliberately in their path. The drivers cursed them, swore at them and their absent mothers, then ended by running over a few. From all the cafés that lined the street, radios poured forth the same whining voice of a famous singer. The musical accompaniment was sad; as for the words, they explained at length his sorrows and regrets on the subject of a thwarted love. Gohar recalled his dead neighbor, the mourners’ strident cries, and stepped up his pace. But there was no way to escape this gloomy voice, it was everywhere, rising above the tumult in the street.

Gohar stopped instinctively, as though intuiting a peaceful zone, the promise of a delectable joy amid the surrounding din. In front of an empty store, he saw a well-dressed older man sitting with dignity on a chair, with a detached and royal air, watching the crowd pass. The man had a strikingly majestic appearance. “Here’s a man after my own heart,” he thought. This empty store and this man who sold nothing were a priceless discovery. The store, Gohar guessed, was simply decorative; it served as a place to receive his friends and to offer them coffee. This was the height of opulence and generosity. Gohar greeted him like an old friend, and the man answered with a pleasant smile, barely perceptible, as if he understood that he was being admired.

“Honor me,” said the man. “Please be so kind as to accept a cup of coffee.”

“Thank you,” said Gohar. “Another time. Please excuse me.”

They looked at each other with visible pleasure, almost tenderness, then Gohar resumed his walk through the crowd. He was perfectly happy. It was always the same thing: this amazement he felt before the absurd easiness of life. All was simple and ludicrous. He only had to look around to be convinced. The swarming poverty that surrounded him was not at all tragic; it seemed to conceal a mysterious opulence, treasures of a strange, unknown richness. A prodigious indifference seemed to preside over the destiny of this crowd; here, every humiliation assumed a pure and innocent character. Gohar swelled with brotherly affection; at each step the futility of all this misery appeared to him and delighted him.

A yellow streetcar crossed the road with an infernal noise, clanging its bell to clear a path through the crowd which blocked the tracks. Gohar passed a restaurant that sold boiled beans; the smell of food made him vaguely uneasy. He stopped, leaned on his cane, and waited. No, it wasn’t hunger. Hunger had no effect on him; he could last several days with nothing but a piece of bread. This queasiness meant something else. He took several steps, realized the nature of his discomfort, and was alarmed. The drug! He had forgotten his drug. The death of his ignorant neighbor had outrageously disturbed his habits. Gohar normally woke at dusk; now it was still too early to buy drugs. His only supplier was Yeghen, and Gohar wouldn’t be able to meet him until evening. It was impossible to find Yeghen now; he had no fixed address, he didn’t live anywhere.

How could he last until evening without drugs? The prospect unnerved him a little; he knew he would suffer, and he calmly prepared for this suffering. He drew a little rumpled bag from his pocket, took a mint lozenge from it, and diligently began to suck it. It didn’t have the bitter taste of a hashish ball, but it was enough to calm him.

A little farther on he smiled, seeing the faithful beggar squatting in his usual place. The same rite always unfolded: each time he passed by, Gohar had no money, so he would apologize, and they would enjoy a fascinating conversation. Gohar had known him a long time and cherished his company. He was a special kind of beggar, for he made no lamentations and suffered no infirmity. Quite the contrary, he shone with good health and his djellaba was almost clean. He had the piercing look that marked the professional beggar able to judge his client with a single glance. Gohar admired him for never having dreamed of saving face. In the general pandemonium, no one seemed to attach importance to his condition as a healthy and flourishing beggar. Amid so many real absurdities, the act of begging seemed like any other work — and the only reasonable work, at that. He always occupied the same place, with the dignity of a bureaucrat behind his desk. People would throw him a penny in passing. Sometimes he challenged the donor: he had just come across a counterfeit coin. An interminable palaver followed, in which insults had the weight of eternity. He threatened to call the police. It always ended in his favor.

Gohar stopped to greet him.

“Peace be with you,” said the beggar. “I saw you coming from afar; I waited for you.”

“I’m sorry,” said Gohar. “I have no money; next time I will.”

“Who told you I wanted money?”

“Why wouldn’t you? I might think you’re spurning me.”

“Such a thought is far from me,” the beggar protested. “The sight of you enchants me; I love to chat with you. Your presence is worth more than all the treasures on earth.”

“You flatter me,” Gohar said. “Business going well?”

“God is great!” answered the beggar. “But business isn’t important. There are so many joys in life. Have you heard the story of the elections?”

“No, I never read the paper.”

“This one wasn’t in the papers. Someone told it to me.”

“All right, I’m listening.”

“Well! This took place some time ago in a little village in Lower Egypt during elections for mayor. When the government clerks opened the ballot boxes, they discovered that the majority of the ballots had the name of Barghout on them. The clerks didn’t know this name; it wasn’t on any party list. Bewildered, they made inquiries and were amazed to learn that Barghout was the name of a donkey renowned in the whole village for his wisdom. Nearly all the people had voted for him. What do you think of the story?”

Gohar breathed happily; he was delighted. “They are ignorant and illiterate,” he thought, “but they’ve just done the most intelligent thing the world has seen since there’ve been elections.” The behavior of these peasants lost in the depths of their village was the true consolation, without which life would become impossible. Gohar was overwhelmed with admiration. His joy was so piercing in nature that he remained dumbfounded, looking at the beggar. A kite landed on the street nearby, scratched around with its beak for something rotten, found nothing, and flew away.

“Wonderful!” Gohar exclaimed. “And how does the story end?”

“Naturally, he wasn’t elected. What do you expect? An ass with four feet? The high officials wanted an ass with two feet!”

“You deserve something special for such a marvelous story. You’ve made me happy. What can I do for you?”

“Your friendship is enough,” the beggar said. “I knew that you would appreciate it.”

“You overwhelm me,” Gohar said. “We’ll meet again soon, I hope.”

Gohar turned left, entered a sordid, relatively quiet alley, and headed for the Mirror Café. He knew he wouldn’t find anyone at this hour, but he liked to give miracles a chance to happen.

The Mirror Café was located at the junction of two alleys; it occupied most of the dirt street, forbidden to heavy vehicles, where only the handcarts of strolling merchants ventured. Immense awnings stretched over the winding terrace like at a covered market. An impressive number of mirrors in sculpted and gilded frames hung everywhere, even on the façades of neighboring hovels. The Mirror Café was famous for its green tea and the eclecticism of its clientele, composed of carters, intellectuals, and foreign tourists thirsting for local color. Just now there wasn’t a crowd. Gohar crossed the terrace, gliding between the tables in search of an acquaintance. A few important-looking people were smoking water pipes with a minimum of effort; others played backgammon while drinking a glass of tea. Some rare specimens of the tribe of cigarette-butt scavengers, awake before the others, went about their work with debonair indifference; they weren’t afraid of competition.

“Greetings, Master!”

Gohar turned around. El Kordi was half out of his chair, offering his hand.

“What!” Gohar said. “You didn’t go to the ministry today?”

“I went, but I left right away; I just couldn’t work. Master, I’m extremely unhappy.”

“What’s wrong, my son?”

“I’ve just been there,” El Kordi said mysteriously. “She’s sicker than ever. I let her sleep.” Then, seeing that Gohar was still standing, “But sit down, Master.”

Gohar sat down; El Kordi called the waiter.

“What would you like?”

“A tea,” answered Gohar.

“Me too,” said El Kordi.

The waiter went off shouting his order in the musical voice of an invert. With a mischievous gleam in his eyes, Gohar looked at El Kordi. El Kordi seemed completely miserable; that is, he was doing everything possible to appear so. He was a good-looking young man, carefully dressed in a spotless tarboosh, with slightly slanted eyes and a bitter, sensual mouth. His job as a clerk in some ministry embittered his romantic soul. It could easily be seen that he was enamored of justice.

“I can’t leave her like that,” he said. “I must do something. Help me, or I’ll kill myself.”

Gohar didn’t answer right away. He continued sucking his mint lozenge, savoring this counterfeit that made him forget his craving for drugs.

“Why kill yourself?”

“You don’t understand. I must take her from the brothel. I can’t let her prostitute herself this way, sick as she is. And that beastly madam, Set Amina. Can you believe she wouldn’t even let her rest? When I think of all the money she brings her. It’s shameful! I’m telling you, I’ll kill myself.”

Gohar was not impressed by this confession. El Kordi’s troubles always had this morbid, merciless character. Now he seemed to be carrying all the world’s troubles, but it was only a state that he assumed from time to time so as to believe in his own dignity. For El Kordi deemed that dignity was the prerogative only of suffering and despair. It was his reading of Western literature that had deranged his mind so.

El Kordi’s present torments stemmed from the poignant face of a young prostitute dying of consumption in a nearby brothel. It was a poor brothel whose clientele was made up of petty bureaucrats and shabby revelers from the native quarter. At first, the young man had slept with her two or three times without attaching any importance to the act; it was only when he learned she was sick that El Kordi, always alert to social injustice, fell madly in love with her. He decided to free her from the brothel and to save her from an ignominious death, but he didn’t have enough money for such a rescue. So he never stopped imagining sublime solutions to his desperate love. Now he had chosen suicide, but it seemed that his decision wasn’t final, because he asked, “What should I do?”

Gohar was silent; he seemed to be enjoying himself in a strange way. On his impassive face, only the eyes reflected his inner joy. After a moment, he said, “Listen, I’m going to tell you a marvelous story.”

“What is it?” asked El Kordi.

Gohar told him the story of Barghout, the donkey elected to the post of mayor by the great wisdom of some peasants in Lower Egypt.

El Kordi had begun to smile but caught himself in time. This was surely not the time for gaiety. Instead, he had to take the opportunity to show Gohar that there were serious matters in life. He suddenly became vehement.

“It’s dreadful!” he said. “What barbarians!”

“You think they’re barbarians?”

“Yes, and the government exploits their ignorance.”

“But they just taught your government a superb lesson.”

“First, Master, it’s not my government,” El Kordi said hotly. “And then, I envisage other methods for fighting oppression. You will admit that there are serious matters in life.”

“Where do you see anything serious, my son?”

Instinctively El Kordi looked around in search of an example of austerity or grandeur, but his gaze found only a little cigarette-butt scavenger, dirty and covered in rags, roaming near their table listening to their conversation. He was performing his work with the solemnity of a meticulous rite and carrying his search for cigarette butts into the most out-of-the-way corners. Irritated by this behavior, El Kordi rose and placed his chair so as better to allow him to inspect the ground. But the child didn’t go away; he seemed tied to them with a cord. El Kordi sat back down, and, looking at the child, said with stinging irony, “Well, my friend, are you going to have coffee with us?”

“No, thank you,” the child answered. “I just had coffee at the Bosphorous Café.”

The Bosphorous was a swanky café where El Kordi had never set foot.

“Son of a bitch!” he bellowed. “Get out of here or I’ll strangle you.”

The child left, making a disdainful face.

When he was some distance away, El Kordi broke out laughing. “Did you hear that, Master? What spirit! That child is fantastic.”

Gohar smiled and looked at the young man with gentle irony. What pleased him was his utter frivolousness. El Kordi was a revolutionary. He had ideas about the future of the masses and the liberty of the people, but he was frivolous, for he couldn’t get beyond this absurd world. Believing that he and his people were persecuted, he would fight against oppression — but in vain, for as soon as he was left to his own instincts he became superficial, delighting in the most trivial actions.

Now he seemed relieved of his bitterness. The incident with the little scavenger had soothed his worries; he abandoned himself to a childish joy. He was intensely happy with Gohar; everything became easy with him. Gohar’s presence rendered illusory all of life’s difficulties; the worst catastrophes assumed an air of extravagant drollery. El Kordi rediscovered his childhood in his company.

“And this journey, Master?”

“I’m considering it, my son.”

“You should go,” El Kordi said fervently. “It would be marvelous for you.”

When anyone mentioned this journey, Gohar would close his eyes, as if the yearning for a distant countryside demanded all his attention. To leave, to take the train for Syria! This was the dream he’d long cherished, the only dream he allowed himself, because it was linked to the very source of his bliss. Drugs were legal in Syria. Hashish grew abundantly in the fields like ordinary clover; one could grow it oneself. One day Gohar had learned these extraordinary facts by chance and had not stopped dreaming about it ever since. This little neighboring country seemed like paradise. It was truly unjust to be condemned to live here, when only a few hours away drugs were at everyone’s doorstep. Gohar considered the full extent of this injustice; he could never forgive fate for his having been born on this side of the border. He was firmly convinced he would never go there, yet he already lived there in his mind. For him, Syria consisted of a verdant pasture, whose grass was nothing but the drug in its raw form, its first growth. At certain difficult moments, when he’d been long deprived, the evocation of this simple landscape was enough to intoxicate him.

“I can see you planting immense fields of hashish,” El Kordi said.

“First, I’d have to go there,” said Gohar. “It isn’t easy.”

“Oh, yes, the money! Listen, Master, I’d like to ask your advice.”

“I’m at your service.”

El Kordi struck a conspiratorial pose and said, “I must save that poor girl! Even if I must steal. Do you hear me? Even if I must steal! What do you think of that?”

Gohar reflected. He had nothing against stealing; everyone stole. There were simply methods and nuances that escaped El Kordi. He liked this young man; he didn’t want to see him end up in prison. He would miss him. Moreover, El Kordi wasn’t capable of appreciating the security of a prison; he would destroy his own soul and acquire foolish ideas about liberty. But Gohar saw it was useless to explain all that to him.

“You surprise me,” he said. “A respectable official like you.”

“The respectable official, as you say, has lost his pen,” said El Kordi. “That’s right, my boss took away my pen. ‘This poor government pen is growing rusty in your company, my dear El Kordi Effendi. I think that others will make better use of it.’ That’s what he said to me. So you see, I am a clerk without a pen.”

“All the better for you,” Gohar said. “I congratulate you.”

At a nearby table, two blind old sheiks were discussing the artistic qualities of a famous mosque. One of them wound up calling the other a fake blind man. This insult broke up their conversation. They immediately left their table and went off in different directions, muttering invectives of high literary merit. El Kordi seemed to have forgotten his plan to become a thief, as he had forgotten to commit suicide. It was already two o’clock and he didn’t know how to spend the afternoon.

“Will you have lunch with me, Master?”

“No, I never eat at this hour,” Gohar said. “Besides, I’m not hungry.”

He had to find drugs; his craving had become intolerable. He realized that all this time he had been waiting for Yeghen to arrive.

“Have you seen Yeghen today?”

“Yes, I saw him at Set Amina’s, when I went to see Naila. He was sleeping on the sofa in the waiting room. I didn’t want to wake him; I think he spent the night there.”

Gohar was seized with panic. The thought that Yeghen might be nearby and that he could find him made him jump up.

“I must leave you, my dear El Kordi. I’ll see you tonight.”

“What, you’re leaving me to my sad fate?” El Kordi said, assuming his most woeful expression.

“I’m sorry, but I must go. Peace be with you.”

Gohar traversed the café with feverish haste. Customers invited him to sit down, but he courteously declined their offers. A little farther on, he spit out the mint lozenge that had begun to nauseate him. The thought of hashish nearby filled him with new energy. With a spring in his step, he disappeared into the maze of alleys bordered by rickety hovels on the verge of collapse.

2

SUDDENLY bright daylight brutally attacked him, stopping his mad flight. His eyes had grown used to the shade of the covered terrace, and he was now disoriented by the luminous, shifting universe that rose up before him like an impassable obstacle. The alley he was in was particularly narrow, with “keep out” signs everywhere. People, slouched against the walls or standing in immutable poses, were generously spending their age-old inertia to discourage traffic. In hovel doorways the ground was strewn with young children with glairy, fly-covered eyes who resembled little crawling animals. Squatting women washed their clothes in big tin tubs; others were cooking on a kerosene stove that smoked like a locomotive. The abuses they intermittently hurled at their unruly children were so loud and powerful as to exclude all possibility of forgiveness.

Gohar felt dizzy faced with all these barriers blocking his path. He would never manage to push his way through this compact mass, denser than a chain of high mountains. But the thought of the drug and the fear of missing Yeghen made him overcome his weakness. It was a matter of life and death for him, so without waiting any longer, he set off like a blind man and forged ahead oblivious to the cries and curses he stirred up along the way. He felt only that the air around him was growing heavy and that the human debris that barred his route was animated by malicious listlessness. The brothel wasn’t far, but in a strange way it seemed to Gohar that the distance was growing. He advanced like a sleepwalker, one hand gripping his cane, the other stretched in front of him in a childish gesture of defense. A radish vendor called to him by name and invited him, with words filled with nobility, to help himself. Gohar paid no attention; he had better things to do than eat radishes. In his haste to find Yeghen he had even forgotten his usual courtesy.

A moment later he saw the house in the distance and felt somewhat reassured. Set Amina’s brothel was not a place of pleasure for Gohar. He never went there as a client, but only to fulfill an important literary function. Actually, it was an exceptionally amusing job to which he attached a symbolic value. To draw up Set Amina’s business accounts and sometimes write the love letters of illiterate whores seemed to him work worthy of human interest. So despite his superficial decline, he still retained the role of a powerful intellectual that had been his glory in the past, when he had taught history and literature in the biggest university in the country. But his academic side, already so odious then, here no longer had any excuse for existing. In this milieu where life appeared in the raw, unspoiled by established conventions, Gohar fooled no one; he no longer recited the endless philosophical lies he himself — alas! — once believed. The freedom of thought that accompanied his new job was an inexhaustible source of joy, a boundless, generous joy. The infinite human resources of a brothel in the native quarter kept him in perpetual ecstasy. How far he was from the sterile, deadly games of men and their hazy idea of life and reason! The great minds he had so long admired now appeared to him as vile corrupters, stripped of all authority. To teach life without living it was a crime of the most detestable ignorance.

From this work — which he accepted as a lesser form of servitude — he made only a slight profit; for his exalted services Set Amina gave him only a ten-piaster piece from time to time. This was his sole income and more than enough to live on. His lodging was cheap and local merchants were happy to give him all the food he needed. They were enchanted by his conversation; some even considered him a prophet and cherished his peaceful vision of the world. But Gohar never took advantage of their kindness. He never asked for anything. If he happened to accept, it was so as not to offend his generous donors.

Out of breath, he stopped.

Behind the gate covered with climbing plants, which hid it from indiscreet eyes, was a yellow, two-story, middle-class house with a narrow façade. A little dirt courtyard full of rubbish separated it from the street. Gohar opened the gate, gripped his cane, straightened his tarboosh, then climbed the steps to the first floor with all the assurance he could muster. The door was closed from the inside; he knocked twice with his cane and waited, holding his breath. Nothing moved; the house seemed deserted. An ominous silence weighed on Gohar’s soul. Clearly no one was there. Yeghen might have left long ago! A wave of anxiety swept over him, and all of his organs stopped at once, as though from a fatal injection.

Finally the door opened, and Gohar breathed again. The girl before him was decked out like a candy doll at a country fair. She was wearing a short-sleeved, rose-colored silk nightgown embroidered with green flowers; she was heavily made-up, and her arms were covered in gold bracelets. Long, brown hair framed her face, strange and primitively beautiful like the portraits on local café walls. Her eyes, exaggeratedly blackened with kohl, seemed fake. Gohar knew her; she was a new girl just arrived from her home village. She was named Arnaba and was perhaps sixteen. Since she’d come, all the clients fought over her and waited hours till she was free.

Gohar greeted her, and she smiled. When she smiled, she looked like a young girl disguised as a woman.

“It’s you,” she said. “Come in. No one’s here. Set Amina went shopping in town with the girls.”

Gohar entered the vestibule that served as a waiting room. Again he returned to the shadows, and his jangled nerves calmed down. But he wasn’t completely reassured; he didn’t see Yeghen anywhere.

“Yeghen isn’t here?” he asked.

“He was sleeping on the couch just now,” the girl said, looking around. “He must have gone.”

The disappointment made Gohar pale. He was about to ask her if she knew where Yeghen had gone, but changed his mind.

“I’ll wait for him; perhaps he’ll come back.”

“Wait if you like.”

“You’re alone here?”

“Yes. I didn’t go because I wanted to wash my hair. I’m sorry now; they took a carriage.”

She seemed to hesitate a moment, then entered one of the rooms off the vestibule and closed the door. Gohar was left alone. He looked around for a chair. The bare-walled waiting room was furnished in an improvised, temporary style. There was only a couch with a plain slipcover, four or five rattan chairs, and a big ashtray perched on a round table. This was the banal decor of brothels in the native quarter. Just now, without its disparate clientele and its atmosphere of stupor and facile gaiety, it was depressing. Gohar sighed, found a chair, and sat down. The waiting room’s gloomy sadness acted on him in a treacherous, almost offensive manner. He’d never before come at this hour; everything seemed strange and hostile here. He tucked his cane between his legs, took another mint lozenge from his pocket, and began to suck it with a kind of disgust.

His drug craving had somewhat subsided, as if the fact of being in a place touched by Yeghen constituted an assurance, a moral guarantee against fate. He thought of him with real tenderness. Drugs were not the only thing behind his affection for Yeghen; he loved him like a living idea. Yeghen was an impoverished poet; he led a life without honor or glory, made up of begging and joyful mishaps. Immoderate use of drugs had led him to prison several times. An infamous legend clung to him; he was suspected of betraying his own drug suppliers to the police. This reputation as an informer plagued him with dealers; they all mistrusted him. Actually it was difficult to find the truth to this story, as Yeghen hadn’t bothered to clear himself. Whatever he was, Yeghen remained himself, full of humor and generosity, even in betrayal. His ability to disregard mental torment and pangs of conscience made him a delightful companion. He was never demeaned by the indignity of his acts; he accepted with fierce optimism all the abjectness that fate brought him. He was without dignity, but that didn’t prevent him from living. Gohar especially admired his true feeling for life: life without dignity. Just to be alive was enough to make him happy.

Gohar smiled at the thought of El Kordi, at his exaggeration of his troubles, more fictitious than real, and his constant search for human dignity. “What is most futile in man,” he thought, “is this search for dignity.” All these people trying to maintain their dignity! For what? The history of mankind is a long, bloody nightmare only because of such nonsense. As if the fact of being alive wasn’t dignity in itself. Only the dead are undignified. Gohar only valued living heroes. They, at least, were not burdened with dignity.

There was no question of returning to his room; the mourners would be caught up in their demonic screams. The vision of those monstrous females in the midst of mercenary grief made him shiver. His head felt heavy, and his eyes began to close. The house had fallen into an insidious silence that seeped into Gohar like a narcotic. It if weren’t for his desire to see Yeghen arrive, he would have let himself go to sleep. Nevertheless, to collect himself, he closed his eyes and tried to overcome his growing uneasiness.

A long moment passed; he didn’t hear the girl open the door.

“You’re asleep?”

Gohar opened his eyes. Arnaba was standing still in the doorway. The bright daylight that bathed her bedroom traced the lines of her firm, naked body through her dressing gown. Gohar hesitated, thought he was dreaming, then said, “No, I was only resting.”

“I’d like you to write a letter for me,” said the girl.

She now came toward him, still framed by the luminous doorway. As she advanced, the light around her faded, and soon the vision of her nakedness was swallowed by shadow. Gohar rubbed his eyes; he was extraordinarily aroused by this voluptuous apparition. The girl finally stopped before him, an enigmatic smile on her painted lips. She truly had the look of a depraved young girl.

“Who is the letter to?”

“To my uncle; he lives in the country. I haven’t written him since I arrived. He must be worried.”

Gohar was silent. Just now it wasn’t an easy matter to write a letter; he couldn’t concentrate or hold a pencil. All the same, he hated to refuse a service. Arnaba sensed his hesitation and interpreted it in her way.

“I’ll pay you for it,” she said.

“I’ll write your letter,” said Gohar. “Do you have what we need?”

“Yes. Thank you for your kindness. Come into my room, we’ll be more comfortable.”

He stood up painfully and followed her into the room. It was the bedroom of a reasonably priced prostitute with a big iron bed, a couch, a chair, and a mirrored armoire. It smelled of powder and cheap perfume. The bed, covered with a pistachio-green eiderdown, was made up; work hadn’t begun yet. Gohar rushed forward to close the shutters; his aching nerves needed darkness; it was his only protection against pain. Arnaba rummaged around in the armoire, took from it a piece of paper and a pencil that she gave to Gohar, then sat down on the edge of the bed and began to watch him with extreme curiosity.

Gohar let himself fall onto the couch, set his cane beside him, and prepared to write the letter. He waited for her to dictate what he should write, but she seemed to have forgotten why he was there. Her behavior was that of someone waiting to have a glorious time. She still had the smile of a depraved young girl.

“You wanted to see Yeghen?”

“Yes,” said Gohar. “I need him for something.”

“Is it very urgent?”

“Extremely urgent. But that’s all right, he’ll come eventually.”

“I’m sorry he’s not here. He might not be long now.”

Gohar’s suffering had become intolerable. It radiated throughout his body at the sound of Yeghen’s name.

“You know him well?” he asked.

“Who? Yeghen? Oh, he amuses me. It seems he’s a poet; he told me so.”

“It’s true,” said Gohar. “He’s even a great poet.”

“How funny! Tell me, is it customary for poets to ask girls for money?”

Gohar was suddenly very interested. He didn’t know Yeghen also practiced the trade of pimp. That was news!

“Why? He asked you for money?”

“Yes. He told me a whole story about his mother. It seems she died and that he needs money for the burial. He swore to me that he’s kept the corpse for a week. What do you think of that?”

Despite the tragedy of the situation, Gohar nearly broke into laughter. He was sure there wasn’t a shred of truth in the story; he knew Yeghen well enough to believe him capable of dreaming up anything to worm money from his numerous admirers. When it came to finding money, especially for buying drugs, Yeghen’s imagination sometimes reached madness.

“And you gave him some?”

“I’m not stupid,” said the girl. “I send all the money I make to my uncle who raised me. He warned me to watch out for pimps.”

“You’re a responsible girl,” said Gohar.

“You’re making fun of me.” The girl laughed.

“Not at all. I’m quite sincere.”

Gohar reflected. His passionate interest in Yeghen’s busy life led him to examine the workings of his mad ventures in great detail. Beyond this story, with its incontestable element of black humor, there was a reality of poverty and deprivation that was impossible to ignore. For Yeghen to resort to hustling money with his mother’s false corpse didn’t especially surprise him; he suspected him of even more cynical things. It could simply mean he was at the end of his resources. There was even a strong possibility that he was out of drugs. Gohar was stunned by this discovery. He suddenly wanted to flee the room in search of Yeghen, but he did nothing.

He looked at the girl.

She was sitting on the edge of the bed, her legs parted, her dressing gown loose on her body, her firm breasts pointing through the silk like two ripe pomegranates. Gohar looked at her indifferently, though perplexed by the girl’s beauty. In this half-light scented with recent wantonness, she acquired a surprising importance. The smile playing on her painted lips seemed to want to lure him into a trap. Gohar was suffocating. The proximity of this young flesh so boldly offered aroused a vague, almost abstract desire in him. It had been ages since he’d wanted to sleep with anyone and had rejected all carnal involvement with people. His life was confined to the simplest things: no longer subject to the violence of passion, it ran smoothly like a placid dream. There was only the drug. Again the intolerable need for hashish assailed him, made him gasp for breath. How long would he have to wait? He felt that his vital organs had grown soft and mushy. He struggled to hold on and managed to overcome the convulsions racking his body. He had to clear up one doubt immediately.

“When did he ask you for money?”

“This morning,” answered the girl. “We chatted for a while. He looked sad and discouraged.”

Doubt was no longer possible. Yeghen only looked sad and discouraged when he was deprived of drugs. That was the only time his optimism faltered. Gohar was almost ready to succumb to despair, but his confidence in Yeghen’s boundless genius saved him. Yeghen always managed to find drugs in the end; he had a thousand ways to escape disaster. Gohar believed in miracles. Not in grandiose, faraway miracles, but in the simple miracles of daily life. And drugs were such a miracle.

“What do I say to your uncle?”

Arnaba dropped her lascivious smile and little-girl pose to assume a profound and thoughtful air.

“The usual thing,” she said. “Tell him that I’m doing well, that I’m happy here, and that I’m working a lot. I think that’s enough.”

Gohar lowered his head and made as if to begin to write, but, in truth, he still wasn’t able to. Holding the pencil with a trembling hand, he put the paper on his knees and racked his brain for an opening phrase. After all, this man wasn’t his uncle. How would a whore write to her uncle? Gohar hesitated among several possible openings. He knew nothing at all about family sentiment.

He raised his head again and looked at the girl. The desire that had skimmed over him a moment ago hadn’t left a trace; this languid body provocatively abandoned on the pistachio eiderdown had ceased to interest him. Something else had captured his attention — the golden bracelets covering her bare arms.

These golden bracelets had unleashed a powerful emotion in him, and his eyes wouldn’t leave them. For a few seconds he was dizzy; he touched his forehead and shook himself, fighting with all his power against the spell of a terrible thought that was worming its way into him against his will. With wild despair he tried to drive it away, but it resisted his supplications. All that gold represented the value of an infinite quantity of drugs, a source of serene delights for months or even years to come. Gohar tried to figure the exact quantity of drugs he could buy with such a fortune, but the immensity of the task stymied him, and he abandoned his calculations. His dream of traveling returned, not as a distant project but with all the intensity of a feasible action. The journey to Syria became a near and tangible reality. In great detail he imagined this journey to the land of his dreams, where hashish grew in the fields as freely as common clover. The seductive effect that these images of another world had on his brain made him nearly delirious. Suddenly he saw himself attacking the girl to snatch away her bracelets, but just then Arnaba moved her arm, and the jingle of the gold bracelets in the room’s silence terrified him. He quickly came out of his torpor and feverishly began to write.

Arnaba felt proud and amused; she was certain Gohar’s bizarre look was the manifestation of his carnal lust. She knew she was pretty, and so his trembling could only be a sign of his desire for her. She was a village girl, ignorant and primitive, devoid of nuance, stuck in the ways of a primal sexuality. For her, Gohar’s desire was the only reason for his confusion, and she promised herself she would sleep with him to thank him.

Gohar wrote silently, struggling to concentrate. Despite the triteness of the words used, he had trouble composing his sentences. He was plagued by a new torment, completely foreign to his nature. A moment ago he had gloried in the absurd temptation to surrender to violence. Yet violence was the farthest thing from his way of thinking. How then had he come to consider it? He felt he was no longer himself, that someone had taken his place to commit a crime that he condemned with all his heart. It seemed that an unwonted fate was bent on pushing him out of his path, into the insane adventure of man.

“Don’t forget to tell him that I’ll send him money soon.”

Gohar gave a start; while he hadn’t been paying attention, the girl had surreptitiously slid next to him on the couch. Her sudden presence terrorized him; a horrible fear seized him.

“What money?” he said bewilderedly.

“What! You don’t know what money?”

“Oh yes, of course. Excuse me, I’m a little dizzy.”

Despite all her sensual power, Arnaba had never believed that her charms could drive a man to this point; her vanity incited her to increase her advantage. The afternoon was turning out more enjoyable than a carriage ride with Set Amina and the girls. For a moment she had been sorry to have missed that outing; now she had found something better. She edged closer to Gohar, leaned her head on his shoulder as if to decipher the letter, and caressed his knee with an expert hand. As his limbs shook, she saw that he could not hold out much longer; she began to laugh, a nervous, childish laugh.

“You write well,” she said. “I see you’ve been to school.”

He answered without looking at her.

“Yes. Didn’t you go to school?”

“Why should I go to school?” Arnaba said sarcastically. “I’m a whore. With a nice ass, who needs to know how to write?”

“I agree,” Gohar said. “I’ve never heard it put so well.”

“You’re always making fun of me. But that’s all right, I think you’re sweet.”

Strangely enough, as the danger became more precise, its imminence made it seem unreal. A kind of torpor took hold of Gohar. Surrendering to his fascination with the gold bracelets, he no longer reacted to the girl’s touch. In his eyes, the bracelets had acquired an immaterial value; they had come to symbolize the drugs of which he had been deprived since morning.

He hastily finished the letter.

“You know how to sign your name?”

“No,” said the girl. “Just write my name. It’s Arnaba.”

“I know,” said Gohar. “It’s a pretty name.”

He signed the letter, asked her for her uncle’s address, and wrote it on the envelope. Now it was done; he could go, escape this morbid temptation.

“Here’s the letter,” he said.

“Thank you. Keep it and mail it for me. I’ll give you money for the stamp.”

Gohar still didn’t dare move, held by some unknown, pernicious bonds. He was frightened to death by the jingling of her bracelets; his whole being was tense with the fear of that ominous sound. For a moment he suspected she was making those careless movements with her arms on purpose. Had she noticed something? No, for she would have roused the whole neighborhood with her cries; she wasn’t strong enough to enjoy that game.

Arnaba rose first; she crossed the bedroom, broke out laughing, then came back to Gohar and said, “You can sleep with me, if you want.”

He felt like he was drowning, as in this morning’s dream, and that the tumultuous waves of the river in full spate were swallowing him in their depths. He desperately tried to remain afloat, to save a scrap of lucidity. It was hopeless. Nothing remained of his immeasurable desire for peace. Only his savage wish to steal the bracelets resisted the collapse of his consciousness. In his hallucination, he caught a glimpse of vast fields of hashish spread out under the immensity of the sky beyond the bracelets. The vision was so sharp, so pressing, that Gohar stopped breathing. He dreamt he was going to commit a crime, and it seemed simple and easy. Yes, he had to kill this girl; he saw no other way to get the bracelets. This certainty filled him with a dreadful calm.

The young prostitute’s face betrayed her uneasiness; she was no longer smiling. For the first time, she looked at Gohar suspiciously. These signs of a desire that she did not understand began to appear suspect. But her anxiety didn’t last long. With a skillful languor, she removed her dressing gown, threw it on the chair, and stood stark naked before Gohar’s bewildered eyes. She drew near and took him by the arm in an attempt to lead him to bed.

“Come on. Let’s go, quickly.”

Gohar pulled away violently; the clash of the girl’s bracelets sounded like thunder, and he felt his heart stop beating. A cold sweat bathed his limbs. He shivered, jumped up, dragged the girl to the bed, and fell on top of her. His hands had gripped her by the throat before she had time to cry out. She opened her big eyes filled with surprise; she still hadn’t realized what was happening. Gohar couldn’t bear her gaze and turned his head away. He pressed his fingers with all his wavering strength. In a final effort to defend herself, the girl stretched her legs out in front of her. Gohar closed his eyes. There was a long silence full of shadows as Gohar gradually loosened his grip. The girl’s head fell softly back on the eiderdown; she was dead.

He stood up painfully, gasping for breath. Arnaba’s naked body sprawled across the bed in a ridiculous, obscene pose. Now he had to free the bracelets, and that was the worst part of this demented enterprise. Gohar raised her arm, took one of the bracelets, and began to slide it over her wrist. At the same time, he received a shock, his consciousness suddenly returned, and he uttered a little disjointed cry, like a death rattle.

He had just noticed something extraordinary: the gold bracelets were only cheap trash. They had never been gold, and Gohar had always known that. Even a child would have known that, he thought. How could he have made such a gross error? He couldn’t understand it. These bracelets were maybe worth a few piasters, and he had murdered to get them.

He was now very calm. The shock of his mistake had completely sobered him. He left the corpse, picked up his tarboosh which had rolled onto the bed, put the letter in his pocket, and headed for the door. The waiting room was still dark and deserted. Apparently no one had come in all this time. Gohar slowly descended the steps, entered the street with no apprehension, and casually greeted a passerby he didn’t know, out of simple courtesy.

Throughout this whole adventure, he hadn’t found Yeghen. Where was Yeghen hiding? This question troubled him for a long time.

3

THE KEROSENE lamp spread its parsimonious light just to the table’s edge. With his myopic gaze, Yeghen tried to make out his mother’s shadowed face; he could see only her old withered hands busily mending a man’s shirt: no doubt some job for a bourgeois family in town. The mediocrity of this thankless task irritated him like a personal insult, especially since she worked so hard to make it sad. What gravity, what seriousness in her gestures, as if they involved the creation of a better, mysterious world! By this humble task, she seemed to want to lend credibility to the myth of respectable poverty. What a sham!

Yeghen laughed. What made him study his mother’s face this evening? It was an idiotic, unhealthy idea. For a moment, across the years and wrinkles of his mother’s face, he struggled to find a resemblance to his own. He opened his eyes wide and scrutinized the shadows outside the lamp’s circle of light: nothing. His mother’s face remained an enigma. He searched his memory trying to recall her features; it was impossible to summon up a good image. A black hole. It was as if he had never looked at her during all these years. He grew exasperated before the absolute abyss of his memory, wanting to ask her to lean toward the light a little, but he refrained. He didn’t want to trouble her needlessly. He even felt a wave of generosity toward her. “She must have been very beautiful. I must take after my father.” He had no memory of his father either. All the same, it was strange! It now seemed to him that he had never seen up close these people who had brought him into the world and with whom he had lived for years.

But why was he particularly preoccupied with his ugliness this evening? Usually he never even glanced in a mirror. He was afraid, he admitted to himself, that he might frighten himself accidentally. Again, he laughed. The bastards! With what fury they continued to mock him in the newspapers and literary reviews of the capital. He had become the laughingstock of the entire cultivated Orient. Those infamous journalists never missed a shot at him; they undoubtedly received a bonus each time they featured his ugliness in their venomous articles. And that bastard cartoonist who had published a drawing of Yeghen with the caption “Condensed Ugliness.” Yeghen found these attacks remarkably weak, at best worthy of little children. Did these imbeciles seriously think they could upset him with such idle chatter? They didn’t know him; his ugliness was a real force of nature.

Perhaps that was indeed the case, except when Yeghen found himself before a judge in correctional court. That was the weak point. He could not be defended. The poor lawyers assigned to his defense lost the little dignity they had and became nearly speechless from shock. They stammered a vague plea without ever looking at him. What a bunch of eunuchs! He despised them more than anything. With the exception of one, whom he would never forget. This one — a man of unprecedented courage, or else simply a humorist — had found a way of comparing Yeghen’s face to that of unrecognized genius. He spoke for an hour. The judge hadn’t laughed; he only seemed overwhelmed, unable to understand. The lawyer’s harangue ended in a silence of stupefaction and incredulity. The judge couldn’t believe his ears; he looked around with a befuddled expression as if coming out of a dream. Finally he got hold of himself and pronounced sentence.

That time the sentence was stiffer than usual: eight months. But Yeghen was happy; he’d had a devil of a good time.

These periods in prison weren’t at all disagreeable for someone like him, able to adapt to circumstances. Instead, they were a kind of repose after the constant fatigue of his nomadic life. Each time he went back in, he reclaimed his position as bookkeeper in the penitentiary administration. This job, which was his by an unspoken assumption, allowed him a certain freedom of movement, and he cut a figure as a great administrator. His talents did not go unrecognized in high places — he was heartily congratulated. All this was grotesque, but it allowed Yeghen to enjoy himself enormously. As soon as he arrived, the odious building, constructed to dishearten men, resounded with tumultuous joy. His jokes and humorous ideas delighted his companions, for the most part inclined to the sadness inherent in their condition. Even the jailers lost their habitual surliness, allowing themselves a certain affability. The prison warden — a passionate admirer of Yeghen’s poems — loved to converse with him; he received him in his office with the deference due a government minister. So, for Yeghen, life in prison continued as on the outside. In one sense, it was even better: he had no material worries. He was housed, fed, and surrounded by convicts, each one more outrageous than the next, bursting with savory stories that were as funny as they were violent. Freedom was an abstract notion and a bourgeois prejudice. You could never make Yeghen believe he wasn’t free. As for drugs, he had nothing to complain about. Hashish circulated inside the prison walls with the same facility as in town; one could procure it in a thousand ways provided one had money.

His reputation as a poet had given him immense prestige among his illiterate companions. He was the one who “married”—what a mockery! — the convict couples. In truth, his ugliness preserved him from a real danger: one would have to be blind to want to sodomize him. Fortunately there were no blind men in prison.

Again he tried to penetrate the mystery of his mother’s face hidden in the shadows. Everything grew confused before his myopic gaze. Should he move the lamp aside? The circle of light created an impassable desert between them. Groaning like a sick child, he fidgeted on his chair. There was no change of position on the other side of the table; his mother didn’t even tremble.

“Mother!” The word came out almost against his will.

She remained silent, as if his call — which was almost a cry — couldn’t reach her in the world of suffering and resignation in which she was foundering. A poor old woman doing a humble but honest job, she continued to mend the shirt. Her whole attitude strained to prove that there were honest trades. And he should profit from her example. Her way of teaching him moral lessons was truly exasperating. What did she take him for?

“Mother!”

Her fingers stopped abruptly, the needle half stuck in the shirt. A silence hung over the room for what seemed an eternity. His mother uttered not a word, as if she were afraid to break the spell by speaking. Finally, resigned to the worst, she asked, “What is it?”

“Tell me, Mother, was I handsome when I was little?”

The malice of that question! He knew he was causing her a horrible pang of conscience. What would she do? Begin to cry, or answer? Yeghen could only imagine the panic that must have possessed her. He could still see only her withered hands, now resting on the edge of the table. Wanting to fluster her even more, he moved his face into the lamplight, so she could better judge this mask of human derision. Now she couldn’t equivocate; he had her. He wore a mischievous smile that bared his long, rotten teeth, giving his face a monstrous look.

Truly, there was nothing there to gladden a mother’s heart.

Seeming to rouse herself from a thousand-year torpor, she looked at her son with love and pity. A thirty-five-year-old man who was as lost in life as a child. More unaware, more vulnerable even than a child. She had a moment’s hesitation that Yeghen savored deliciously. “She must be having a terrible time,” he thought to himself. Deep down he was certain of her answer.

“Well, Mother?”

“Yes, you were handsome,” she said.

“It’s not possible! How could I have changed so much?”

“You haven’t changed,” said his mother.

She must be crazy. Yeghen was tempted to go look at himself in a mirror. For a moment he believed that a miracle had transformed his face. But no, it was simpler than that. He should have known that in its mother’s eyes a monkey has the grace of a gazelle. No reason to delude himself. It wasn’t even pity; it was an answer torn from maternal fiber. He had the impression she was happy with her answer and that she sincerely believed it.

“And my father?”

“What about your father?”

“Was he handsome?”

“Your father was an honorable man.”

“What a joke!”

Yeghen quivered with joy. His father! How many times had she repeated that his father was an honorable man! And yet it was his fault that they had been reduced to poverty. Heir to a great family of landowners, he had squandered his immense fortune in gambling and fabulous orgies. He died leaving only debts. Yeghen had been very young at the time; the death of his father, the ruin, had hardly touched him. He had learned of his father’s incredible escapades from gossip. A man who needed at least three women in bed to feel comfortable. A veritable Oriental potentate.

His mother had never talked to Yeghen about him; she considered it an indecent subject: one didn’t judge one’s husband. She must have believed that suffering at the hands of one’s husband was an enviable, ineluctable fate. Yeghen had never heard her pronounce a single word of reproach against his late father; she continued to believe that he was an honorable man. “Riches excuse everything,” he thought. “My antics displease her because they bear the stain of poverty.” The poor did not have the right to misbehave. For her, this axiom constituted the only truth on earth.

To survive, she was now reduced to this humiliating work, mending clothes for some bourgeois family who took pity on her misfortune. All these years of bitter fighting with this useless son marked by a frightful destiny had not changed at all her opinion of the unspeakable behavior of her husband. Hadn’t he been a rich, respected man? That excused everything. Such fidelity to the privileged class was unthinkable for Yeghen, but it was the only thing that still kept her alive. The memory of her dead husband had no aim but to preserve this respect owed to wealth.

In this basement room with its defective tiling, moisture was trickling down the walls. A musty smell of bourgeois security persisted despite the slow decay of the furniture, the perfidious, drastic misery. Among the incongruous objects bathed in shadow, a skillfully carved wooden buffet that she had managed to save from disaster stood out, enthroned against the wall. It was this buffet that created the equivocal atmosphere in the room that so oppressed Yeghen. He would have preferred to sleep in the street rather than live in this miserable flat oozing respectability. It seemed to him that the buffet — a shapeless bulk in the shadows — was threatening him with its utter contempt. Yeghen shivered. It was cold, and there was nothing to heat this glacial cavern but the little spirit lamp on which soup was cooking. He felt sadness sweep through him — just what he dreaded most when he came to visit his mother. She was skilled in the art of distilling sadness; she spun misery like a spider its web.

Yeghen shook himself, as if to chase away the cold. He felt a rustling against his leg, then heard a soft purring: the cat. Where had it been hiding? He leaned down to get it, put it on his lap, and began to stroke it. The little animal purred, its eyes fixed on him, as if waiting for something. One day Yeghen had decided to have a bit of fun by giving the cat a miniscule ball of hashish, and since then, he had done so each time he had the chance. It was surely the only cat in the world that indulged in narcotics. It seemed to have acquired a taste for this delicacy; it began to grow edgy and tried to scratch him. Yeghen found himself in a delicate situation; he only had a small quantity of the drug and he certainly wasn’t going to share it with the cat. A whim had its limits. But how could he make it understand?

He managed to get rid of the cat and again looked at his mother. She had returned to her work, as though she were indifferent to everything but her inner dream. She must be dreaming that she was living a peaceful existence with her son — an honest, hardworking son — with dignity and respect for the law. Yeghen intuited this dream; he could even divine the exact unreeling of the images. He suddenly thought of his latest idea, the ultimate inspiration of his inventive genius. If she ever suspected that he was about to beg money for her burial! He was tempted to tell her, just to see her face. Would she curse him? She had never before used that privilege. A mother’s curse! Yeghen couldn’t help laughing.

She abruptly stopped sewing and seemed surprised and shocked.

“How can you laugh, my son?”

“You want me to cry?”

“You’re not ashamed to mock my misery?”

“It’s not that, Mother. It’s simply that an idea came to me.”

“I don’t understand,” she said bitterly. “I will never understand. How can you laugh in this miserable house!”

This she could never forgive: his frivolity in the face of misery. He never appeared to take misery seriously. She would have liked to see him ashamed and resigned, moping his life away. How could he laugh at the sacred state of misery?

Anyway, it was time for him to go; the atmosphere was becoming oppressive. He shrank down in his chair, withdrew deeper into the shadows, and grinned. The most difficult part was yet to come.

“Mother!” he whined.

Since she didn’t want to see him laugh, well then! He would cry if necessary.

“Now what do you want?”

“Could you give me five piasters, Mother?”

She sighed like a trapped animal.

“Again! When will you realize that I am poor?”

“I know that, Mother.”

“You don’t seem to know it.”

“If I didn’t, I would have asked for a lot more.”

“What cynicism! My God! And to think that your father was such an honorable man!”

That was fatal. Yeghen knew the ritual; he would have to hear everything, to negotiate right to the end.

“Leave my father out of it. I need this money.”

“I only have the rent money. If you want to eat, there is lentil soup.”

Eat that soup! Never. Rather die of hunger. His mother’s soup was the supreme insult to his optimism; it reeked of good intentions and respectable poverty. He would never be able to swallow it. Any humiliation but that. Besides, food mattered little to him.

“It isn’t for food,” he said.

“Unfortunately, I don’t have chicken to offer you.”

“I don’t want chicken, Mother. I’m simply not hungry.”

She knew he took drugs, but she forbade herself the smallest allusion to it; she preferred to discuss useless things — for example, this lentil soup that she wanted to force down him. Yeghen guessed her inmost thought; she imagined that he needed money to buy drugs. This reminded him of an odious episode that had happened that very afternoon, and he groaned with rage. A policeman he’d met on the street had relieved him of a big piece of hashish under the vague pretext of a search. The behavior of these bandits infuriated him, especially as it was impossible to defend himself. What a nasty brood, those policemen. All this hashish they carried off and allegedly threw in the river! They weren’t that dumb! They surely sold it back on the market, and at a higher price than the dealers.

It was undeniable that, besides drugs and food, a man needed to have some money in his pocket. His situation as parasite and beggar did not prevent Yeghen from being lavish — on the contrary. No doubt he had inherited this taste for ostentatious spending from his father. He enjoyed the luxury of paying for others, of aiding those more unfortunate than himself — Gohar, for example. He knew Gohar was always short of money and that he didn’t ask for anything, not out of dignity but because of his simple indifference to material things. Yeghen made a point of helping him as much as he was able. Gohar was the only person he’d met who wasn’t offended by his physical or moral ugliness, the only being with whom he felt in perfect harmony. Gohar was neither a reformer nor a moralist; he took people as they were. Yeghen had never found this trait in any other person; most people tried to give advice like his mother. Fundamentally, his mother was just like most people in this respect.

He was afraid to feel pity and laughed nervously. No, he wasn’t mean to her. She defended herself in her own way, and in some respects, even, she was stronger than he. No force in the world could shake her stubbornness in misfortune. She enjoyed her sadness, not understanding that one can laugh despite the gravest deprivations.

He knew she would yield in the end and give him the money. She only made him beg so much to keep him near her as long as possible; she believed her good example would be contagious. All this love, this monopolizing sweetness, was solely intended to make him bow before the demands of poverty. Poor woman! She didn’t know that she had given birth to a monster of optimism.

He’d had enough; he had devoted sufficient time to her.

“Are you going to give me the money?”

For a long time she did not move, paralyzed by discouragement. So she was going to lose him again. This lamentable, perverted son was, nevertheless, her last link to the living, and she would never manage to hold him, to guide him onto the straight path. Slippery creature in the devil’s grip, he always slid through her fingers. His laugh was the only thing of his she would keep, this laugh that blasphemed against her poverty. She could not understand his insensitivity to what she felt to be the only dignity in the universe: submission in misfortune. Long afterwards, in this sinister apartment, she would hear his laugh, more terrible than a cry of revolt. She could have accepted revolt, perhaps, but not derision.

She didn’t doubt that all her sacrifices would be in vain; money was the least precious of her gifts. She had deprived herself of everything for him; only her life was left to give. Why didn’t he take her life? Would he come one day to murder her? She expected anything from him.

“You’ll kill me in the end,” she said.

“Of course not, Mother. What a dramatic idea! Life is simpler than that. Give me the money and I’ll go. That’s all. There’s nothing tragic about it, I assure you. Where is the drama? You’re the only one who believes the world is serious; the world is gay, Mother! You should go out and enjoy yourself a little.”

She looked at him without surprise, as if she’d just heard the words of a madman whose ravings were long familiar to her. What to do? She sighed and stood up. With a hesitant step, as if she were leaning on invisible crutches, she disappeared into the room’s shadow where her wizened form dissolved. Yeghen could barely glimpse her. She stopped before the buffet’s black bulk, opened a drawer, and began to rummage around inside.

Yeghen held his breath. It was a moment for premeditated murder, but a murder for the fun of it. How long would she continue to think he could be mortified by these pathetic scenes of bourgeois high morality?

Soon she came back and placed a coin on the table.

“Here, drink my blood!”

What a tragedienne! And what a shame the whole world couldn’t witness such a scene. A truly edifying spectacle! The unnatural son persecuting his old mother! It would make lots of tears flow. Yeghen grinned, took the money, put it in his pocket, and stood up to leave.

“Peace be with you, Mother.”

“At least stay to eat,” she said. “It’s a good soup.”

“Not tonight, Mother, I’m not hungry. But I promise to come again to take you to a chic restaurant. Then we’ll go to a cabaret. Wouldn’t you like to go to a cabaret to admire the belly dancers? You’ll see, Mother, life is beautiful.”

Yeghen emerged from the basement like a diver returning from the muddy depths and happily breathed the night air. Finally liberated from that atmosphere of respectable rot! Everything in that abject hovel was horribly falsified, impervious to joy. Why, in heaven’s name? Was joy only the lot of the rich? That was a fundamental error. There was joy even in prison — Yeghen knew that better than anyone. In his mother’s eyes, however, this simple truth became grounds for suspicion; she saw only depravity and idleness in it. She distrusted all joy bred in suffering; wasn’t it an insult to her poverty? To be sure, beyond the pleasure she took in unhappiness, there was indeed real suffering that Yeghen didn’t try to deny. He would even have been sensitive to it had she not tried to persuade him with her depressing, cowardly ideas. She smothered every feeling of tenderness in him. She prevented him from loving her simply, forcing him to defend himself against the phantoms of a misery whose illusory and futile character he had recognized long ago.

Yeghen fled through the streets, still feeling pursued by this mother and her poisoned love, who wanted to destroy all his insouciance. Under the pale light of streetlamps, his short, lean silhouette and skipping gait made him resemble an immense nocturnal bird. In this no-man’s-land between the native quarter and the European quarter, rare passersby sometimes made a fleeting appearance, then disappeared in the night like people glimpsed in nightmares. Yeghen slowed down, wondering which way to go. He would have to make a long detour to reach the quarter of El Azhar without crossing the European city. Under no circumstances did he care to venture into that citadel of lucre and boredom. The false beauty of those great thoroughfares swarming with a mechanical crowd — where all real life was excluded — was a particularly odious spectacle to him. He detested the cold, pretentious, modern buildings, resembling gigantic sepulchers, and the garishly lit store windows, full of implausible objects that nobody needed to live. Not to mention that he stood out awkwardly. It was as if he found himself in a strange city whose customs were unknown to him. At the slightest word or gesture, people turned to stare after him. And their police were better organized; they had to protect all this extravagant wealth. Against what? Against whom? Yeghen didn’t see the reasons motivating such fear: they were so well barricaded with their riches that certainly no one would dream of robbing them.

He turned right and continued his skipping walk through the intermittent light of the streetlamps.

It must be said in his favor that Yeghen didn’t consider himself a genius — a rare characteristic among poets. He found that genius lacked gaiety! The immense enterprise of demoralization that certain supposedly superior minds undertook against humanity seemed to him to stem from the most harmful criminality. His esteem went, instead, to ordinary people, neither poets nor philosophers nor ministers, but simply people possessed by a joy that was never extinguished. For Yeghen, the real value could be measured by the quantity of joy contained in each person. How could anyone be intelligent and sad? Even in front of the hangman, Yeghen would be irrepressibly frivolous — any other attitude would seem hypocritical and stamped with false dignity. It was the same with his poetry. It was the very language of the people among whom he lived, a language where humor flowered despite the worst miseries. His popularity in the native quarter equaled that of the monkey trainer and the puppeteer. He even believed he wasn’t as deserving as these public entertainers; he would have preferred to be one of them. In no way did he resemble the man of letters who worried about his career and his posthumous reputation; he sought neither fame nor admiration. Yeghen’s poems were composed using simple everyday words, felt with his infallible instinct for life at its most authentic; a child could understand them as readily as an adult.

This interminable street with closed shops was lugubrious and unsavory, with streetlamps lined up like a long funeral procession. Yeghen quickened his step. He was anxious to reach the Mirror Café, to enjoy a mint tea in that atmosphere of sweet words and joyful insouciance. Suddenly he had a kind of illumination and stopped in his tracks. The time! What time could it be? Was he still in time to see the girl? How could he have forgotten her? He panicked and almost began to run.

He had no way to find out the time; there was no one in sight on this deserted street. Yeghen felt desperate until he saw a man coming out of a porte cochere. He was a fine, corpulent man dressed in the European style and muffled up in a heavy, perfectly cut black coat. He looked like a man who would own a watch.

Yeghen slowed his steps and went up to him.

“Can you tell me the time, my Bey?”

The man nonchalantly took a large silver watch from his fob and consulted it.

“Six forty-five,” he said. “What time is your train?”

“It’s not a train,” said Yeghen. “I have a date with my mistress.”

The man looked closely at Yeghen, shook his head several times, and said, “Anything is possible, my dear man!”

“It’s more than possible,” Yeghen insisted. Without thanking the man, he continued on his way.

The swine! He had seemed to doubt he could have a date with his mistress. Yet it was the truth, or almost.

He was still in time to see her passing by; she never came home before seven o’clock. He stopped several paces from the house and stationed himself on the edge of the sidewalk in a dark spot between two streetlamps. It was a fairly busy street and several stores were still open; two or three strolling merchants with their handcarts full of fruit lit by smoky lanterns vaunted their wares in sepulchral voices. A café was nearby; despite the distance Yeghen could clearly hear the rattle of dice against wood: backgammon players. He waited, terribly excited, his head turned in the direction from which the girl would come.

Their first encounter had been purely by accident. That night, under the delightful influence of the drug, Yeghen was tramping through this same street when he saw her loom up like a superb apparition in the light of a streetlamp. Their eyes met, and he thought that he read a promise and an impulse in hers to which he was hardly accustomed. Her look was one of intelligence, able to appreciate mystery. Instead of a frightened beast’s retreat, it showed her assent before the vivid manifestation of his presence. Hers was the only woman’s gaze wherein Yeghen felt neither pity nor sarcasm, but the instinctive knowledge of human nature at its most horrible. He suspected her to be the daughter of a civil servant. She was perhaps sixteen and took piano lessons, as he could tell by the music books she carried under her arm. She paraded along like a princess visiting the poor neighborhoods. It is true that with her music books she clashed strangely with the surroundings. In this quarter, to take piano lessons was such a rare, incongruous thing that one risked antagonizing a crowd. Yeghen was surprised not to see the neighborhood children pursuing her with their taunts. No doubt it was her bearing, rather than her father’s position as a civil servant, that kept them at bay. He himself broke into a cold sweat each time he tried to accost her. He had finally decided to do it this very night, but in an indirect manner, to so speak. It involved a poem he had composed in her honor and that he wanted to give her in an elegant, original fashion.

Yeghen always used the same tactic: whenever he saw her coming from afar, he would begin to walk in her direction, so that the meeting would appear to be accidental. But was she fooled? Last time, she had smiled at him knowingly, as if to say that she’d understood his stratagem. He had concluded that she was now expecting more daring on his part. Yeghen couldn’t get over this conquest. “She feels no disgust seeing me,” he said to himself. “She’s truly a brave girl!” Or was she simply very myopic? To be more certain, he arranged it so they always met under a streetlamp. He wanted full light, so there could be no mistake. Thus, she was duly warned of his ugliness and couldn’t come later telling him that she hadn’t seen him well in the darkness of the night. Inside, Yeghen exulted each time she looked at him, his face in full view in the streetlamp’s light. She must think he believed himself handsome, and that by showing himself in full light, he was trying to conquer her by the charm of his appearance.

The girl was late. Perhaps she’d already gone home or didn’t have a piano lesson today? Yeghen began to grow tired of the prolonged wait; he stood motionless in the shadows, surrendering to the biting cold and the hostile stares of passersby, who no doubt took him for a thief about to rob them. In fact, waiting around like this was very risky. In the nearby café the rattling of dice had stopped and the muddled sounds of conversations could now be heard, of which Yeghen could only make out bits and pieces. A sweet-potato vendor woke from his torpor and began to praise the quality of his merchandise in a loud voice; he used such voluptuous terms that one would have thought he was describing the charms of a prepubescent girl. Several people passed close to Yeghen, stopped a moment to look at him, then walked on shaking their heads.

He saw her coming from afar and sighed with relief. This prolonged waiting in a suspicious, middle-class neighborhood could end badly; he was glad it was over. He hesitated a moment, then began to walk, calculating his route so that the meeting would occur precisely under the streetlamp. With a profound awareness of his hideousness, Yeghen couldn’t aspire to attract the girl, yet he advanced with the joyous look of a man who was sure he was loved. Deep down, he was counting on his extravagant ugliness to command the girl’s admiration.

Damn! He had forgotten the poem that he’d meant for her. Where was it? He quickly rummaged through his pockets, took out several pieces of paper, and thought he’d found it. “I hope this is it,” he said to himself. If not, too bad — he didn’t have time to check. She’d already reached him like some ethereal being, an apparition born from hashish fumes, so near, so real, and yet so far.

With a light, precise step, she entered the diffused whiteness of the streetlamp, her head high, her eyes fixed straight ahead, dominating the street with a look of disdain that embraced the whole neighborhood. She was wearing a blue velour beret and a coat the same color fastened at the waist with a black leather belt. This European elegance accentuated the unusualness of her haughty gait. The music books that she held tightly under her arm gave her the air of a studious schoolgirl. Everything about her proclaimed naïve pride and total contempt for her surroundings.

She passed close to Yeghen without changing her step, pretending to ignore him completely. He almost came to a stop under the streetlamp; he showed his face in full light, his mouth twisted by a grin that was meant to be an engaging smile. But this time the ludicrous dumb show was lost on the young girl. She didn’t even deign to look at him.

Crushed by this behavior, Yeghen took several more steps, then turned around and ran after her. He felt ready to provoke a riot if necessary. How could she have dared to ignore him!

“You lost this, mademoiselle.”

She stopped, disconcerted, looking grave and a little frightened. The affair was growing complicated for her; she hadn’t thought he would have the courage to approach her. Instinctively, she held out her hand. Yeghen gave her the poem and went off quickly, without turning around.

This took place without incident; he had accomplished his move brilliantly. How would she react after reading the poem? Yeghen looked forward to their next meeting with great pleasure.

4

POLICE inspector Nour El Dine came into the waiting room, closing behind him the door to the bedroom where the coroner was still examining the corpse of the murdered prostitute. For a moment he stood still, his look severe and full of suspicion; then he surveyed the room with calculated slowness, as if searching for the guilty party. That was part of the routine: the killer was certainly not in the room. Nevertheless, under his icy gaze, all those present shrank into their chairs, and several seconds of formidable silence followed. All the girls of the house were there, as well as three customers who’d placed themselves in this lethal situation of their own accord. They’d had no reason to suspect anything; they had knocked at the door as usual, and a policeman had taken them hostage. Since then, they hadn’t stopped complaining, repeating that they had things to do and that they were in a hurry. But their complaints had no effect on the dreadful policeman guarding the door. Now they were talking among themselves, discussing their respective positions in society, making it known that an error committed against their person could possibly unleash an international scandal.

“I will appeal to the government minister who’s a friend of mine,” said the shabbiest of them.

The two other men said nothing; they were outdone. They had nothing to top a minister. For a moment they thought of mentioning their relations with the king, but that seemed a little too strong. The best they could do was to speak vaguely of acquaintances in high places.

Undoubtedly the most spectacular member of this gathering was Set Amina, the madam. She sat sunken on one end of the couch, a hand on her cheek, the very image of martyred innocence. She moaned tearfully, heaving heartrending sighs, and calling on God to witness her misfortune.

“What a black day! What have I done to Thee, O my God!”

After glancing several times around the room — such a stupid routine! — Nour El Dine walked toward her with a determined step. He looked weary and ready to imprison everyone.

“Stop the act, woman!” he said firmly.

Set Amina shut up like a charm. She swallowed her complaints and became humble and submissive. She was no fool: it was useless to antagonize the forces of authority. She realized the gravity of the situation; this time she risked having her house closed forever. A crime! It could mean the end of her career.

“Well,” resumed the inspector, “what do you have to tell me?”

“What can I tell you, Excellency! On my honor, I don’t know anything. I was out all afternoon with the girls doing errands. When we returned, I went into Arnaba’s bedroom to tell her to get ready. That’s when I saw her lying dead on her bed. I screamed and all the girls came to see what was wrong. May God preserve you from such a sight. I’m still all shook up.”

“That surprises me from you, woman! So, just like that, you desert the house and go for a stroll in town. How can that be? I thought you were more serious.”

“It was the girls’ day off. They’ve got to get out for a breath of air.”

“And why didn’t Arnaba go with you?”

“I don’t know, Excellency. She was capricious. Since she was new, I didn’t want to annoy her.”

“What time was it when you returned?”

“About six o’clock.”

“There was no one in the house besides Arnaba?”

“No, Excellency! There was no one!”

“Do you think it could have been a client?”

“What are you getting at? My clients are all good people. They couldn’t kill a fly.”

“But you could, you shameless woman! It wouldn’t surprise me if you were the murderer.”

At this direct accusation, Set Amina raised her arms to heaven in distress and looked like she was going to go back to her weeping, but the inspector stopped her in time.

“Tell me, do you know if she had money hidden in her room?”

“She didn’t have any money. I kept all her money.”

“You’re sure of that?”

“Completely, Excellency!”

“Very well, woman. I’ll take care of you later. And I advise you to stay calm.”

The police inspector wrinkled his brow and seemed deeply perplexed. His first findings had brought him up against a bizarre fact: the murder was not motivated by robbery — nothing was stolen. Nor was it the crime of a sadist. The medical examiner was positive: the prostitute’s body showed no traces of cruelty or defilement. She had simply been strangled in a neat and classical manner. It was a strange business. This was the first time Nour El Dine had been faced with the arduous task of solving the mystery of a motiveless crime. But such a crime in this milieu seemed unthinkable. A motiveless crime implied very sophisticated reasoning, an artful, cunning intelligence, and only an educated individual — perhaps only someone with a European culture — could carry it out. It was the kind of crime found in Western books. Again the inspector’s worried gaze swept over those present, looking for someone sufficiently intelligent to be a suspect. But none of those present answered this ideal description; they were far from offering the slightest resemblance to the imaginary murderer described in books. Nour El Dine felt so alone with this crime on his hands that he was frightened for an instant. He walked over to an armchair near the table, sat down, crossed his legs, then proceeded to light a cigarette.

A slave to routine, he would have to interrogate all these people. A pure waste, he knew in advance. What could he get from this assembly of pitiful men, who already were trembling at the idea of losing their honor? To measure his powers against such adversaries was a boring task. Nour El Dine felt sick with disgust; a mournful lassitude ravaged his soul and crippled all of his initiative. Actually, he was preoccupied with a problem of a sentimental and private nature. He had been called to this case at a crucial moment in his existence, a moment he had planned to devote to the most exigent of passions. His missed rendezvous with young Samir was taking on catastrophic proportions in his mind. He couldn’t stop thinking about it. Knowing the young man’s touchiness, Nour El Dine could not see how this disrespect would be forgiven. Samir would certainly be intractable at their next meeting. Would he even agree to another rendezvous? This agonizing question worked its way to the center of all his activities, giving him no respite. Even the sudden emergence of a motiveless crime in his drab universe could not relieve his uneasiness.

Despite appearances, Inspector Nour El Dine was a passionate admirer of beauty. The work he was obliged to do among the rabble had become odious, and to a certain extent exhausting. To be reduced to wallowing forever in the mud of the poor quarter in the company of petty delinquents and dumb criminals — savages all — offended his aesthetic sense and made him very unhappy. But he believed in his work; he had complete faith in the noble task of the police. He would have liked to handle only exceptional crimes, perpetrated by intelligent murderers with subtle minds. Instead, he was in constant contact with awful, uneducated beings.

What man would not have become embittered on seeing his ideal so ridiculed? The tyranny of destiny! Nour El Dine felt as if he were suffocating; he opened the top button of his jacket, freeing his neck which was bruised by the stiff collar. This gesture, so contrary to prescribed behavior, brought him a sense of calm. Reluctantly, his thoughts returned to the interrogation. The girls all had a perfect alibi. It was useless to question them; they were stupid, illiterate drudges who would only complicate his job. That left the three customers whose insignificance was more than obvious. As a matter of pure routine, he would check their identity then send them home. He was certain that none of them was the killer. Nour El Dine was more and more convinced — perhaps because he so heartily wished it — that the murderer had to be a man from another sphere, an intellectual with advanced ideas, something like an anarchist. The prospect of pitting himself against such a murderer gave him renewed vitality. He only hoped he wasn’t wrong.

The customer who prided himself on his friendship with the minister suddenly began to shout, “You can’t do this to me. You don’t know who I am.” Nour El Dine looked at him contemptuously; he knew the type. Besides, he’d had enough of this business, he wanted to finish as quickly as possible. The real inquiry would begin tomorrow. With a little luck he might be able to see young Samir before the night was over. But this ray of hope had no effect on his sadness; he remained somber, his features contracted in a severe, imposing expression.

The door to the bedroom where the dead girl’s body lay opened, admitting a fifty-year-old man with a grayish face and a long nose topped with spectacles. He was wearing a dirty, rumpled tarboosh. It was the police reporter.

“At your service, Excellency.”

“Sit there,” said the inspector.

The clerk sat down; he took from his briefcase various papers that he spread out on the table, then an indelible pencil whose point he licked several times. Blue marks could be seen on his pale lips.

“Who is first?” he asked.

“We’ll wait a little longer,” Nour El Dine answered, clearly displeased by the question. “Has the examiner finished with the body?”

“He won’t be long now.”

“I should hope not.”

After this brief exchange, Nour El Dine resumed his mask of exasperation; staring at the ceiling, he smoked his cigarette with the air of a man determined to flee the servitude of his arduous job. All the others present were staring at him; the policemen’s indifferent yet somehow threatening attitude made them suspicious. They didn’t know what lay behind it. The girls were all huddled on the couch under the illusory protection of Set Amina. They were terrified by the whole affair; at the same time, they were overwhelmed with curiosity about the investigation of a crime so close to them. Only Naila seemed really touched by the drama. Her sickness made her more fragile, more vulnerable than her companions. She didn’t have to stretch her imagination to see herself in place of the victim. She felt sorry for herself; in her sickly despair she identified with the dead girl and told herself she’d be better off killed than continuing this wretched life, with only a slow and ignominious death to look forward to. All these thoughts made her look distraught; without makeup her face had a waxy pallor; her eyes were fixed and feverish. From time to time a dry cough shook her whole body. The girl named Salima, sitting next to her on the couch, had put her arm around her shoulders and tried to calm her. As for Akila, the youngest girl of the house, after a moment’s prostration she had regained her composure and was only thinking of work. Despite the presence of the police and of her colleague’s dead body in the next room, she kept ogling from afar the three customers held hostage. But they had something else in mind; Akila’s winks and engaging smiles reminded them of a black reality that they wanted to forget. No doubt, it would be a long time before they would venture into a house of pleasure again.

The medical examiner had finished his work; he came into the waiting room, his face flushed, his eyes burning with a concupiscent flame. He could have passed for a drunkard. He was still young, and the sight of Arnaba’s naked body had strongly affected him. In a voice choked with emotion, he asked where he could wash his hands.

“At the end of the corridor, Excellency!” answered Set Amina. “Show him, Zayed.”

Zayed, the house servant standing respectfully in the corner, showed the doctor the way and disappeared with him down the hall.

This scene seemed to reawaken the police inspector’s interest; he addressed himself to Set Amina.

“Tell me, woman! This Zayed, is he your pimp?”

“What an ugly word, Inspector!” Set Amina protested. “He just takes care of the house and helps out the girls.”

“Where was he during the afternoon?”

“How should I know? He only comes in the evening. He arrived just after us. He is an honest man, he’s worked for me for years. His work has always satisfied me.”

With all her explanations, Set Amina was trying to confirm the idea that the criminal was a stranger to the house, and thereby escape the sanctions that were sure to come down on her business.

“I’ll deal with him later. Tell him not to budge from here; you’re responsible for him.”

“May God protect me!” moaned Set Amina. Then without a transition: “May I get you a coffee, Excellency?”

“We’re not here to drink coffee, woman! You don’t seem to realize what has happened. Let me tell you, this is the end of your career.”

“Take pity on me, Excellency!” implored Set Amina. “What will become of me? Why don’t you just kill me right away then!”

“Stop this playacting, woman! For the last time! I’m not here to drink coffee or to listen to your jeremiads.”

He was going to add that he was here to find the murderer, but that seemed inept and he said nothing more.

Moved by the new character of his mission, Nour El Dine behaved like a child jealously guarding his secrets. He used all of his cunning to conceal his conviction that the killer was neither in the house nor, above all, in the multitude of sordid offenders swarming through the native city. He was convinced that the man he was after was an exceptional being, a stranger to the rabble. However, Nour El Dine was aware that this conviction was based on very risky psychological reasoning. He felt himself sliding down a dangerous slope. Where would it lead him? Wouldn’t it be better to follow the usual routine? In either case, he had to arrest the killer. But how? If at least he had stolen something, some trace of him could have been found. But the damned murderer had stolen nothing; he had only killed and disappeared. For what reason? Vengeance perhaps! He would have to reconstruct the life of the victim, this young whore of fascinating beauty, to try to find a clue to the men who frequented her, to learn if she had a lover. Nour El Dine was under no illusion; before him lay an exhausting inquiry in a rebellious milieu immune to violence, rich in expedients and tricks that he had to foil by dint of a cool head and perseverance. And, in the final accounting, all this to find what? The murderer of a prostitute.

How could he get out of this mess? The triviality of similar investigations always left him diminished, with a sense of frustration. The unremitting repression of his aesthetic tendencies in the exercise of his duty made him bitter and unjust. However, he was in the service of the law; he had the prerogative to see that it was respected, and to punish the guilty. Unfortunately, the feeling of this power had begun to crumble; he no longer believed in the efficacy of the cause he was serving. That was serious.

He struggled to fight his weariness and prepared to begin the interrogation.

Just then, there was a knock at the front door. After a long silence, Nour El Dine signaled to the guard, who cautiously opened the door.

El Kordi entered the vestibule with a jaunty step, his face lit with a jovial smile, then abruptly he stopped, bewildered, as if he were in the wrong place. Seeing the bizarre assembly before him, his slanted eyes grew wide with astonishment. He no longer was smiling. He wanted to say something, perhaps to excuse himself, but the guard did not give him time to speak; he caught him by the arm and pushed him before the inspector, saying, “Another customer, Excellency.”

“I can see that your house is prosperous,” the inspector said to Set Amina.

This sarcasm revived the madam’s grief. No one knew better than she that her house was prosperous. And now to think she risked losing everything because of this shameless murderer. Again she broke into lamentations.

“Why does misfortune pursue me? I am a poor woman!”

“Be quiet,” Nour El Dine ordered, “or I’ll send you to prison. Let’s see this young man.”

“Me!” said El Kordi.

This was the only word he managed to pronounce. He still didn’t understand into what trap he’d fallen. His presence in this place seemed like part of a dream. An idiotic joke. He couldn’t stop blinking his eyes as if to chase away this annoying vision. What was this inspector doing here? Then everything became clear: it was a police raid. He almost laughed.

“Yes, you,” said Nour El Dine.

Realizing that the affair was of no consequence, El Kordi regained his spirits and his smile reappeared. It was the smile he usually reserved for the representatives of order: an ironic, almost insulting smile. The inspector looked at him severely. This new arrival was going to prolong the interrogation; for that alone Nour El Dine resented him. However, he noticed that he was the first decent-looking person he’d found mixed up in this strange affair. A glimmer of hope pierced his brain and checked his desire to be brutal.

“What’s going on?” asked El Kordi.

“I’ll explain everything to you in a minute. Sit down. Above all, be quiet.”

El Kordi shrugged his shoulders, adjusted his tarboosh, and looked over at the couch; the girls were still pressed against Set Amina, now confined to mute despair. At the sight of Naila, her face pale and ravaged by tears, he recovered his passionate fire and rushed toward her. He already saw himself in the role of defender, saving her from the clutches of the police.

“Make room for me.”

The girls pressed together a little to give him room; El Kordi sat down next to Naila, took her hand, and held it tightly. But this touching attention didn’t seem to comfort the young woman. On the contrary, her lover’s presence seemed to irritate her and even to add to her distress. For Naila had dignity! Ed Kordi’s schemes — eccentric and impracticable — to remove her from a cheap whore’s life exasperated her. She was realistic enough to know that El Kordi was incapable of saving anyone. Sometimes she wondered if he were sincere, or if he weren’t playacting. Besides, she didn’t want to owe her life to anyone. Her relations with El Kordi degenerated into arguments each time he mentioned his desire to see her leave this degrading life.

“Tell me, girls,” asked El Kordi, “what is this raid in honor of?”

“It’s not a raid,” explained Salima. “Arnaba was murdered.”

“Murdered! How and where?”

“This afternoon. She was strangled on her bed.”

The announcement of this crime left El Kordi stunned for a moment, then his tragic sense awoke, and he took on the air of someone highly conscious of the drama around him. He looked at Naila, touched her as if to assure himself of her presence, and felt his heart gripped with pity. “It might have been her!” The thought filled him with sadness, and he did his best to cry. But all this lasted only an instant. Then he began to look with growing interest at the inspector, the recording clerk, the two policemen — the whole machinery of justice. Curiosity had replaced his anguish; unconsciously, he now thought only of enjoying himself.

“Have they arrested the killer?”

“No,” answered Naila.

“What a frightful story!” said El Kordi. “When I think that it could have been you.”

“That would have been a happy event; no one would have cried for me.”

“Don’t say such nonsense. I will never leave you alone, my darling. From now on, I will always be close to you.”

“By Allah! You’re the one talking nonsense. What will happen to the ministry deprived of your superior mind?”

“The ministry can go to hell! I’ve found another way to make money. I’ll tell you about it later.”

The medical examiner returned, looking less feverish. Nevertheless, he seemed anxious, still under the influence of a carnal vision that would affect his life.

“Nothing new?” the inspector asked.

“For the moment, nothing,” answered the examiner. “I’ll send you my report after the autopsy tomorrow. I’m going now. Peace be with you.”

“Would the good doctor like a cup of coffee?” offered Set Amina. “You can’t leave like that. By Allah! Do us the honor.”

“Thank you very much,” he replied. “But really, I’m in a hurry; another time.”

“Tell me, woman!” Nour El Dine exploded. “When will you understand that this is not a courtesy call. I already told you to be quiet.”

“Very well, Excellency. I understand. After all, I’m only doing my job; I wanted to be pleasant.”

“Shall we start the questioning?” asked the clerk.

Nour El Dine looked at him vacantly, as if he didn’t understand. What questioning? He had totally forgotten that abject, ridiculous comedy. Still, he would have to begin; routine demanded it. It was especially this dirty, depressingly ugly clerk who sickened him. Nour El Dine dreamed of a beautiful young man for his clerk; with this sinister fellow, justice made no sense.

He motioned for one of the customers to approach, the so-called friend of the minister. The man stood up and marched toward the inspector with a robot’s jerky step, mumbling unintelligible words. He was a skinny fellow wearing a threadbare suit and a dirty, crumpled tarboosh. He planted himself reproachfully before the inspector.

“You can’t do this to me,” he cried. “You don’t know who I am.”

“Shut up,” Nour El Dine said calmly.

“You don’t know who I am, I tell you.”

“And I’m telling you to shut up. Only answer when I ask you to.”

“Me, shut up! Never. When you know who I am, you will beg my forgiveness.” He pounded his chest as if to show his importance.

“Well! Let’s be done with it. Tell me who you are,” Nour El Dine brought himself to ask.

The man breathed deeply and said in a voice trembling with pride, “I am a debt collector.”

For a moment El Kordi looked at the scene without fully grasping its burlesque side. He had an intuition that somewhere the mechanism of humor had been set in motion, but he remained a stranger to the thing, still refusing to understand. For a few seconds he hesitated to laugh, then suddenly, all the absurdity of the situation, all the savor contained in this professional pride burst on him, and he broke into an irrepressible laugh.

The so-called friend of the minister stopped gesticulating and shouting; he seemed to be struck with horror, as if El Kordi’s laugh had flayed his noble dignity. This new insult left him without a reply. He glared at El Kordi in complete incomprehension. The thought that anyone could laugh at him — a debt collector! — was an unspeakable outrage.

No one besides El Kordi laughed; moreover, no one understood the reason for this hilarity. At the very least, it seemed improper. To laugh in a house where a murder had just taken place, and in the middle of a police investigation, could only be the act of a madman. Naila herself was shocked by her lover’s unwonted impropriety. All of her supplications for him to be quiet were in vain. The young man seemed incapable of controlling the joyful delirium that possessed him; each time he looked at the fellow, he broke into new bursts of laughter.

As for the debt collector, he had draped himself in his dignity, waiting for the end of this explosion in order to resume his speech. He still understood nothing. Only Nour El Dine was able to appreciate El Kordi’s laughter; he too would have gladly laughed had he not been at the center of this grotesque discussion. He suspected that the laughter was also aimed at him, and he wasn’t in the mood to be laughed at.

“You, stop laughing!” he said. “We’re not in a brothel.”

“But we are, Excellency! We are in a brothel,” El Kordi answered, laughing even more.

Nour El Dine acknowledged the blow; he had just committed a monumental blunder. Boiling with rage, he shut up. It was true they were in a brothel. What was he thinking? At any rate, he would take revenge on this extravagant young man. He decided he would pay him back when it was his turn to be questioned.

During this interlude, the debt collector had recovered his arrogance.

“So now do you know who I am?” he asked.

“Where are you a debt collector?” the inspector asked.

“Listen, good people!” cried the debt collector, taking the audience as his witness. “What does he mean, ‘where’? I collect debts everywhere. You’ve never seen a debt collector?”

“Like you, no!” Nour El Dine admitted.

“Inspector, I protest against these insults. Furthermore, I intend to complain to the minister.”

Nour El Dine saw that he must act quickly or he would never get rid of this wretched person. All the machinery of justice was at stake; this interrogation was incontestably degenerating into vaudeville. He couldn’t risk allowing this fanatic to continue his buffoonery. Brusquely, he stood up and slapped the alleged debt collector twice with terrible force. The man spun around, uttering a little cry, then covered his face with his arms. But he was too late: Nour El Dine had already sat back down and was looking at him with hatred. All this had taken place in a second.

“And now, go sit down. You’ll have plenty to tell the minister.”

The fellow sat down silently; he walked bent over, as if he had suddenly aged, and seemed empty of all his dignity.

The rest of the interrogation followed the normal course. The other two customers behaved correctly; they painlessly gave their names and professions. Ashamed of having been found in a house of pleasure, they were thinking only of getting out as quickly as possible. The inspector sent them away along with the debt collector, who now looked like a ghost and no longer spoke of complaining to the minister. Besides, they had learned that he was an unemployed debt collector.

Seeing that his turn had come, El Kordi became feverish, boiling with impatience. The idea of appearing before the authorities — or at least their representative — frightened him a little, but at the same time it gave him a sense of grave responsibility. Finally the oppressed people were going to be able to defend themselves through his intervention. Now, this presumption was not founded on any reality; no oppressed people had assigned him to their defense. El Kordi had set himself up on his own initiative as a lover of justice. On every occasion he persisted in taking the side of the weak. This was the result of a childish morality that El Kordi had raised to the level of a revolutionary virtue. Knowing that his destiny would be neither tragic nor glorious, he dodged the problem of his own freedom by flying into a rage at the slightest sign of injustice. At the moment he was relishing in advance this unique opportunity to thwart the infamous parody of justice represented by this ignorant, brutal official. He looked forward to undermining his prestige and, especially, to sharing with him a few of his own ideas about crime in general and the established laws in particular. What fun!

Nour El Dine turned toward El Kordi, weighing him with a look, as if to estimate the value of his prey. He too was looking forward to much pleasure.

“You who were laughing, come here.”

El Kordi took hold of a free armchair, placed it facing the table where the inspector was sitting, and settled himself comfortably.

“I won’t make you wait,” he said. “My name is El Kordi and I’m a clerk in the Ministry of Public Works.”

As much as El Kordi despised his position as a civil servant, at the moment he took full advantage of it before this inspector, whom he considered a complete ignoramus. Now, Nour El Dine was far from an ignoramus; in fact, it was his obligatory daily relations with ignorant people that filled him with bitterness. In large part, El Kordi’s scorn was due to the commonplace ideas he held on the stupidity of policemen. Unfortunately for him, fate had set him face-to-face with the sole policeman of remarkable gifts, a man who was anxious to test them against a worthy adversary.

“So, Mr. Bureaucrat frequents brothels! You come here on behalf of the ministry?”

“I come here out of a natural inclination. I believe it’s not against the law to make love. That would be the last straw.”

“No, for the moment it’s not forbidden,” admitted Nour El Dine.

“In future too, I hope. But it wouldn’t surprise me if it were otherwise.”

“I see. I gather you don’t agree with the laws. Do you have something to complain about?”

“I will complain when the time comes,” El Kordi said enigmatically.

Nour El Dine felt a rare kind of satisfaction never experienced during his numerous investigations. He was in the presence of an educated man with real knowledge of the world who was implicated in a crime, rather than just another heap of degenerates incapable of recognizing their own children. This was the godsend he had been searching for for years. His face expressed an almost childish contentment; he felt a resistance, an aggressive tone in this young man that responded to his long-suppressed need for confrontation.

Clearly El Kordi was no young ephebe. However, the masculine beauty of his features, accented by the exoticism of his slanted eyes, strongly affected Nour El Dine. He seemed to relax, to forget his bitter thoughts for a moment. A notable change took place in him; his manners became affable and singularly sweet. But El Kordi was far from noticing this. The hatred he felt for all forms of authority blinded him to such an extent that he could not see the suspicious nature of this unexpected graciousness.

Nour El Dine gloated over him with a kind of lubricious tenderness, as if on the lookout for a sign of complicity.

Why did he suddenly begin to speak in English?

“You come here often?”

“As often as my physical needs require,” answered El Kordi in the same language.

“It seems that you have a marked preference for one of the girls. You are her lover, or am I mistaken?”

This conversation in English unfolded in solemn silence. Understanding nothing, the reporter stopped transcribing. At first, thinking he had gone suddenly deaf, he began cleaning out his ear. Then, feeling things were too much for him, he put his indelible pencil down in front of him and assumed a helpless pose. As for Set Amina, she believed that the use of this foreign language hid a trap meant to ruin her. She sighed and said, “On my honor! It’s the end of the world. Now they’re speaking English in my house!”

Nour El Dine resigned himself to resuming the interrogation in Arabic, not to please Set Amina but because the reporter had begun to object to being left out: he was grumbling through his teeth.

“Are you in contact with the men who come here?” Nour El Dine asked in a worldly tone. “I’d like to know your opinion of them.”

El Kordi grasped the full implication of this insidious question.

“If I understand you correctly, you want me to name the persons who could have committed the crime. Let me tell you, Inspector, I am not an informer.”

“Of course not. You misinterpreted my words. I simply wanted to know the ambience of this house. Can I count on your cooperation?”

“In no way,” said El Kordi indignantly. “I will do nothing to help the police. Besides, I don’t know a thing about this affair!”

“Really, you have no ideas about the crime?”

“I have many ideas. But I doubt that you could understand them.”

“Why? I would be very happy to listen to them.”

“Very well! I believe that society alone is responsible for this crime,” El Kordi said grandiloquently.

“What are you saying, my son!” cried Set Amina. “By Allah! you’ve gone crazy!”

She thought that the “society” El Kordi spoke of referred to all the persons present and to her in particular.

“Be quiet, woman! Continue, my dear fellow, you interest me,” said Nour El Dine, his eyes shining with a strange sympathy.

But that was all; El Kordi went quiet. He was convinced he had said it all in that revolutionary phrase.

“I have nothing more to add,” he said.

It seemed that the source of his revolt had dried up.

“That’s too bad,” said Nour El Dine. “I would have liked you to go into that idea more deeply. It doesn’t matter! We’ll keep it for another time. I still have several questions to ask you.”

It was an auspicious situation. Even if this young man weren’t the killer, he was, nonetheless, a serious lead. Hadn’t he just betrayed himself? This excessive idealism that rejected everything in society was inspired by the same spirit as the murder of the whore. An anarchist! Perhaps there were many who thought like him. Nour El Dine felt himself drawn irresistibly as though toward an abyss; all of his faculties were on the alert. This young civil servant was surely going to lead him to sensational discoveries. It was only a question of not offending him.

“Would you permit me to ask you where you were this afternoon between two and six o’clock?” he continued.

“I was walking,” said El Kordi without taking the time to reflect.

“I see. That’s a very common sort of alibi. But, unfortunately, it cannot be verified. Have you nothing else to offer?”

“Perhaps you could retrace my footprints. My shoes leave marks.” El Kordi raised his foot so that the inspector could admire his shoes at leisure.

Nour El Dine didn’t have time to answer, because just then the door opened and two ambulance attendants in white shirts entered carrying a stretcher. The policeman on guard led them into the dead girl’s bedroom, where they disappeared. After a moment, they came out with young Arnaba’s body covered with a tarpaulin. Seeing this, the girls began to howl and wave their arms about like madwomen. Nour El Dine stopped up his ears and waited patiently for this collective frenzy to end.

El Kordi smiled inanely. The vivid memory of the shabby fellow who proclaimed himself a debt collector with such pride engrossed his thoughts. He had called himself the minister’s friend. After all, why not?

5

THE SOUND of voices and the brightness of the acetylene gas lamps welcomed Yeghen like a kindly place of refuge. At this hour of the night the Mirror Café was full of a rowdy crowd occupying all of the tables and a slow parade of people strolling up and down the dirt roadway. The ever present radio poured forth a stream of stormy music amplified by loudspeakers, drowning the magnificence of the words, the cries, and the laughter in the same confusion. In this grandiose tumult, ragged beggars, cigarette-butt scavengers, and wandering merchants indulged in a pleasant form of activity, like saltimbanks at a fair. It was like this every night: the atmosphere of a fun fair. The Mirror Café appeared to be a place created by man’s wisdom within the confines of a world doomed to sadness. Yeghen always felt amazed by this idleness and this delirious joy. It seemed that all of these men knew nothing of the anguish, the painful uncertainty of a miserable destiny. True, poverty marked their clothes made of innumerable rags and inscribed its indelible imprint on their emaciated, haggard bodies; yet it hadn’t managed to erase from their faces the shining joy at still being alive.

Curious population! Delighted with this fraternal and wonderfully comforting togetherness, Yeghen made his way through the crowd. He was on his own territory; here, his ugliness didn’t offend anyone. On the contrary, in contrast with these humble men it acquired a kind of radiance. He was quickly recognized and greeted by friendly exclamations. Several times he was invited to have a glass of tea, but he declined on the pretext of some vague business. Actually, he wanted to find Gohar; he must certainly be waiting for him, deprived of drugs and prey to suffering. Gohar’s suffering was the only iniquity that Yeghen couldn’t tolerate in a world full of iniquities. He put all the generosity he was capable of into offering Gohar his daily portion of hashish. To give this scrap of joy to a man — be it only a few hours’ worth — seemed to him more effective than all the vain attempts of reformers and idealists who wanted to lift sad humanity out of its sorrow. Yeghen gloried in being the apostle of immediate, tangible efficacy in this domain. In his opinion, elaborate plans and wise theories destined to relieve a people’s misery were only sinister jokes. He laughed derisively, taking care to maintain his public image.

Without wanting to admit it to himself, he was still obsessed by the memory of his recent encounter with the young girl. Now that he had made contact with her by means of a poem, he worried about the probable repercussions of this adventure on his private life. First of all, he was certain he did not feel any kind of love for her. For him, it was at heart an endeavor devoid of any desire for conquest. To sleep with the daughter of a civil servant, and a minor at that, implied considerations to which Yeghen was hardly disposed. Nonetheless, this girl intrigued him by the effrontery of her behavior; she seemed to defy him. Her reaction to his ugliness denoted a nature that was sly, at the very least. Yeghen saw revealed in her behavior something abnormal, unhealthy, and it incited him to pursue what was a unique experience for him. This was the first time he found himself to be the object of a woman’s attention, and he was not beyond deriving a certain smugness from it. He could not resolve to easily abandon such a source of amusement and perhaps, who knows, sensual excitement. He was aware of the laws of probability enough to recognize that such an amorous adventure would only offer itself to a man like him once every three generations. He must, then, take advantage of it. Moreover, those piano lessons added to the strangeness of the adventure. Not that Yeghen liked music; on the contrary, he abhorred it with all his heart, but he doubted that the young girl would ever have the occasion to play in his presence.

Should he tell Gohar about it? First, he must find him. His my-opic gaze grew completely dim in the garish light of the acetylene lamps reflected by the enormous mirrors decorating the walls. He was advancing with difficulty through the throng when he felt someone take his arm.

“My dear Yeghen, do me the honor of sharing my table.”

Yeghen turned around. The man was a notorious pederast of majestic corpulence wearing a green silk robe and an ample aubergine-colored coat. His hair and mustache were dyed and he wore heavy rings on his fingers. He was a very rich fabric merchant who prided himself on his literary taste.

The fat merchant’s affability toward him always amused Yeghen because of the ambiguity it cast over their relationship.

“Well then, how is poetry doing these days?”

“It’s dying.”

“Never mind! Come have a glass of tea with me. I’m eager to hear you talk.”

“Excuse me, it’s not possible. I’m looking for someone. I absolutely must find him.”

“Ah, I understand,” the man said, with a knowing wink.

“You understand nothing. I’m not at that game yet. But perhaps some day … ”

“Well, that would be a great day. I will be happy to count you among my friends.”

“You don’t mean it!” Yeghen protested. “With my face?”

“Don’t forget that you have other charms for me. I’m sensitive to genius.”

“In other words, you want to sleep with my genius.”

They burst out laughing.

“But that too is impossible,” Yeghen continued. “I have no genius. Take care. I’ll see you very soon.”

“Your modesty becomes you. At least give me the pleasure of accepting a cigarette.”

He held out a pack of expensive cigarettes to Yeghen, who took one which the man lit with a gold lighter.

“Thank you.”

Yeghen left the fat merchant and resumed his search for Gohar. Where was he hiding? He didn’t see him anywhere. He began to grow more uneasy, especially since he felt the presence of a little cigarette-butt scavenger behind him, glued to his heels, watching and waiting for the moment he would throw away his cigarette. The allure of this expensive butt seemed to exercise a kind of fascination on the little boy. He followed Yeghen’s trail with the look of a starving dog. Finally Yeghen had had enough of this pursuit and threw him the half-smoked cigarette.

“Here, you wretch! You won’t be up my ass anymore!”

“May God forbid!” cried the child, picking up the cigarette.

It was completely by chance that he spotted Gohar.

In a barbershop, a kind of hovel without a door lit only by the distant café lights, Gohar sat enthroned on the only chair, exhausted by fatigue, given up to the desolate wisdom of a universe crumbling all around him. Yeghen’s voice made him jump.

“Greetings, Master!”

“You’ve come at last, my son!”

Yeghen bent to the ground, parodying a bow. The respect due his master did not exclude a joke.

“Ever at your command. I hope I didn’t disturb your meditations.”

“Not at all. Sit down.”

Yeghen ran to fetch a chair from outside, then sat down next to Gohar with a happy grin. Each time he was transported by the same elation; one would have thought that Gohar’s presence made the most unbelievable bliss possible. All Yeghen’s sorrows, even those buried in his unconscious, disappeared at the sight of his master. He even forgot his ugliness.

In the intimacy of the barbershop, Gohar’s silence acquired an ineffable power of eternity. Yeghen respected this silence; he knew that it hid secret, incommunicable joys. But suddenly he was alarmed by the feeling of a major oversight; even though he never asked for anything, Gohar was surely waiting for one thing: the drug. Yeghen quickly took a folded paper from his pocket, opened it, and broke in two the piece of hashish it contained. He offered the bigger part to Gohar, who took it without a word, rolled it around in his fingers to make a ball, then raised it to his lips and began to suck on it. Already, he felt life slowly returning to him and blood flowing in his atrophied veins. He closed his eyes, savoring, in all its fullness, that delicious moment that follows extreme privation. A little flabbergasted by this too hasty manner of taking the drug, Yeghen didn’t move. This oral drug-taking that Gohar appreciated because of its ease always startled Yeghen like some sleight of hand. In his view, drug-taking demanded a more complicated ritual. Yeghen loved the fantastic atmosphere of the smoking rooms, the heavy smoke, opaque and stagnant like fog, and especially the sweet, lingering odor that stayed in one’s clothes for a long time, more insidious than a woman’s perfume. All this had a certain romanticism dear to his poet’s soul that Gohar swept away with one stroke by stuffing the hashish directly in his mouth. Each time, Yeghen experienced a kind of dread at this waste. Even though he told himself that the desired effect was the same, he couldn’t help regretting this lack of interest in the preparations and the decor.

In the shop’s darkness, he indulged in his favorite grimaces, attentive to the slightest sign of the revival taking place in his companion’s organism. He was already looking forward to being able to talk with him soon. But Gohar still remained silent; only a faint panting indicated that he was slowly returning to life.

After having left the house where he’d just strangled the young prostitute, Gohar had wandered through the streets in search of Yeghen. His obsession with the drug had the effect of attenuating the feeling of his act for a while. He remembered it like a tragic error whose importance was lost in the void. What was the importance of one crime among all the other crimes perpetrated each day under the most diverse forms: wars, massacres, repressions? He certainly wasn’t incapable of pity. The memory of his victim had wrung his heart all during his desperate course through the city streets, but it was as if he were thinking of a regrettable incident to which he had been only the impotent, horrified witness. In all conscience he had never wanted or premeditated this reprehensible crime. He was powerless to reconcile his innate horror of violence with the atrocious evidence of the facts. How then to explain the crime? Gohar refused to believe that fate wanted to bring him back to the bosom of a monstrous, criminal world that he held in contempt. He wouldn’t admit belief in an ineluctable destiny from which no escape was possible. Was it his destiny to be a respectable professor teaching the foul lies with which a privileged class oppressed an entire people? Was it betraying destiny to flee this imposture? Nothing was less certain. No doubt he was a marked man, the product of an anguished civilization that prospered through murder. But he thought he had escaped anguish and recovered peace and tranquillity in this plot of still-unviolated land where the nobility of a people inclined to joy blossomed. Had he succeeded in his escape only to bring with him terror and murder stuck to his skin? Was his adventure about to end in failure? No, that could not be.

All the same, he knew he would have to reckon with man’s justice. The police would hardly get entangled in abstract analysis; for them destiny meant the executioner’s blade. They conceived of fate only as an oppressive will, intent solely on keeping the slaves in their servitude. Gohar knew they would nose about everywhere, deploying colossal energy with the single aim of catching him. Not that the murder of a prostitute was an odious, inhuman act in their eyes, but it disturbed their tyrannical order. The concept that each transgression should receive its punishment was one of those hypocritical lies serving as a bulwark to a rotten, dying society. What a road he’d traveled in so few years! That rigid morality that he had taught, that he had believed in as in an inalienable richness, had revealed itself to be the most baneful conspiracy hatched against an entire people. It was merely an instrument of domination destined to hold the poor in awe. Perhaps, after all, this crime was only the expiation of his old lies, his blind complicity with infernal powers. If that were so, he had broken once and for all, shattered forever the bonds that still tied him to that detestable world. From now on he belonged to the mass of hunted men, thrown back to the borders of horror but relentlessly animated by a healthy confidence in life.

No justice would be able to bring young Arnaba back to life, but he, Gohar, was alive. The police would have to combat a living enemy, the most terrible kind of person alive: an optimist. They would have a hard time cornering him. He would fight with all the force of his inertia to preserve this new life acquired at the price of superhuman effort.

Bountiful magic of the drug! Gohar moved in his chair, opened his eyes, and smiled in the shadows.

Yeghen understood from this smile that he could finally speak.

“Well, Master, what’s new?”

“Quiet, my son, I had a memorable day.”

“How so?”

Yeghen exulted and rubbed his hands, grimacing more than ever. Gohar’s tone told him he was going to hear an extraordinary tale.

Gohar recounted his morning’s misadventure. He talked about his dead neighbor, the polluted water that had flooded his room, and the mourners’ strident cries.

“I’ve been in the street since noon. It’s been terrible.”

“That story is so funny,” Yeghen guffawed, “that it’s worth any sacrifice. Those adventures only happen to you, Master. Really, I’m jealous!”

“I looked everywhere for you,” said Gohar. “Where were you?”

Yeghen looked mournful, and said, as if he were telling a secret, “I went to visit my mother.”

There was something related to his mother that Gohar tried to remember. What was it? Oh, yes. Now he remembered.

“I heard that she died. I hope it isn’t true. If it is, my dear Yeghen, please accept my sincere condolences.”

“You, I can tell, Master,” laughed Yeghen. “It’s not true. She’s still alive, so alive that she managed to make me fed up with her moralizing. All I want is to pick up a little money. What do you think?”

“I must admit that it’s a splendid idea. I wish you lots of luck.”

“Really,” said Yeghen, overjoyed, “I was sure that you would approve. Besides, she’s a surprising person.”

“Who, your mother?”

“Yes, sometimes she says things that take my breath away. However, I’m convinced she doesn’t use hashish. Do you know what she told me one day?”

“No, but I would be happy to learn.”

“I’ll repeat her words. She said to me, ‘You’re now big enough to handle your affairs with God all by yourself.’ It’s distressing, isn’t it?”

“I don’t exactly understand,” said Gohar.

“She no longer wants to serve as an intermediary. Can you see me dealing with God all alone? I’ll never manage it.”

“What are you talking about? Since when have you been in touch with God?”

“Personally, I have never been. My mother took care of everything. There is a tacit accord between us. But now it’s finished. I have to manage it all alone. So I got the idea to hustle a little money, supposedly for her burial. She at least owes me that.”

“I see that your reasoning is impeccable. All the same … ”

Gohar sat openmouthed. The marvelous effect of the hashish was carrying him to a state of euphoria where everything took on extraordinary dimensions, where nothing seemed suspect or impossible. Slouched in his chair, his hands resting on the handle of the cane that he kept between his legs, Gohar meditated on the peculiar relations that Yeghen maintained with God. He distinctly saw God talking at length with Yeghen, discussing various confidential affairs with the air of an affable, distinguished man. The two interlocutors seemed to have known each other for a long time; they were trading strong words without getting angry or raising their voices. But what was truly sensational about this vision was that God was wearing modern clothes and didn’t have a beard.

A brief laugh shook Gohar.

The barbershop was situated next to the Mirror Café, bordering a vacant lot invaded by rubbish and puddles of urine. At night it served as a haunt for the regular crowd of little beggars and cigarette-butt scavengers who came there to sleep, piled up like beasts in a den. Each morning the infuriated barber had to chase them away with kicks and cruel threats. He should have put a door on his shack, but he could not afford to. Gohar had found this spot one night when he was looking for peace and quiet, and, since then, he often parked himself there to savor ideal serenity. This barber’s chair was truly made for meditation.

“Master,” said Yeghen, “I want to tell you a secret.”

“I’m listening.”

“Well, such as I am, I am involved in a sentimental adventure.”

“Congratulations! Who is the chosen one?”

“She is a girl who’s not like the others.”

“Stop right there,” said Gohar. “What exactly is a girl who is not like the others? My dear Yeghen, I thought you were more discerning.”

“I meant that she’s not a whore.”

“She’s a middle-class girl?”

“Yes. Probably the daughter of a civil servant.”

“Oh, how terrible! Are you in love with her?”

“You take me for El Kordi. Master, I’m not a child.”

“El Kordi isn’t a child either,” said Gohar. “Believe me, you misjudge him. He’s simply under the influence of an entire European literature that claims to make woman the center of a mystery. El Kordi struggles to believe that woman is a thinking being; his need for justice drives him to defend her as a social individual. But deep down he doesn’t believe it. All he asks of a woman is to sleep with him. And most of the time without paying, because he is poor.”

“But in my case the goal is different. I don’t want to sleep with her.”

“Platonic love! That’s even more serious.”

“It has nothing to do with love, Master. It’s something else.”

“What then?”

“I don’t know.”

Yeghen was quiet. He had just noticed a band of unkempt children standing in the entrance to the shop, listening to their conversation in meditative silence. They seemed dumbfounded by what they’d just heard.

“This is a nonsmoking salon,” he said. “There are no cigarette butts here. You’re wasting your time.”

“We’re not looking for butts,” said an eight-year-old girl covered in multicolored rags. “We want to sleep. This is our place.”

“You want to sleep already? But it’s still too early. Go take a little walk.”

“Give me a piaster,” the little girl ordered. With her hennaed hair and the colors of her outfit, she looked like a dirty doll.

“A piaster!” Yeghen said indignantly. “What do you want a piaster for? Aren’t you ashamed to beg? Go on, leave us alone. We have serious things to discuss.”

“Let’s go,” said the girl with a disdainful look. “They’re pederasts.”

“Here indeed are the misdeeds of darkness!” said Yeghen.

The band of children stationed themselves not far from the shack. Yeghen kept them in sight; he saw them scuffling about and trading insults. No doubt they were planning the best way to get the adults out of the place. Yeghen knew they were a persistent bunch and that they would return to the attack.

This place was becoming excessively perilous.

“To tell the truth, that girl amuses me.”

“Who, the cigarette scavenger?” asked Gohar.

“No, Master! The civil servant’s daughter. Imagine! She looked at me without disgust. And in full light. She even smiled at me. I almost think she finds me attractive.”

“You’re not going to become conceited, are you?” Gohar asked worriedly. “So then, she’s appealing to your vanity. My dear Yeghen, that girl is an abyss of perversity.”

“I forgot to tell you that she takes piano lessons.”

Gohar didn’t have time to answer. Again, they were disturbed. This time it was a whining, one-armed lottery-ticket vendor. In his good hand he was holding a last dirty, crumpled ticket, probably picked up on the ground.

“How much does that ticket win?” Yeghen asked.

“A thousand pounds, sir,” the man answered.

“That’s not enough. Do you have one that wins ten thousand?”

“There aren’t any tickets that win ten thousand pounds. Only a thousand. And this is the winning ticket. Buy it from me. May Allah augment your prosperity.”

“Go on, get out of here. A thousand pounds! That’s only good for a bum.”

The man went off into the shadows of the vacant lot, murmuring vague insults against what seemed to be a demanding, shrewish wife.

“Can you imagine, Master, if we had a thousand pounds?”

“For what, my son?”

“You could finally go to Syria.”

The allusion to this journey wounded Gohar instead of pleasing him, for, indirectly, it reminded him of his crime. Another dream was crumbling. Would he ever make this journey now? He had just spoiled what was perhaps his only escape from the anguish in which the world was floundering. It was painful to renounce that paradisiacal Syria he had conjured up and where he wanted to spend happy days. It was only a dream, true, but wasn’t renouncing a dream the most horrible renunciation?

“I could even accompany you,” Yeghen continued.

Gohar turned his head and looked at his companion. How could he tell him that it was no longer possible; how could he explain his dreadful crime to him? He didn’t feel ready for such a confession. Later, perhaps, he would tell him everything.

Yeghen’s face contorted in astonishment; El Kordi’s silhouette stood out against the opening to the shack.

“A frightful thing has happened! I’m beside myself.”

The two men were not at all concerned by this preamble. It was part of a kind of ritual. El Kordi usually approached people with the vehemence of a man who had just escaped a massacre. He needed some time to compose himself, so they abstained from questioning him. They waited patiently for him to tell them the subject of his affliction.

In this concerted silence, El Kordi sighed.

“I warn you, it’s not a joke,” he said. “I just left Set Amina’s. The house is teeming with policemen.”

“A police raid!” Yeghen exclaimed.

“No! That’s what I thought at first, but it’s much worse. Someone just killed Arnaba, the new girl.”

Having obtained his surprise effect, El Kordi calmed down. He now could consider the event from a less tragic angle.

“Do they know who the killer is?” Yeghen asked.

“No, all they know is that he didn’t steal anything. He simply strangled the girl. That’s what is driving the police inspector crazy. He can’t find a motive. I came here precisely to warn you not to go there. I went through an interrogation; it was very rough.”

“What kind of interrogation? Did they beat you?”

“They didn’t dare. When I told them I was a government worker the inspector quickly changed his tone. That seemed rather fishy. He’s a funny fellow. Do you know that he suddenly began to speak to me in English?”

“No!” said Yeghen. “In English!”

“Exactly. But Set Amina didn’t like it. She was infuriated that people were speaking English in her house.”

“I know that kind of policeman. He wanted to impress you.”

“No one impresses me,” said El Kordi.

He began to describe his interrogation, reserving the best role for himself, insisting on the revolutionary implications of his answers to the inspector. From his story it became clear that he had undergone violent questioning but had defended himself with the utmost energy.

“I literally stunned him. He didn’t know how to extricate himself.”

Seeing that Gohar wasn’t saying anything, he grew quiet. His master’s silence on such an important affair that touched everyone so closely seemed inexplicable. Was he, by chance, dead in his chair?

“What do you think, Master? I would like to know your opinion. It is a sinister crime, isn’t it?”

“Perhaps it was an error, my son,” answered Gohar, as if he were talking to himself.

“An error! What are you saying, Master?”

Then without a transition, El Kordi broke out laughing.

“Ah, I forgot to tell you that there was an extraordinary fellow there. He pretended to be the friend of a minister.”

Just then a barefoot man wearing rags pushed El Kordi aside and entered the shop; he looked frantic.

“Where’s the barber? I want a shave.”

“That’s me,” said Gohar, standing up. “Would your Excellency please be so kind as to sit down.”

The man collapsed in the chair and fell asleep right away. They could hear him snoring.

“Let’s go,” said Gohar.

“I would love a glass of tea,” said El Kordi. “All these emotions have made me thirsty.”

Arm in arm the three men proceeded toward the café lights, joking and laughing about the pitiful debt collector whom El Kordi had seen at the brothel. They had already forgotten the crime, Gohar more completely than the others.

6

IT WAS eleven in the morning. Seated behind his desk in the Ministry of Public Works, El Kordi was growing bored watching the flies buzz about. The large room, lit by high windows and containing several desks behind which other clerks were laboring, was as odious to him as a prison. It actually was a sordid kind of prison, where one was in eternal contact with common-law prisoners. El Kordi would have accepted being in prison, but in a private cell, as a political prisoner. His rancor against such overcrowding derived from noble, aristocratic instincts of which he was not at all aware. He was embittered by the lack of privacy that became intolerable in the long run. How could he reflect at ease on problems of universal importance in front of these dusty, congealed figures devoted to unending slavery? To protest against this injustice, El Kordi abstained from practically all work, intending thereby to show his disapproval and his spiritual independence. But since no one noticed his protest, he grew bored.

It was not just laziness with El Kordi; his decision was due in large part to the futility of giving himself over to work that any child could do. To be here, cooped up in this funereal room, in the company of his shabby colleagues, when life demanded other things of him, made him feel like the victim of a cruel joke. What had he done to deserve such punishment? El Kordi believed himself destined for hopeless, but no less glorious, causes! Seeing himself reduced to this nothingness, to this stupid, vain, bureaucratic routine, he doubted his fate. Actually, he didn’t know what else he could do. When he was prey to despair, as he was now, he easily imagined the people’s misery and the frightful oppression of which he was a victim; he then enjoyed dreaming about a brutal and bloody revolution. But when he was once again in the street mingling with the crowd, the people’s misery became a myth, an abstraction, and it lost all of its explosive virulence. He felt especially attracted to the picturesque details of this poverty, to the grandeur of its inexhaustible humor, and he immediately forgot his savior’s mission. By some inexplicable mystery, he found such an intense faculty for joy among this miserable people and such a strong will to happiness and security that he had come to think that he was the only ill-fated man on earth. Where were the ravages of oppression? Where was the unhappiness? It was as if all the images that he had wrought on the subject of this misery receded into nothingness like phantoms engendered by sleep. El Kordi had to strain to find the pitiful element indispensable to his revolt. Just when he should have been sad and choked with tears, an immense laugh shook him.

All this wasn’t serious. El Kordi would have liked a people who measured up to him: sad and animated by vengeful passions. But where to find them?

His young blood boiling with impatience, he dreamed of being a man of action. This ridiculous job, which he did for starvation wages, wasn’t designed to quench his thirst for social justice. He was so disgusted by it that most of the time he farmed it out to his more unfortunate colleagues — married men and fathers of numerous children — for a moderate payment. Thus, at the end of each month a paradoxical spectacle took place: the colleagues who had done some work for El Kordi came to collect their meager fees in a line before his desk. At such moments, El Kordi assumed the irritated air of a boss paying his workers. All the same, with the little money left over, he managed to survive. He led a life of extreme poverty, but decent and, he thought, very dignified. Keeping up appearances was his constant worry. For example, when he was obliged to live on boiled beans, he would tell his grocer that he was sick of eating chicken and that a common dish would surely excite his jaded appetite. The grocer wasn’t fooled, but honor was saved.

From his chair, he distractedly contemplated his sorry colleagues and thought he saw the chains of slavery everywhere. These constraints imposed on his freedom several hours each day made him extremely sensitive to the sorrows of the oppressed masses of the universe. He stirred in his chair and sighed loudly. Some of the slaves, seriously occupied with their work, raised their heads and gave him a look full of incomprehension. El Kordi answered these sad looks with a kind of aggressive pout. He despised all of them. The revolution would not be carried out by this wretched breed. They’d been there several years — how many, no one could say — rooted to their chairs, covered with dust, with their mummified faces. A veritable museum of horrors. At the thought that one day he might be like them, El Kordi shivered and felt like leaving at once. But then he told himself that it wasn’t yet a decent hour to go, and so he stayed on quietly being bored.

To escape the depressing influence of his colleagues, El Kordi tried to take refuge in his amorous reveries. He hadn’t seen Naila since the night of the crime, that is, for three days, and he had begun to feel the baneful effect of enforced chastity. The brothel was still guarded by the police; to venture there was very risky. El Kordi thought of the young girl and pictured her sick and solitary; he imagined her at death’s door asking to see him, pronouncing his name with her last breath. For a long moment he delighted in this pathetic vision; then the desire to write Naila a letter suddenly seized him. He would tell her of his love, and, at the same time, of the people’s suffering. Unfortunately, it was impossible to execute his project: he couldn’t find his pen anywhere. He then recalled that his supervisor had taken it away from him awhile ago, under the false pretense that it was growing rusty from lack of use. At first, El Kordi felt anger overtake him at the memory of this outrage, but very quickly he felt profound relief; he now had an excuse not to write the letter; besides, Naila didn’t know how to read.

Flies were buzzing about the room and landing on his nose. El Kordi tried to catch several in order to submit them to a cruel fate, but they thwarted him. He was so dazed that he lacked the agility necessary for this kind of relaxation. At the end of his resources, he took hold of the newspaper on his desk and looked it over for the tenth time. Everywhere, headlines proclaimed that the whole world was arming itself with a view to a future war. In the newspaper, it all had the appearance of something distant, without direct repercussions on his daily life. It was proclaimed with such indecency that one couldn’t believe the reality of the thing. But at the moment, El Kordi was in such a state of despondency that he was attentive to the slightest danger: for the first time, the announcement of all this weaponry seemed to conceal a concrete and monstrous reality. They weren’t simply words printed in a newspaper. The accumulation of such war potential did not appear to be directed only against humanity but almost against his very security. It was as if they were aiming directly at him by the obscene display of all these marching armies. A terrible anguish overwhelmed him. So the massacre was premeditated: they were after his skin. And what was he doing all this time? Vulnerable and defenseless, he was tranquilly seated behind his desk. He had to do something, and the first thing was to buy a gun. In a universe where everyone was armed, it was insane to remain empty-handed, waiting for them to kill you. He had to return their fire, not remain passive. “I must talk to Gohar about this,” he said to himself. But the thought of Gohar armed with a machine gun made him smile. It was his first smile of the day.

His mind relaxed at this amusing idea, and El Kordi could no longer resist the call of the outdoors; he had played the judge in his chambers long enough. He rose from his chair.

“Ezzedine Effendi!”

This was his office supervisor, a nearly blind old man. His enormous glasses made him resemble a prehistoric animal. With his nose glued to the dossier on which he was working, he asked in a resigned tone, “What is it?”

“I’m going out for a while.”

“Don’t worry, my son. Believe me, we’ll surely miss you.”

These ironic words were not calculated to change El Kordi’s mind. He’d long been accustomed to these insolent remarks. He was well aware that his bureau chief considered his departure a blessing; his presence could only harm the smooth functioning of work. He set a bad example for his companions in misfortune.

“Peace be with you!”

“Don’t feel obliged to come back,” said Ezzedine Effendi. “Take your time.”

El Kordi shrugged and left the room without looking at his colleagues slumped in their chairs.

Deep down, the hope for a revolution was only a palliative for his boredom; once in the ministry gardens, safe from his tormentors, El Kordi thought no more about it. The spring sun and the warmth of the air gave birth to sensual ideas in him, and he stepped up his pace. To his desire to see Naila again and to sleep with her was added his curiosity to learn something more concerning this enigmatic, senseless crime. After all, he was involved in it; he couldn’t forget that. His interrogation by the police inspector had given him a taste for those risky conversations in which he seemed to be flirting with a danger far more entertaining than anything his wild imagination could possibly concoct. The inspector was entirely serious when he questioned him. El Kordi puffed up his chest at the memory of this encounter: for his first experience, he was sure he had carried off a crushing victory over the representatives of authority. He was ready to battle this ignorant officer once again. He feared no one. Let them arrest him if they dared!

He was filled with sudden amazement. It seemed he was thinking about the inspector without animosity or rancor, but rather with a slightly troubled joy, a sadistic pleasure. “Strange!” he said to himself. Until now his feelings for Nour El Dine were dictated by the same unvarying hatred that he felt for all those who personified power and injustice, whether immediately or remotely. Suddenly he had discovered an extraordinary fact: Nour El Dine wasn’t simply a vile policeman, he was also a man prey to desires and torments that were linked, despite his foul job, with the infinite distress wherein the mass of humanity struggled. He thus acquired a new face, and it was this face that El Kordi thought of with disturbing emotion. He tried to remember one peculiar incident during his interrogation that had struck him as going beyond the bounds of simple police routine. What was it? Oh yes, the inspector had begun to speak to him in English, a language that they alone understood. For what reason? There was something truly ambiguous in that conversation in a foreign language, as if Nour El Dine, abandoning his interrogation, had wanted to create a bond of dubious intimacy between them. El Kordi recalled his delighted air, the suave tone of his voice — a confidential tone in complete contrast to his manners up till then — when he had spoken of his relations with young Naila. For a moment, he’d had the impression that the inspector had stepped out of his role of obtuse functionary to become a human being eager to please and to seduce. To seduce him: that was it! By heavens, now he understood everything. Nour El Dine, the police inspector, the dignified symbol of authority, was only a common pederast.

While speculating on the humorous value of his discovery, El Kordi crossed the bourgeois ministry quarter, entered a maze of populous alleys, and, without realizing it, found himself in front of Set Amina’s house. Along the way he had paid no attention to the numerous social injustices that usually saddened his gaze with their monotonous repetition. The thought that the police inspector was a pederast gave him such great joy that he forgot all of his ill feelings toward the power of the rich. The fear he had experienced during these last days — without daring to admit it — was transformed into extravagant, childish optimism. Certainly no pederast was going to frighten him. He was now eager to meet Nour El Dine. As he knocked at the door of the brothel, a satisfied smile illuminated his face, which was usually deceptively reserved.

“El Kordi Effendi!” exclaimed Zayed. “By Allah! What are you doing here? The house is closed; we’re no longer working.”

“This is a simple courtesy call,” answered El Kordi. “Let me in.”

“We’re being watched closely. No one saw you?”

“No, no one saw me. Calm down, I made myself invisible.”

“All right, come in quickly. The police have their eye on us.”

El Kordi entered and watched as Zayed closed the door.

“How is it that you’re not already in prison?”

“Now, now, El Kordi,” said Zayed in an extremely frightened tone. “None of those jokes, I beg you. They might hear you.”

“Who?”

Without answering, Zayed looked at him reproachfully and disappeared down the hall with alarming speed, as if he had just been bitten by a serpent.

El Kordi remained standing in the waiting room, rather satisfied with his bad joke. It seemed like years since he had been there, although nothing in the room had changed: the table and the wicker chairs were still in the same place. Even Set Amina seemed not to have moved since that fateful night when the police had invaded her house. El Kordi glimpsed her in the shadows, still sitting on the couch, one hand resting on her pale cheek, offering the spectacle of deepest desolation.

He approached her.

“Greetings, woman!” he said, bowing. “Your worries are over; I am here to defend you.”

She had clearly seen him enter and chat with Zayed, but she was playing the part of one still too prostrate to take an interest in the deceptive bustle of this world.

“It’s you?” she said, looking at him as if he were a ghost. “You’re crazy to come here. They forbade me to receive clients. You want my death?”

“I’m not here as a client, woman! I’ve come to see my fiancée.”

“His fiancée! Listen to him, would you!”

“But I mean it, exactly, my fiancée! Perhaps you didn’t know, but in view of the circumstances, I’m informing you.”

Set Amina sighed and fell silent. She had been taught since childhood not to contradict madmen. This El Kordi had really lost his mind. As if she didn’t have enough troubles.

“When is the wedding?” she asked in a lugubrious voice.

“Very soon. I’ve come to tell her the good news.”

“That’s good. Sit down; first, I want to talk to you.”

El Kordi took a chair and sat near the couch facing the madam.

“What do you have to tell me?”

Set Amina seemed to come out of her lethargy and moved on her couch for the first time. At bottom, despite her fear of the police, El Kordi’s visit had filled her with joy; she had finally found someone worth talking to, someone who could appreciate the true merits of her wounded soul’s complaints. Her tragic situation predisposed her to confidences and she had no one to confide in. The girls were too stupid and too occupied with their insipid chatter to lend an attentive ear to her lamentations. She had tried to interest Zayed the servant in her sufferings, but he seemed so frightened of the police that he talked only about leaving. El Kordi had arrived just in time: another day or two and she would have died of suffocation.

“Well, my son! You’ve seen the misfortune that struck me! What did I do to God?”

“It’s nothing,” said El Kordi.

“What! You think it’s nothing. By Allah! Such a crime! And in my own house!”

“These things happen even in the best houses. Believe me, you’re worrying about nothing.”

“May God hear you, my son! I feel as old as the world.”

“You, old!” El Kordi laughed. “Come on! I’ll take care of you if you’d like me to.”

“Be quiet, you shameless child! I could be your mother.”

These vehement protests of an indignant woman were only show; El Kordi knew this and found it entertaining. He saw her squirming on the couch, aroused, he thought, by his lewd allusion. But the truth lay elsewhere; at the moment, Set Amina was far from being responsive to this kind of flirtation. One thing above all worried her: the conversation in a foreign language that had taken place that memorable night between El Kordi and the police inspector. She leaned forward, grabbed the young man’s arm, and pulled him toward her.

“Look in my eyes and tell me the truth.”

“What do you want to know?” asked El Kordi, a little disturbed by this behavior. Did the poor woman seriously believe he wanted to sleep with her?

“Tell me. What was he saying to you in English?”

“Who, woman?”

“The police inspector. You spoke in English. I didn’t understand, but I know it was English. I’m not stupid, I can recognize languages.”

“It was a conversation of a private nature,” said El Kordi. “It had nothing to do with the crime.”

“You’re sure? He didn’t talk about me?”

“Not one word. On my honor! Don’t worry!”

“He predicted the worst misfortunes for me. What have I done to that man? Why is he blaming it on me? Do I look like a killer?”

“It’s his business to frighten people. He tried to impress me too. But I assure you: it had no shred of importance.”

“I’d like to believe you.” She thought a minute, then with a curious smile said, “I thought that was it.”

“What do you mean?”

“It didn’t take me long to know what kind of man he was. May Allah preserve me! He’s a pederast.”

El Kordi fell back in his chair and broke out laughing.

“Really?”

“As if you didn’t know,”’ continued Set Amina. “And him making eyes at you! I saw it all. Next thing you know, he would have kissed you on the mouth.”

“I did suspect it a little,” El Kordi admitted.

So, nothing escaped the old procuress’s vigilance; she had figured out Nour El Dine from the first. El Kordi was ashamed of his lack of perspicacity. What a pitiful figure he must have cut during that scene of base seduction! The way he let himself be fooled was unpardonable. And he thought that he made fun of authority!

“Since you are so close to him, try to soften him up a bit. Ask him not to give me such trouble.”

“What are you saying, woman? I am not friendly with him. On the contrary, I am preparing several nasty surprises for him. What do you take me for? I am not the young seducer you imagine.”

“Don’t do that, my son! You want to ruin me! Look at this house, what sadness! And these girls who now spend their time sleeping. They’re learning terrible habits. How am I going to give them back a taste for work?”

“I’ll lend you a hand,” offered El Kordi. “Nothing would give me greater pleasure.”

He stood up.

“And now I must leave you. Peace be with you! Is Naila in her bedroom?”

“Yes, where else? I tell you, all they do is sleep. They don’t seem to have any idea of the fate that has befallen us. I’m the only one here who worries. Well, try not to be conspicuous when you leave; apparently there is a plainclothes policeman prowling around the house.”

“Don’t worry. I’ll be careful,” promised El Kordi.

Naila’s bedroom was like all the other bedrooms where the girls carried on their work of prostitution, but each time El Kordi crossed the threshold, he felt a vague uneasiness, a kind of superstitious fright. This painful sensation was due, in large part, to the medicinal odor that permeated the musty atmosphere of the room. He could never take his mind off the medicines that were hidden in the mirrored armoire so as not to frighten the customers. It was only through them that he was aware of his mistress’s disease; they were the only visible sign of a suffering whose inward depth went beyond his understanding. Never having been sick, El Kordi had the tendency to judge the suffering of others by the outward signs of their illness. Since the tuberculosis that gnawed away at Naila didn’t manifest itself by any visible wound, he felt only pity for her, tinged with skepticism. At bottom, this odor put him in an awkward position; it suddenly reminded him that he was in a sick person’s room. It was very disagreeable. He had come there animated by sensual desires, with the intention of making love and not of feeling pity.

Now, however, he felt a sudden pang, and he was overcome with immense tenderness at the sight of the young girl stretched out on the bed. She was lying with her eyes closed, breathing unevenly, her pale face imprinted with extraordinary sadness. In his confusion, El Kordi had trouble recognizing her; for a moment he forgot the demands of his sensuality and thought only of saving from an abject death this creature that blind destiny had thrown in his path.

He approached her bed.

“My darling!”

Naila opened her eyes and looked at him with astonishment.

“It’s you!”

“Yes, my darling. How are you?”

“What’s it to you? Since when have you been worried about my health?”

She’d already taken the offensive; as usual, she wanted to complain of her loneliness and prove to him that he couldn’t do anything for her.

“I couldn’t come earlier. You don’t understand: the house is surrounded by police.”

“So the police frighten you now. I thought you would go through flames for me.”

“That’s true, my darling! But it’s not just the police. The truth is, I was busy with a lot of things. I must get you out of here as fast as possible. I’ve decided you cannot continue this life.”

“You’ve decided! Well, let me tell you that it’s my life, and that I don’t want any other.”

“Please understand: I want to see you happy.”

“Hah! How do you plan to make me happy? With your lousy ministry pay you couldn’t make a starving cat happy.”

“I’m going to make a lot of money very soon,” said El Kordi with boyish enthusiasm. “I’m onto a colossal affair. Trust me.”

He didn’t believe a word he was saying, but that wasn’t the point. The point was to appease Naila’s anger with appropriate, inconsequential lies. Anyway, deep down she wanted nothing better than to believe him; no matter how she tried to resist, she always abandoned herself to the beautiful words her lover lavished on her. This whimsical love that she had inspired in El Kordi filled her with pride. He was so different from all the other men she had met in Set Amina’s house. And although he was as poor as a beggar, his social standing was far above hers. For one mustn’t forget that El Kordi was a civil servant and belonged to a superior social class. Beaten down by the wretchedness of her condition, Naila could only explain the young man’s strange passion by his strong physical desire for her. She had thought at first that the sickness with which she was tainted would alienate him, but contrary to her expectations, she was amazed to find him more ardent, more passionate than ever. The young man’s morbid attitude puzzled her. She didn’t know that El Kordi considered her the scapegoat of a social system that he abhorred, and that, sick or not, in his eyes she personified the image of a disinherited world.

He understood from her silence that her grand hysterical scene was over; he sat down on the bed, leaned over her, and began to caress her. She let him caress her hands, then her face, then her body. She seemed happy and relaxed; her eyes shone with a feverish luster. But this moment of abandon did not last long. She tore herself violently from her lover’s grasp and suddenly broke into sobs.

“What’s wrong, my darling?”

“It’s horrible! I can’t forget her. Poor Arnaba.”

“Calm down,” said El Kordi. “Don’t think about it anymore. You’re not going to bring her back by crying. We can’t do anything about it.”

“I wonder who could commit such an awful crime. And for nothing!”

“By Allah! I don’t know. But there’s no doubt it was an intelligent fellow.”

“What makes you say that? What’s so intelligent about killing a poor girl?”

“In any case, they’ll never catch him. Especially if they’re counting on that ignorant police inspector.”

“You saw him again? He questioned you again?”

“No, but I hope to see him again someday. I have a lot of things to teach him.”

“What things? Tell me?”

El Kordi smiled slyly.

“Things that have nothing to do with the crime,” he said. “It’s a personal affair between him and me.”

“I beg you, don’t get yourself in trouble. I know you.”

“I’m not a child,” El Kordi protested. “I’m not afraid of anyone. I can do what I want with that policeman.”

To tell the truth, this was just empty talk; Nour El Dine had ceased to be a fearsome enemy for him. Up to now, El Kordi had merely considered this motiveless murder as a personal matter, a kind of epic battle between him and the police. But a new character had now appeared in the drama, a character whom he had deliberately ruled out as a nonentity: the criminal. However, he did exist; Arnaba hadn’t strangled herself. El Kordi wondered if he knew him, because if he were a client of the whorehouse, he certainly would. He knew all the men who came to Set Amina’s. He diligently tried to remember each of them, but they were all so dull, so impalpable, that the idea of accusing them of a crime seemed highly ludicrous.

His reflections led him to envision a secret inquiry, though not for the purpose of catching the killer — El Kordi would never agree to turn him in. He simply wanted to learn the reasons for the man’s act. After all, since he hadn’t stolen anything, it might be a political crime. The motive: that’s what would be interesting to know.

He looked at his face in the wardrobe mirror, remembered the medicines locked in there, and turned his head away.

“Well! I’m going to undress. Make room for me in bed.”

“That’s all you think about,” said Naila.

There was bitterness in her voice.

“Off course it is, my love,” answered El Kordi. “What do you expect me to think about?”

“How can you love a sick girl like me? I’m so ugly now.”

“What does your physical beauty matter to me? You still don’t understand that it’s your soul I love.”

When it came to sleeping with a woman, El Kordi could say anything. Nothing could stop him. In this domain, even the wickedest of lies seemed indispensable to him.

Though hardly convinced by her lover’s profession of faith, Naila nonetheless kept silent. It was useless to question El Kordi’s extravagant words; she would never know the truth about his motives or the extent of his love. All the same, what a son of a bitch! To pretend that he loved her soul! That was a bit too much. She watched him taking off his clothes and putting them methodically on the chair. Was he undressing for her soul? Fool! Who would buy that! She almost burst out laughing, but contained herself. She went on staring at him with eyes transfixed by anxiety. She too was thinking about the killer. Her anxiety had begun the tragic moment she heard Set Amina’s cries and the girls’ terrified exclamations. In the solitude of her room, even before she had understood the meaning of the tumult, she had been filled with a dark foreboding. It was only later that she had established a connection between the crime and El Kordi’s presence in the house that very day. This simple coincidence, as well as the young man’s behavior during the questioning, had sufficed to create an unbearable doubt in her mind: What if he were the killer?

During the three days Naila hadn’t seen her lover she had vainly tried to get rid of this horrible suspicion. But El Kordi’s reticence and the mystery of his relationship to the investigating officer only strengthened her fears. She would have liked to question him, but didn’t dare.

El Kordi was now completely naked; even like this he retained his dignity, for he had forgotten to take off his tarboosh. All of a sudden he realized this, took it off, and placed it on the chair on top of his neatly arranged clothes. Then he lay down beside the young woman, took her in his arms, and held her protectively against his chest.

“Tell me it wasn’t you!”

“Me what, girl?”

“You who killed her.”

“What are you saying? You’re crazy!”

“All these days I’ve been thinking it might have been you. I was deathly afraid. So, it wasn’t you?”

“Of course it wasn’t me. What are you imagining? I didn’t kill anyone.”

Frowning, he reflected with Naila’s head resting on his shoulder. So she had suspected him of being the perpetrator of the crime. El Kordi was dismayed, but what most unsettled him was the diabolical idea that had begun to sprout in his brain. What if he let her think that he was the young prostitute’s murderer! What was he risking? It was an unexpected chance to clothe himself in romantic glory, to play the part of a shadowy hero.

He was so happy with his idea that he began to think of making love. Without moving he started to nibble at the young girl’s ear while murmuring joyous obscenities to her.

When he was ready to take her, Naila looked in his eyes and said, “Swear to me that it wasn’t you.”

“I swear to you. Now don’t worry. Let’s not talk about it anymore.”

But there was something like an invitation to doubt in the tone of his voice, an evident desire not to be believed. Naila was so clearly aware of this that the blood froze in her veins; for a long time she remained inert and rigid in his arms.

7

THE SORDIDNESS of the decor made him all the more sensitive to his feeling of having fallen low. This pastry shop was truly ignoble, but it had the advantage of being situated within the native quarter, in an area frequented only by stray dogs and the dregs of society. It was an ideal spot for the kind of meeting Nour El Dine was fond of; he’d chosen this one over several others to shelter his clandestine loves. Here, at least, he risked no indiscretion. True, his young friends didn’t share his point of view at all; they were scarcely happy to be invited to this unsavory hole that Nour El Dine persisted in calling a pastry shop, where they were served inedible cakes. Where was the pleasure? They wondered if Nour El Dine wanted to mortify them, and they strove to understand why. As a result, these rendezvous took on a sinister air, conducive to unhappy endings. Nour El Dine himself felt uneasy in these squalid surroundings. He deplored the circumstances that obliged him to hide as if he were a conspirator. But how else could he go about it? His police inspector’s uniform didn’t make things any easier; everywhere he went, he felt himself to be the target of all eyes. He would surely have been less noticeable walking around stark naked.

For greater safety, Nour El Dine had chosen a table at the rear of the shop. Seated across from him, young Samir maintained a stubborn, almost premeditated silence; since his arrival he hadn’t opened his mouth. On the table were two small plates each holding a vile-looking pastry. Neither man had yet touched his. It was always like this: they only ordered the pastry for the sake of appearances. They would have to be truly famished or at the end of their resources to resign themselves to ingesting that abomination.

“You’re not eating,” Nour El Dine finally said to break the silence.

That was the wrong thing to say. Young Samir quivered with disgust and glared at Nour El Dine with stinging contempt.

“You want me to eat that? Really, Inspector, what do you take me for?”

“Forgive me, my dear Samir. I said that without thinking. I beg you, don’t touch it.”

“I swear you’re doing it on purpose!”

“What?”

“Inviting me to such a disgusting place!”

“I’ve already explained it to you. I cannot permit myself to go places where I risk meeting acquaintances.”

“Why? Are you ashamed of me?”

“That’s not it, as you know very well. My dear Samir, please understand. It’s as painful for me as it is for you to stay here, but circumstances demand it.”

Samir broke into a sarcastic laugh.

“Circumstances! That’s what you call it — circumstances?”

“I beg you, calm down.”

Samir resumed his sullen expression and said nothing more. Nour El Dine’s basely conciliatory attitude filled him with disgust. He was an eighteen-year-old young man with fine, regular features not lacking a certain virile charm. He was bareheaded and wearing an open-collared shirt and a well-cut sports coat that denoted his bourgeois origins. He had none of the effeminate mannerisms that characterized most inverts; in fact, he wasn’t one at all. His relations with Nour El Dine had nothing to do with passion or lucre; they were based on a feeling of wild, irrevocable hatred. This hatred was not merely an antipathy for Nour El Dine’s person; what Samir especially hated in Nour El Dine were the principles of the conformist morality from which Samir had suffered so much in his family and of which the police inspector seemed to be the perfect incarnation. After his father, the procurator — that righteous murderer — Nour El Dine was the person he most hated. To have in his power such an active representative of this tribe of hypocrites, to see him unmasking himself and wallowing in the basest passion, gave Samir an almost sadistic pleasure. Thus, his meetings with Nour El Dine were only meant to allow him to deepen his hatred, to get to know its multiple ramifications.

Several months ago, unbeknownst to his family, he had quit the university, where he had been studying law, with the intention of studying life, not in books but in the daily practice of the streets.

Nour El Dine couldn’t understand why the young man agreed to see him. That was still a mystery to him. So far he hadn’t managed to sleep with him, or even to gain his confidence. The arguments he usually employed to pull off this kind of conquest had only succeeded in stimulating the young man’s scathing irony. Samir defended himself by making sarcastic remarks with remarkable intelligence and cunning. That was the difficulty with him: he was too intelligent. Sometimes Nour El Dine had the impression that Samir was openly making fun of him, and that he came to see him only with the intention of provoking him.

“I’m sorry,” Nour El dine said contritely. “I know this place isn’t worthy of you. But why don’t you want to come to my apartment? We could talk much more easily there.”

“Talk! What an obvious trap, Inspector. Do you take me for a child?”

“Really, my dear Samir, you insult me. What are you afraid of?”

“I’m not afraid of anything,” answered the young man, casting Nour El Dine a look filled with hatred. “But I will not come to your place.”

Nour El Dine grew pale under the shock of this hate-filled gaze. To be sure, he expected to contend with a certain aversion, even to suffer some wounds to his self-respect, but he never thought he would encounter such an exorbitant feeling as hatred in this distinguished young man. It was an obstacle he had not expected. Bewildered, he put his hand to his forehead like a man struck with a mortal pang. Nonetheless, he didn’t forget his critical situation. He continually kept glancing toward the door, fearing to see an acquaintance enter. This fear was stupid. None of his acquaintances would come to this sordid pastry shop. The two of them were quite alone, relegated to the borders of the world, escaping all gazes. Even the owner turned his back to them. He presided over the counter set up at the entrance to the shop, chasing away innumerable flies and vaunting the delights of his despicable merchandise to passersby. Most of his customers ate their pastry standing in the street; some of them took it away wrapped in a piece of newspaper. They were silent people, fallen into such decay that they seemed to be alive by a kind of miracle. Nour El Dine couldn’t quite believe in their reality. He closed his eyes, reopened them, contemplated the young man facing him, and sighed.

The pastries abandoned on the plates had attracted a swarm of flies. Samir tried vainly to chase them away; they whirled around, swooped down on his face, and nearly got into his eyes.

“These damned flies are going to kill me,” he said furiously. “Let’s get out of here.”

“I beg you. Stay just a moment.”

“What for?”

“Aren’t you happy to be in my company?”

Young Samir smiled ironically, driving the inspector to despair.

“Why, it’s a great honor and pleasure for me! However, there is something that breaks my heart.”

“What is that?”

“I would have liked for everyone to see us together so that I could brag.”

The sarcasm was so plain that Nour El Dine could find nothing to say. This aggressive spirit and these insolent ways filled him with terror, even though they were the source of his passion for the young man. He was accustomed to more submission on the part of his young friends, but then they were mostly cowardly beings without character. They only had their beauty; they were almost women. Samir was from another class. Never in the course of his numerous adventures with professional inverts had he met such a highly bred individual, such a proud spirit. It was the first time in his life that he felt a real attachment to someone. It was no longer a matter of a vulgar, sensual passion, fleeting and shameful, but of a meeting of two elite souls. This meeting had lifted him out of the horror of his work; it had made him glimpse spiritual joys that would have made his destiny bearable.

He was still astounded by Samir’s hateful look. This boy was too young to be able to hate so easily, or else it must have been for an exceptional reason. Nour El Dine was afraid to learn why. Could Samir be a revolutionary, one of these young men who dream only of crushing the government, and for whom the police represent all that is most hateful? That would explain his attitude. Nour El Dine contracted his jaw and held himself rigidly on his chair, as if the presence of an anarchist facing him suddenly reminded him of his judicial duties.

But this didn’t last long. Sweat soon appeared on his forehead, and his features expressed defeat and humiliation. He put out his hand to touch his companion’s arm, hesitated for a second, then let it drop to his side in a movement of extreme weariness.

Suddenly he realized he could no longer keep silent; he had to say something, to invent something, anything, to hold on to the young man.

“My dear Samir.”

“Yes.”

“I promise you that next time I’ll take you to a chic spot in the European quarter.”

“Really! The inspector is getting modern.”

“Only, my dear Samir, you’ll have to do me a favor.”

“What’s that?”

“Well, I would like to see you wearing a headdress. It’s not decent to go around bareheaded.”

“So that’s it! Let me tell you that I dress how I like. Besides, I don’t have a tarboosh.”

“Permit me to offer you one.”

Nour El Dine thought that by wearing a tarboosh, the young man would look more respectable. He imagined, wrongly, that Samir’s extreme youth carried with it the obvious signs of inversion.

“A tarboosh! Oh no! I want a car. Why don’t you offer me a car?”

“That’s beyond my means,” answered Nour El Dine.

“Calm down. That was a joke. What would I do with a car? Besides, to be perfectly honest, my esteemed father has one. I’ve never ridden in it. I would rather die.”

“Why is that?”

“I won’t tell you. You wouldn’t understand.”

Again a silence settled between them, broken only by the buzzing of the flies, now more perfidious than ever. Nour El Dine was no longer breathing; he was thinking quickly, gazing at the young man whose last words seemed to condemn him irrevocably. To accuse him like this of incomprehension was to cast him off into the depths, to let him know he was an obtuse being unworthy of confidence. It was the most severe kind of insult his self-respect could suffer. He couldn’t let it pass without reacting.

Looking once more toward the shop entrance — this was becoming a veritable mania — he breathed deeply, then said with a trembling voice, as if discussing the end of the world, “How can you say that I’m incapable of understanding? My dear Samir, your distrust of me breaks my heart. I would like to know everything that concerns you. If it were in my power, I would be happy to relieve your troubles. I hope that you aren’t suspicious of me.”

“You’re very kind, Inspector,” said the young man, smiling. “But I don’t have troubles.”

“Then what makes you so bitter? Forgive me, but from your words, I thought I discerned that your relationship with your father isn’t the best.”

“Don’t mention that man to me. I hate him!”

Nour El Dine expressed his consternation by a grotesque look. So he wasn’t wrong; what he had read in Samir’s eyes really was hatred.

“That’s just it! My dear Samir, you astound me. How can you hate your own father?”

“You really want to know? All right! It’s very simple: my father is a man like you.”

“What do you mean?” asked Nour El Dine, growing pale.

“Oh, no! It’s not what you think. My father is a lady’s man. Your resemblance to him stems from something deeper, even more hateful.”

“I confess I don’t understand.”

“I already told you that you wouldn’t understand. But it’s not at all important.”

It was the first time he’d talked about his father to anyone, and it seemed to him like a sign of destiny that he had done so precisely to this pederast police inspector worried about his reputation. Who else but Nour El Dine was qualified to receive this terrible secret about the hatred he bore not only for his father, but also for all the manifestations of the bourgeois ideal? Wasn’t his father the armed supporter, the vile mercenary who defended the caste of disguised assassins, more bloody than jackals in the desert? Samir had grown up almost alone among older brothers who had followed their honorable father on the road to ambition. Samir himself had only narrowly escaped the temptation of an easy, comfortable future. Hadn’t he wanted to be a famous lawyer? Even so, since his earliest years, he had felt like a stranger in that base and sordid milieu. His desire to become a well-known, respected man had been short-lived. He had awakened one day nauseated with it all.

For a long time he confined himself to disillusioned contempt. But contempt is only a negative position leading nowhere. The anguish he felt so strongly as to spoil his youth, surrounded as he was by glorious, self-infatuated corruption, bred an implacable hatred in him. Irresistibly, plans for murder sprouted in his mind. To mow down the lives of such beings seemed to him a duty, a mission of exceptional grandeur.

The moment had come for him to act. Yet he hesitated on the choice of his first victim. Who would go first?

“I think that one day I’ll kill him.”

“Who?”

“My father, of course! And do you know what amuses me the most? That you, perhaps, would be obliged to arrest me. Tell me, Inspector, in spite of all your love for me, would you do that?”

Nour El Dine lowered his head, as if struck in the heart.

“By Allah! You’re losing your mind,” he breathed.

The smoke clouding his brain became more opaque; it seemed he had been sliding down a bottomless well for an eternity. Somewhere outside a child shouted an obscenity, a hungry dog barked feebly, the bell of a streetcar passing in the vicinity began to ring like an alarm signal. All of these noises reached him as if through fog, like sounds from a strange and distant world. He raised his head with the movement of a drowning man, tugged on the collar of his tunic, then sat rigidly, his eyes fixed on the cracked shop wall where the vestiges of a naïve painting of a popular wedding were displayed. The bridegroom could be seen flanked by two friends carrying bouquets of flowers, preceded by uniformed musicians. An open carriage, crowded with guests, followed the procession. The colors had almost disappeared, but the lines of the drawing still kept their original freshness.

The young man had followed Nour El Dine’s gaze. He smiled.

“That’s the right way, isn’t it?” he said.

“What do you mean?”

“You should get married, Inspector.”

Stoically, Nour El Dine took this in. The only reply to this obvious, vulgar low blow was to break up with Samir, but he couldn’t make up his mind to do it. He had given himself entirely to this passion; no matter what happened thereafter, he would see it through.

To escape this derision! To flee this cursed place where everything conspired to defeat him! Resignation, more than hope, gave him the courage to ask, “Don’t you want to dine at my place tonight?”

“No,” answered Samir.

“Why? Don’t you want to see me anymore?”

“If you only want to see me, you can invite me to a restaurant.”

“But I want to be alone with you. Don’t you feel any friendship for me? Come on, my dear Samir, be a man!”

Samir seemed to hesitate for a moment, then he broke into a loud laugh; it was the first time he’d laughed openly.

The baker turned his large greasy face around and stared at them with his glairy eyes wide with amazement. Already two or three passersby had stopped in the entrance to the shop. A scandal! That’s what Nour El Dine feared the most.

“Calm down. I beg you, no scenes.”

“What impeccable logic, Inspector!” said Samir. “You mean to sleep with me and at the same time you want me to be a man! Let me tell you, your humor is without equal.”

“I haven’t made myself clear,” Nour El Dine protested. “That’s not really what I want. My dear Samir, I believe there is a misunderstanding between us.”

He stood up, straightened his tarboosh, and assumed a resolute air.

“Excuse me, but I must leave. My duties call me. I’ll see you another time. Peace be with you!”

With a frown on his face and a haughty step, he passed in front of the dazed baker and left the shop.

He hurried now, slipping through the maze of alleys, passing by innumerable shacks made of boards and empty gasoline tins. He had regained his martial, conquering air, but in this quarter of ill repute his police inspector’s uniform didn’t impress anyone. To fear the police you had to have something to lose, and no one here possessed anything. It was total, inhuman poverty everywhere, the only place in the world where an agent of authority had no chance of winning respect. Nour El Dine knew the mentality of the inhabitants of this area; he knew that nothing could terrify them or shake them from their strange somnolence. There was neither rancor nor hostility in them, simply silent contempt, an enormous disdain toward the power that he represented. They appeared not even to know that a government, a police force, and a progressive, mechanized civilization existed. The characteristic state of mind of these illiterate people wounded Nour El Dine in the deepest part of his being, showing him the futility of his efforts. He couldn’t help taking this stubbornness, this refusal to collaborate as a personal insult. With every step, he had the feeling that they were spitting in his face. Prey to a growing uneasiness, he perspired. His nervousness soon turned to panic and he stupidly began to run. But immediately he slowed down again, cursing himself and feeling like an imbecile. Anyway, these bastards weren’t going to scare him. He composed himself, resolved to walk with an easy stride, and fixed his eyes straight ahead with the air of a thinking man gliding above the fray.

This would-be superior attitude was almost fatal. Looking straight ahead, he stepped in a puddle of water, slipped, and nearly fell on the ground. Stunned, his movements ungainly, he took refuge near a shack and inspected his shoes and the mud-spattered hem of his pants. The feeling of shame, of irreparably having lost prestige, made him stand a moment without moving, not daring to lift his head. What a laughable spectacle he must have offered to these wretches! Fury gripped him and he swore in a low voice. Then, panting with rage, he straightened up, expecting to hear jokes and laughter fly. But no, no one laughed. Yet it was worse than if they had made fun of him. Samir’s humiliations, still present in his memory, were nothing in comparison to these gazes fixed on him in eternal dismay as though to tear away his supreme justification, to strip him of the only clothes that made him inviolable. He could, at least, defend himself against Samir’s hatred and sarcasm, but how could he respond to this monstrous indifference, more ferocious than the most implacable hatred? Nothing in their behavior expressed aversion or revolt. They seemed to look on him as a mangy dog or vermin. Why didn’t they throw rocks at him? Nour El Dine waited for a movement, but nothing happened. Still this immobility and this deadly indifference. It was only as he resumed his walk that something astounding took place. Standing in the middle of the alley, a little six-year-old girl with features blurred by dirt, raised the hem of her dress and showed him her sex in a gesture of moving simplicity. Nour El Dine blushed and, for a moment, seemed to totter on his feet, then he turned his head away and escaped as quickly as possible.

He wondered about the meaning of this hallucinatory scene. The young girl’s gesture seemed to belong to a savage, incomprehensible universe. It was a fantastic act that went beyond intelligence, coming straight from the accumulation of rubble and age-old decay. “Cursed breed! Am I condemned to spend my whole life among these pariahs?” As he thought about the role he played in this grotesque drama, a wave of bitterness rose in his throat. What an inept role! What was the government thinking, entrusting him with such a thankless task? What justice could dawn in this trash heap, this field of death and desolation! To look for a criminal — even a first offender — in this gray and sticky mass was an absurdity. He would have had to imprison all of them. Nour El Dine didn’t fool himself; he knew that they were stronger. For years he had learned this from sad experience. Their inalienable misery, their refusal to participate in the destiny of the civilized world, concealed such strength that no earthly power could exhaust it.

He remembered that he was now hurrying to track down a criminal, and he began to laugh. He had a baleful foreboding that this investigation of a young prostitute’s murder would be filled with mishaps. He had muddled it to the extreme by his tendency to imagine wild mysteries behind a simple crime. His desire to unravel an important affair, to do battle with a worthy opponent, prevented him from seeing ordinary reality. Head lowered, he was charging along, as if capturing this imaginary killer, this assassin belonging to a superior race, could give meaning to his life.

He breathed a sigh of relief; he was finally out of that hell. It still wasn’t completely civilization, but, anyway, it was more bearable. He was in a street, a real street with cars and streetcars and people who looked alive. They filled café terraces, sprawled in conceited poses, looking jovial, talking and arguing with fine optimism. They seemed to suspect nothing, as if life were a pleasant thing. Again, Nour El Dine felt bitterness rising in him. Why was he alone doomed to horror? The sight of these people enjoying the leisure of a perpetual holiday made him furiously envious. He begrudged them their indifference, their capacity to disregard the principles of a world whose foundation was sadness and contrition. By what magic had they escaped the common distress?

The answer to this question was childishly simple: these people didn’t give a damn because they had nothing to lose. But Nour El Dine refused to accept this elementary truth. That would be proof of his own anarchism.

He saw a plainclothes policeman seated at a table on a café terrace and went straight to him.

The man stood up.

“Greetings, Excellency!”

He was a man of around forty, wearing a long, worn-out black coat and boots with yellow buttons; his skinny neck was wrapped in a large chestnut shawl whose ends flapped at his sides like a crow’s wings. He was one-eyed, but his one eye was worth several, it sparkled with such murderous malice.

“Well? Have you found him?” asked Nour El Dine.

“I must say it was a tough job. Still, I finally found him. That son of a whore changes residence almost every two hours. He doesn’t have an easy conscience, evidently.”

Nour El Dine grew impatient.

“Where is he now?”

“Number 17 on this street.”

“A hotel? What’s the name?”

“I don’t know; there’s no sign. He’s staying on the second floor, the room facing the stairs.”

“Very well, you may go. I don’t need you anymore.”

“As you wish, sir!”

Nour El Dine left the one-eyed policeman, crossed the street, and slowly followed the sidewalk bordered by decaying odd-numbered buildings. After a few minutes’ walk, he finally stopped before number 17; for a moment, he inspected the dilapidated façade, looked right and left as if he feared being seen going into such a shabby hotel, then crossed the threshold and entered a fetid, somber hallway. No clerk came to meet him; the place seemed long abandoned. Guided more by his instinct than by his visual organs, Nour El Dine came to a stone staircase with worn steps and climbed to the second floor. When he reached it, he glimpsed what looked like a door in the darkness and began to bang on it with his fist.

No one answered his frantic knocking. Nour El Dine strained to listen: nothing moved inside. Without waiting any longer, he turned the doorknob, opened the door, and entered a room whose size and furnishings he couldn’t make out for lack of light. It was still the same darkness, barely attenuated by the feeble daylight seeping through the slats of the closed shutters. Nour El Dine’s first impression was that the room was empty. Little by little his eyes became accustomed to the shadows and he perceived a bed, and in this bed a human form lying under the covers.

“Hey, you! Wake up!”

The form lying under the covers remained inert as a corpse. Nour El Dine grew annoyed and began to think that the man might be dead. He approached the bed and with unspeakable disgust raised the blankets. This operation revealed the naked body of a man, whose skeletal thinness would have terrified the hardest of hearts.

“May Allah preserve us!” murmured Nour El Dine.

The cold he felt at being thus uncovered had more effect on the sleeper than an earthquake, because he woke up, blinked his eyes, yawned, and finally asked, “What’s this?”

“Police!” Nour El Dine yelled, as if he wanted to break all resistance in the sleeper’s mind with this single word.

But the word “police” clearly held no terrors for the bed’s occupant, for he replied with perfect calm, making as if to go back to sleep, “You can search everywhere; there isn’t a speck of hashish in this room.”

“It’s not that,” said Nour El Dine. “Come on, get up, I want to talk to you.”

“Talk to me!” exclaimed Yeghen, now completely awake. “By Allah! Inspector, how have I deserved this honor? How can I be of use to you?”

“I’ve come to talk to you about a murder.”

“A murder, Excellency! What a black day!”

“You can say that again. It’s a black day for you.”

Yeghen threw back the blankets completely and sat up on his bed, his legs folded under him; with his rickety torso, bony face, and wild eyes, he resembled a Hindu fakir shrunk by fasting and mortification.

“A murder!” he repeated. “What does a murder have to do with me?”

“I’m going to tell you. But first, answer me — do you know that one of the girls at Set Amina’s house was strangled a few days ago?”

“I heard that,” said Yeghen.

“It seems that you are a habitué of the house.”

“That’s true.”

“Then you knew young Arnaba?”

“Very well. She was the most beautiful of the lot.”

“So! Since we agree on all that, can you tell me where you were at the hour of the crime?”

Yeghen didn’t even bother to think, or to ask what the hour of the crime was; he was sure not to be wrong. He answered smoothly, “I was sleeping, Excellency!”

“Where were you sleeping?”

“I don’t know. I sleep everywhere.”

“So, you son of a bitch, you don’t know anything about this affair?”

“No, on my honor! I don’t know anything. I could perhaps give you some information about certain drug dealers. But a crime! Really, that’s beyond my power.”

“Let me tell you that you are a prime suspect.”

“Me! But I was sleeping, Excellency. How can an intelligent officer like you make a mistake like that?”

“Stop the monkey business!” Nour El Dine scolded. “I know how to make you talk!”

He realized he had just uttered an absurdity, one of those commonplaces he often used in the course of an interrogation and which meant absolutely nothing, despite the threat they implied. The truth was that he felt sick with disgust and almost moribund. In this state he would never make anyone talk, at least as long as he continued to breathe the polluted air of this room. He glanced toward the window with closed shutters, ardently desiring to open them but trembling at the thought of letting in daylight. Darkness suited him; it prevented Yeghen from noticing his agitation. From the street rose the deafening noise of cars, the curses of nearly demented carters, and the interminable clanging of streetcars trying desperately to open a path through the eddying apathetic crowd. These stale sounds of life nearby revived his will. Looking for some furniture to lean against, he took a few steps and ended by sitting on the edge of a table. This visit was going to be a total failure if he didn’t change his tactics. The difficulty of an interrogation with Yeghen lay in the fact that the fellow was gifted with a subversive intelligence that made fun of everything. He was an old offender and an inveterate hashish smoker; he was in contact with all of the dealers and ne’er-do-wells in the native quarter. Still, Nour El Dine didn’t believe he was guilty. What he was after here was simply a trail, a clue that could lead him to the real killer. He knew that the man before him was exempt from all violent passions, taking nothing seriously, except drugs, and thus could be suspected only of cowardice; he was incapable of committing a crime. Because for Nour El Dine, to be unaware of the vicissitudes and abominations of existence was a sure sign of cowardice. Could he permit himself not to take life seriously? Where would the world be if misfortune no longer mattered?

Once more he was overcome with bitterness, and he gave Yeghen a haunted look. He couldn’t help finding something laughable and distasteful in this whole situation. This naked, emaciated man seated on his bed undergoing police questioning seemed like an absurd, unnatural thing. Mockery was everywhere. It was the last straw when Yeghen began to laugh.

“There’s nothing here to laugh about,” said Nour El Dine. “You’re involved in dirty business.”

“Excuse me, Excellency! But the world is becoming more and more amusing. Don’t you think so?”

“What makes you so optimistic?”

“The bomb,” said Yeghen.

“What bomb?”

“You haven’t heard about the bomb? Really, Inspector, you astound me! Even children know this. It seems they’ve invented a bomb capable of destroying an entire city with one blast. You don’t think that’s funny? What would amuse you then?”

For a moment Nour El Dine was dumb with stupor, trying to understand. This interrogation had become pure folly.

“I don’t give a damn about that cursed bomb! It doesn’t change your situation one bit.”

“But it does, Excellency. Think for a minute. What could I fear, faced with the threat of the bomb?”

The air was growing stifling. The street noises suddenly stopped without reason, as if life had drained away forever. Nour El Dine was fascinated by Yeghen’s ugliness; he couldn’t tear himself away from the sight of this pitiful nudity that made him want to vomit. He was grimacing like someone with stomach cramps.

“Are you perhaps unwell?” asked Yeghen. “I’m sorry for what I said. You know, that bomb business was a joke. There’s nothing to worry about. Anyway, they’d never drop it around here. It would cost too much. Believe me.”

“Shut up, you miserable clown! Come on, get dressed, we’re leaving.”

“At this hour?” implored Yeghen. “Have pity on me, Excellency. What have I done to you?”

“You’re going to get dressed, you son of a bitch!”

“Very well. At your service, sir! Only just don’t push me around.”

Yeghen jumped to the foot of the bed and found his clothes thrown pell-mell on a chair. He dressed quickly, then opened the bedroom door.

“After you, sir!” he said, bowing very low.

Nour El Dine left the room followed by Yeghen. Down in the street, they looked at each other for a moment as if to recognize each other. Yeghen was jovial.

“I invite you to have a coffee, Excellency!”

Nour El Dine grabbed Yeghen by the arm and pulled him along rapidly, muttering between his teeth, “It’s poison I’m going to offer you, not coffee.”

8

LIT BY the flickering candle flame, Gohar’s face reflected ecstasy. Seated on the only chair in his room, his hands on his knees, he leaned his head against the door that separated him from his neighbor’s flat. What he was hearing was beyond anything he had ever hoped for. Amazement held him fast, his mind strangely receptive, conscious of being the only witness to an extraordinary event. This ecstatic state had already lasted for a while. His eyes closed, Gohar savored with inexpressible contentment the diverse phases of a domestic quarrel. Each of the words pronounced on the other side of the wall struck him like a sparkling truth, illuminating the shadows of his consciousness.

For several days, the flat of his dead neighbor had been occupied by new tenants. It was a couple made up of a man with no arms or legs, a beggar by trade, and his wife, a big, athletic-looking gossip, as imposing as a ten-story building. Each morning she would deposit her husband on a sidewalk in the European quarter, then return at nightfall to bring him back home. Gohar had met them once on the stairway. The woman was carrying the man on her shoulder as she might have carried a water jar. She had answered Gohar’s greeting in a loud, sepulchral voice, capable of freezing the blood in the veins of an especially brave man. She had a harsh look and the arrogance of a woman equipped with a man.

Gohar couldn’t believe his ears; the more he listened, the more trouble he had imagining the scene unfolding in the next room. The woman was creating a classic scene of jealousy with the limbless man. Gohar heard the man defend himself energetically. He denied the woman’s accusations, then abused her in turn, accusing her of debauchery, sorcery, and eating cadavers. Finally he began to moan and to demand his food. But the woman remained deaf to his famished cries and continued to assail him with insults and reproaches.

Gohar’s amazement was all the deeper since he had thought for a long time that nothing could surprise him. To be jealous of a basket case! Really, the possessive frenzy of women knew no limits. Gohar was grateful to women because of the enormous sum of stupidity that they brought to human relations. They were capable of making a jealous scene with a donkey, for no better reason than to make themselves interesting.

He was beginning to feel a lively interest in his new neighbors. Despite its sordid and pitiful side, this family spat opened incomparable perspectives on humanity to him. What a godsend! He rubbed his hands, blessing the miraculous accident that made him witness to the somber mystery of a couple without having to leave his room. He wouldn’t have traded his place for all the pleasures of creation.

The fraud was so obvious, so universal, that anyone, even a moron, could have detected it without effort. Gohar was still indignant at his own blindness. It had taken him many years, the monotony of an entire life devoted to study, before he judged the true worth of his teaching: a monumental swindle. For more than twenty years he had taught wicked nonsense, subjecting young minds to the yoke of an erroneous, woolly philosophy. How could he have taken himself seriously? Had he not understood what he read? Hadn’t his lectures ever struck him as being full of impudent hypocrisy? What an inconceivable failing. Yet everything should have put him on guard. The least history text, ancient or modern, that he had explicated for his students’ comprehension, overflowed with a million lies. History! Granted, you could misrepresent history. But geography! How could you lie about geography? Well, they had managed to pervert the harmony of the globe by tracing on it borders so fantastic and arbitrary that they changed from one year to another. What especially astounded Gohar was that he had never used his introductory remarks to alert his students to these changes. As if they were a matter of course; as if an official lie were of necessity true.

Such an accumulation of lies could only give birth to complete confusion. And the result was anguish in proportion to the world. Gohar now knew that this anguish was not metaphysical. He knew that it was not an inevitability of the human condition but that it was provoked by a deliberate will, the will of certain powers that had always fought against lucidity and simple reason. These powers considered straightforward ideas their deadliest enemies because they — the powers — could prosper only in obscurantism and chaos! They struggled with all their might to present facts under the most contradictory appearances, those most likely to support the notion of an absurd universe, with the sole aim of perpetuating their domination. Gohar rebelled with all of his soul against the concept of an absurd universe. Indeed, it was under the cloak of this so-called absurdity of the world that all crimes were perpetrated. The universe was not absurd; it was simply ruled by the most abominable gang of scoundrels that had ever soiled the surface of the planet. Actually, this world was cruelly simple, but the great thinkers to whom had fallen the task of explaining it to the uninitiated could not bring themselves to accept this for fear of being scorned as simpleminded. Besides, one ran too great a risk trying to explain things in a simple, objective manner. Unfortunate precedents showed that men had been sentenced to torture for having suggested an honest, rational explanation of certain phenomena. These precedents had served their purpose; they had had a salutary effect on later generations. No one had the courage to express clear, precise ideas anymore. Abstruse thought had become the only safeguard against tyranny.

It was not his thirst for martyrdom that had driven Gohar to renounce the errors of his long past. He had not left the university where he taught and his bourgeois apartment in the European quarter with any intention of propagating a new doctrine. He saw himself as neither a reformer nor a prophet. He had simply fled from the anguish that oppressed him more and more each day. This anguish had washed over entire continents. Where would it stop? Here it was now, battering with its devastating waves the banks of this islet of peace where Gohar had found refuge. He wondered how long the native quarter would resist this poisoned wind. For years, no doubt, perhaps for a whole century. To be illiterate! What an opportunity to survive in a world doomed to massacre! Gohar had arrived at this fundamental conclusion: bloodthirsty power had no hold on individuals who didn’t read the newspapers. Anguish could not reach these people. Miraculously, the native quarter was the only inviolate place in the country where a healthy life animated by simple reason flourished. Everywhere else the most unbelievable madness reigned. However, all danger of contagion had not been expelled: there was the radio. The invention of the radio seemed to Gohar the worst manifestation of the devil. The ravages of this little box that could be seen everywhere seemed to him more destructive than all of the explosives combined.

It was a long time before he realized that silence now reigned in the next flat. He was disappointed, irritated almost. He listened, straining for the slightest sound, anxious to know how the quarrel had ended. He had gained one thing at any rate: what was taking place in the next room was far more instructive than all he had taught for years. That jealous scene proclaimed an undeniable truth: the primacy of the male. Despite his mutilations, the man with no limbs had managed to inspire passion, to give birth to carnal desire by nothing but his masculine presence. Nothing but his sex organ! But the hope of the entire world was contained in that sex organ.

The candle flame was about to die, then it flickered back to life and lit the bareness of the room with new light. Gohar blinked, looked around as if he had just awakened, and once again admired the poverty of his place. No trace of the great shipwreck remained. Only the old newspapers that served as his mattress had suffered from the incident; they were now just a heap of dirty, wet paper. He had not thought yet of replacing them with others. He promised himself that next time he would remember to ask for some from El Kordi, his only acquaintance who bought the paper.

It seemed strange to worry about the arrangement of his bed, as if nothing had changed, as if there had not been the young prostitute’s murder. Did that change anything, fundamentally? After all, it had only been an accident. He wondered what would have become of him, and what his behavior would have been, if he had committed this crime in the distant past when he was stuck in honors and respectability! Most certainly he would have considered himself a monster and would have let himself be consumed with remorse, while at present, nothing had any importance. Even a crime left him indifferent. Wasn’t this appreciable progress, a sign that he was on the right track? This murder had cut the last bonds that still attached him to his past lies. Happy deliverance! He was no longer a slave to ridiculous pangs of conscience. His newly acquired certainty that all tragedy was laughable prevented him from condemning his act. Quite simply, he declined to dramatize things.

In the next flat, the man again began to complain; he demanded his food in a more and more tearful tone. But the woman’s voice was no longer to be heard. What was she doing? Gohar imagined her busy eating in the face of her husband reduced to powerlessness.

He gave a start: someone had just knocked at his door.

“Who’s there?”

“It’s me, Master.”

It was Yeghen’s voice. Even through the door, he felt his gaiety.

“Enter, my son. Welcome!”

Yeghen half opened the door, stuck his head through first, then his whole body, turning around in a skillful ballet movement. Advancing toward Gohar, he bowed to the ground, straightened up, bowed again two or three times, then stood still, as if waiting for an order. There was something besides mere clowning around in his greeting. One felt that Yeghen actually put respect and seriousness into it, but Gohar did not notice this nuance. Yeghen’s buffoonery always amused him; he was used to it.

Receiving no orders, Yeghen finally spoke, “I hope I’m not disturbing you, Master!”

“Not at all. It’s a real pleasure. Here, sit down.”

Gohar moved to stand and give up his chair, but Yeghen ardently protested against this gesture of courtesy. One might have thought he was afraid of disturbing an idol.

“Not on your life. I am your humble servant. I’m going to sit on the floor.”

Watching Gohar, he stepped back to the wall, then sat on the floor with his legs drawn up under him. His manners were excessively bizarre, as if motivated by a kind of complicity even unto death. It seemed that Gohar had suddenly become a fabulous personage owed other considerations than those of simple friendship.

“You must be wondering what brings me here, Master!”

“I hope that it’s only the pleasure of seeing me,” said Gohar.

“Certainly. But there’s something else.”

“May Allah protect us! What is it?”

Yeghen suddenly lost his serious look and laughed.

“Well, the powers of hell are on my trail, Master! I received a visit this afternoon from a police inspector. I wonder how he knew my address; I had just moved into the hotel. I swear it’s magic.”

“I assume he didn’t find anything, since you are here,” said Gohar.

“He wasn’t after drugs. That was my first thought as well. But no, he soon told me he was looking for a killer. He suspects me of having murdered young Arnaba! To tell you the truth, I’m relieved that he spoke to me first.”

Gohar showed no sign of agitation. He did not even need to pretend. Let the police do their job; it was in the rules. It did not concern him at all.

“Why do they especially suspect you, my son?”

“You know how it goes. They must have assumed the killer was a client of the brothel. And since they already know me, they came directly to me. You also know that my reputation with them isn’t too good. They thought they were on the right track. Unfortunately for them, they have no evidence against me.”

“What did you tell the police inspector?”

This question delighted Yeghen; he seemed to have been expecting it.

“Oh! He tried to impress me, but I made fun of him.”

“You made fun of him!”

“Exactly, Master! He threatened me with the worst punishments, but I knew it was all for show. They can’t do anything to me. So to repay his kindness, I told him about the bomb.”

“What bomb, my son?”

“The bomb, Master. You know, the one that can destroy a whole city with one blast.”

Gohar had let Yeghen tell the whole story of his meeting with the police inspector without flinching, as if it were a picturesque anecdote. But now he no longer understood. Was his companion under the influence of drugs? He had not grasped the connection between the inspector’s threats and Yeghen’s answer. Had Yeghen perhaps taken up arms trafficking? It was not impossible.

“Explain that to me, my son! What’s the bomb got to do with it?”

“It’s very simple, Master! I tried to make him understand that compared with the gigantic menace of the bomb, his own threats were laughable. But that’s not all. He took this story so much to heart that he grew pale. Fear made him sick. He was truly comic to look at. Finally I felt sorry for him. I reassured him, saying that a bomb cost so much that they wouldn’t waste their time dropping it here, on a heap of crumbling hovels.”

Gohar shook his head at so much naïveté.

“You’re mistaken, my son. Believe me, they would even drop it on their own mothers. That gang of bastards doesn’t respect anything.”

“You believe that, Master?”

“It’s the only thing I do believe.”

“But then, they’re crazy!”

“Oh no! Don’t allow them extenuating circumstances. They’re not crazy. On the contrary, they’re very lucid. That’s what makes them so dangerous.”

For a moment Yeghen seemed sad, as if someone had just destroyed his last illusion. How could he have been so naïve as to think that these miserable surroundings were safe from the bomb? Gohar was never mistaken in his judgments about humanity. Those bastards who had made the bomb would stop at nothing. It was clear as could be.

“Tell me, Master. Is there any chance of this filthy bomb going off in their hands?”

“No, I don’t think so. They’re too careful and clever to let that happen.”

“Too bad,” said Yeghen, disappointed. “I’d love to have it explode in their hands while they’re manipulating it. That would be the biggest joke of the century. I’d love to laugh a little, Master.”

“Don’t you laugh enough already? If you ask me, this century’s pranks outdo all the others.”

“You’re right. I shouldn’t complain.”

Yeghen was quiet. This digression on the bomb and its devastating effects had not made him forget another danger, even more serious than the bomb because if its imminence. He continued staring at Gohar, as if he were afraid to see him disappear. Seated in his chair, his face lit by the candle flame, dominating the empty room like an impassive divinity, Gohar seemed immune to all surprises. But Yeghen was very aware of the precariousness of this situation. He might lose this man and he felt his heart melt with tenderness at the idea. His friendship for Gohar was the only justification for his life. He would have to do everything he could to save him and what he represented.

Suddenly there was a long moan on the other side of the wall. Again the limbless man was begging for food. He seemed utterly exhausted; his groans were like those of a newborn babe.

“What’s that?” asked Yeghen.

“My new neighbors,” said Gohar. “The man has no arms or legs; as for the woman, she’s an implacable harpy. Every day she carries him on her shoulder and deposits him on some corner in the European quarter where he devotes himself to begging. She retrieves him in the evening. He’s completely at her mercy. Without her he can’t do anything.”

“That’s him groaning like that?”

“Yes, he’s demanding his food.”

“Why won’t she give him anything to eat?”

“My dear Yeghen, if I told you, you wouldn’t believe me. She just threw a jealous fit. Now she’s sulking.”

“It’s not possible! A jealous scene with a limbless man! Why? Did he cheat on her?”

“Everything is possible, my son. As for how he cheated on her, I don’t know,” Gohar admitted. “But you can expect anything from women. Even a man with no limbs excites them, as long as he’s capable of making love.”

“I still can’t believe it. In any case, she’s taking a cruel revenge. Starving a cripple! Tell me, can’t we do something for him? You can’t leave him like that, Master! I’d like to break that woman’s jaw.”

“May Allah preserve you from that, my son. You don’t know this woman. A real battle-ax. She is ten times stronger than you. She’d make short work of you.”

This description of the man’s companion quieted Yeghen’s inclination to heroism.

For a moment they remained silent, listening to the limbless man who was still begging and groaning. Finally this pathetic complaint had a strange effect on Yeghen: he himself felt like he was starving.

“Really, Master, don’t you think we can do anything for him?”

“No, that would only make things worse. Besides, she’ll give him food in the end. You must realize that a man like him is a gold mine for her; she would never let him die of hunger.”

“But he’s suffering.”

“That’s true. But deep down, I think this scene pleases him. In his state, he no doubt feels supreme pride. My dear Yeghen, how would you feel if you made a woman this jealous?”

“I must admit I’ve never made a woman jealous, Master. And what’s more, I’ve got all my limbs. Perhaps that is a mistake.”

“You see, soon you’ll be envying the poor fellow.”

Gohar’s tranquil assurance and the naturally cynical tone of his words plunged Yeghen into admiring astonishment. Indifferent to his own fate and the danger in store for him, Gohar was taking an interest in the conjugal quarrels of his strange neighbors. He was cheerfully accepting the consequences of his own bloody adventure. Yeghen had been waiting for Gohar to confess his crime since he had come into the room, but nothing had happened. Why? Did he not think of Yeghen as someone to whom he could tell all? Yeghen found Gohar’s mistrust of him baffling. But what if he were mistaken? What if Gohar were not the killer? The suspicion that he was had come to Yeghen that afternoon as he was walking through the streets with the police inspector. Busy looking around and greeting friends, he was only half listening to the inspector’s threats when he remembered a fact of capital importance: Gohar had offered his condolences for his mother’s death. Now Yeghen remembered having mentioned her fictitious death only to Arnaba, the young prostitute, and she had been killed immediately after. Therefore, Gohar had been the last person to have seen her alive.

Yet it was absurd to think of Gohar as a murderer. Yeghen still hesitated. However, there was no time to lose. He had been long acquainted with police methods. Gohar would never be able to defend himself if he underwent a rough interrogation. Besides, would he even want to defend himself?

“Actually, Master, I came to tell you to be careful.”

“Careful of what, my son?”

“You run a big risk by staying here,” said Yeghen.

“It’s useless to panic. The danger may not be as great as you think.”

Not for a second did he consider denying it. He did not even wonder how Yeghen had discovered he was the murderer.

“So you know,” he said after a moment.

“Master, I don’t understand. How did it happen?”

“I don’t know myself,” said Gohar. “I don’t know how to explain it to you. It always seems that someone else is acting in my place. But don’t think that I want to exonerate myself. Nothing can ever excuse violence. All I remember is that I needed drugs and that I went there looking for you. The girl Arnaba was alone. She asked me to write a letter for her and invited me into her room. For a long time, I was thinking only about the drugs and how to find you. Then, suddenly, I saw the girl’s bracelets and that unleashed the idea of murder in me. I had to take those bracelets.”

“But those bracelets were worthless,” said Yeghen.

“I knew that, my son. But at that moment they had acquired a great value in my eyes. And it is that moment that will count.”

“I’m the guilty one,” said Yeghen. “Forgive me, Master. I should have been there when you needed me. In any case, the point is not to explain an act. The point is to flee. That’s what you must do as fast as possible.”

“Why flee?”

“They mustn’t catch you. The inspector who came to see me is a demon. I know him, he won’t stop until he gets his hands on you. I want to help you, Master! Take my advice, I beg you. It’s still not too late.”

“My dear Yeghen, I appreciate your solicitude, but I don’t want to see you mixed up in this business at any cost. I will manage by myself.”

“You could never defend yourself against those men. Leave for Syria. The time is right.”

“How would I go?”

“I’ll find the money for the trip. Count on me.”

“Now you’re going to kill someone. This will never end.”

Yeghen stood up, looked at Gohar for a very long time, then went up to him, bent down, took his hand, and brought it to his lips.

“You’re the only person whom I love and respect in the world,” he said. “You can take my life.”

Gohar was moved; he smiled sadly.

“Let’s not get serious, my son. That would crown our misfortune. Besides, as you yourself said, there is the bomb. It will fix everything.”

In the next room, it was the woman who was now groaning; her cries sounded like those of a beast being slaughtered. But Gohar did not misinterpret them.

“You hear,” he said, “everything ends happily. They’re making love now.”

“You’re sure, Master? Ah, I would love to see that. That must be an incredible spectacle!”

“I didn’t know you were a voyeur,” said Gohar.

“In such a case, Master, everyone is a voyeur.”

They fell silent and remained motionless, astounded, listening to the succession of cries of pleasure in the next room.

After a while, a metal object tinkled; it was the basin in which the wife of the limbless man was washing herself after lovemaking.

9

STREETCAR number 13 jerked along toward the European quarter. The driver was losing his voice from cursing the lazy pedestrians who seemed to take the rails for a peaceful country road. The unfortunate ticket-taker was nowhere to be seen, lost in the crush of passengers. He could only be heard shouting loudly for them to make room for him. That was all he could hope for. At each stop, regulations required him to get off to check on the cars, and he was always nearly left behind. As for making the passengers pay, that was out of the question.

El Kordi bitterly regretted letting himself be tempted by this barbarous mode of locomotion. He would have liked to escape from this uncomfortable streetcar that was progressing so ludicrously. But now it was too late: all the exits were blocked by clusters of people hanging on to the doors. El Kordi forced himself to be patient; there was nothing to do but wait. His tarboosh had suffered rough treatment in the jostling to get on, and now it hung grotesquely on his head, without his being able to move to straighten it. He found himself wedged between a sleepy civil servant with glasses and a large woman in a faded melaya, who smelled of onions and whose leg systematically rubbed against his. Despite its dubious nature, this touch began to excite El Kordi, making him forget his uncomfortable position somewhat. With an effort, he twisted his neck to see how old the woman was before becoming more excited, but what he glimpsed made him shiver, and he shriveled into his corner, completely put off. The fat thing was more than sixty years old, and she was smiling at him lewdly, revealing her toothless mouth. For a moment she continued her sordid behavior, but El Kordi remained unmoved.

It was after six in the evening and the throng of passengers continued to grow. The old woman had finally moved her leg, but she still reeked of rancid onions. El Kordi wanted to vomit. He closed his eyes and let himself be lulled by the strident sound of the bell, which the crazed conductor rang without interruption. It was not for the pleasure of a ride that he found himself on this packed streetcar bound for the European quarter. El Kordi had something else in mind. Ever since he had posed as the killer of young Arnaba in his mistress’s eyes, he felt obliged to commit some startling feat to compensate for the lie. Perhaps it would not be a violent crime, but it had seemed to him that he could easily indulge in a robbery. This evening he was planning to carry out a daring project that had been obsessing him for several days. El Kordi often passed a jewelry store, the most luxurious in the city, on Avenue Fouad, and he thought he was smart enough to steal a valuable jewel without getting caught. However, he was still hesitating about the method to use. Despite his nausea, he tried to remember all of the facts about jewelry-store robberies that he had read in magazines or detective novels, but still could not decide on the best method. What was the best method? El Kordi wanted to be innovative in this area. A revolutionary such as himself couldn’t very well operate like a common burglar. His self-respect demanded it. But no new method came to mind.

Suddenly he felt someone looking at him. He opened his eyes and saw he was not mistaken. Someone was observing him insistently, someone whose face itself was an omen of misfortune. A one-eyed man was seated next to the door, almost facing him and sneakily spying on him. What especially disturbed El Kordi was that he sensed himself being watched by the man’s bad eye, as if the good eye remained neutral and even showed a sort of lenience toward him.

Implacably, ferociously, the man went on staring at him with his haunting good eye. But El Kordi saw only the bad eye, so that their gazes never met. This delicate situation lasted a long time. El Kordi wondered what the man wanted and if he had ever seen him before. He grew irritated trying to place the man and doing his utmost to understand his provocative attitude. The impossibility of moving to escape this inquisition finally roused him to indignant fury. He wasn’t going to take it lying down. “I’m going to spit in his face. Then we’ll see if he continues to look at me like that.” But fear of provoking a scandal just when he was preparing to commit an audacious theft and needed all his composure prevented him from going to this extreme. He swallowed his saliva.

The streetcar stopped at a station, started again, and suddenly the ticket-taker’s head appeared in the doorway. Impossible to say by what clever maneuver he had managed this coup.

“Who doesn’t have tickets?” he called.

No one deigned to answer this question. The ticket-taker, a skinny individual with a pale face and a shopworn uniform, became insolent and threatened to stop the streetcar. Trapped, the passengers grudgingly took out their money and paid their fare, as if they were giving alms to the ticket-taker. Only the one-eyed man didn’t move; he was still staring at El Kordi with his single, implacable eye.

Impatient, the ticket-taker addressed him directly.

“Hey, mister!”

“Secret police,” the one-eyed man answered drily without turning his head.

El Kordi thought that the streetcar was tipping over, and that all the passengers had stood up in one defensive movement. Actually, he was the only person standing. He had a moment’s panic, then rushed for the door, jumped from the moving streetcar, and began to run toward the nearest sidewalk. When he finally stopped to catch his breath, the streetcar had long ago disappeared in the distance like a dissipating nightmare. Again, El Kordi felt the violent shock he had experienced hearing the one-eyed man state his identity. What a frightful trap he had just escaped! He blessed the luck that had favored him with such a stupid policeman. To reveal who he was like that so as not to pay for his seat! What a dolt! But why were the police tailing him? Certainly not because of the jewelry robbery he was planning. No one was aware of his decision. The police couldn’t read people’s minds. If they were watching him, it was obviously for another purpose. It did not take El Kordi long to figure this out. The police were no longer unaware of the fact that he was a revolutionary; he himself had made that pederast inspector understand this during his interrogation in the brothel. Seen from this angle, the one-eyed man’s tailing became a large-scale operation mounted by the oppressors of the people in order to assassinate him. El Kordi breathed proudly and smiled; a kind of prodigious drunkenness filled his head. Finally he was a real revolutionary, pursued by the police, worrying those in high places. Gohar would no longer make fun of him, as he usually did, when he learned what horrible surveillance El Kordi had suffered.

He turned around several times to see if he was being followed, but there was no sign of the one-eyed man anywhere.

Avenue Fouad opened onto the center of the European quarter like a river of lights. El Kordi strolled along the avenue with the disturbing sensation of being in a strange city. In vain did he tell himself he was still in his native country; he could not believe it. All these busy men, who looked as though they had just come from some catastrophe and whose sullen faces expressed mediocre preoccupations, seemed singularly hostile. He found the attitude of the crowd to be morbid and exaggerated: nothing was happening to break its agonizing monotony. Something was lacking in this noisy throng: the humorous details by which human nature could be recognized. This crowd was inhuman. The anguish spreading from it passed imperceptibly into El Kordi and made him yearn for the popular quarter. He already missed the muddy streets and dirty hovels where a banished people mocked their oppressors. There was more hope in the tin shacks of the slums than in this opulent city. Was this, then, that fantastic city where the relentless enemies of the people lived, lurking in their inviolable hideouts? The citadel of oppression was not a happy place. The riches displayed in store windows, the dull majesty of the buildings, the rectilinear rigor of the sidewalks — all this seemed to forbid the least-frivolous thought. El Kordi now understood why Gohar had abandoned this city and its sad comfort.

The sight of a little newspaper vendor shook him out of his melancholy; he had recovered his world.

“Hey, little one! Do you have the Greek newspaper?”

“Do you read Greek, sir?”

“Yes. Why wouldn’t I read Greek?”

“By Allah, you see everything in this country!”

El Kordi bought a copy of the only Greek paper in the city, folded it, and put it in his coat pocket. He had felt a burning need to indulge himself in this idiotic playacting. All the serious activity around him saddened him like a blow inflicted on a naturally happy people. He had wanted to escape a little from this almost palpable anguish, which became ever more intense as he advanced along this thoroughfare lit as if for a grandiose funeral procession. But the pleasure of having amazed a little newspaper boy did not make him forget his project. “Enough joking. It’s time to act.” He was near his goal; a few yards now separated him from the jewelry store.

What was the word that he had read somewhere that seemed to possess such seductive power? Expropriation. The word came back to him with an aura of glorious conviction. It was not a robbery that he was going to commit, but an expropriation. This thought calmed the apprehensions of a novice thief, although it did not change any of the difficulties of his undertaking: the difficulties were still the same, but the new point of view created a fundamental difference. He was no longer a simple hoodlum indulging in his first larceny. Thus, El Kordi remained faithful to his revolutionary ideal. His first attempt now seemed like the start of an era of rebellion, of long and bloody battles, like the first spark of a fire that would die only with the liberation of the people.

The grandeur of his task moved him to tears.

He advanced resolutely toward the window of the jewelry store, as if driven by the clamor of a multitude of starving, oppressed people. He was now but the instrument of a people resolved to take revenge. He stopped, dumbfounded. As if in the water of an aquarium, the precious jewels sparkled in the harsh light, their strange reflections hypnotizing his gaze. El Kordi saw himself transported to the center of an incomparable fairy-tale world. The savage clamor of the unchained masses was silenced; he was alone, crushed by all this inaccessible splendor. Discouragement crashed down on him like a heavy stone. To steal — that was easy to say! But how? By what witchcraft was he going to appropriate one of these jewels, as far away as the most distant star in the sky? The bitterness he felt at his own naïveté brought tears to his eyes again. He remembered his sick mistress bound to a degrading existence in a lice-ridden brothel, waiting for him to come to her rescue. With misty eyes, he contemplated the shimmering treasures in the show window, thinking that with the price of just one of these jewels he could take Naila away from her ignoble destiny. His determination to save the young woman from prostitution and to assure her of a decent life was so strong and so real at this moment that he desperately tried to find a way to commit his theft. But the jewels remained extraordinarily inaccessible, seeming to belong to another universe. He painfully felt all his impotence, closed his fist, and slowly raised his arm to smash the window in one frenzied movement.

The scent of a violet perfume penetrated his nostrils and informed him of a woman’s presence at his side. He interrupted the movement of his arm, his nerves suddenly relaxed, his being infused with delicious joy. The mere smell of this perfume sufficed to dispel his anger. Without turning his head, he glanced obliquely at the woman standing near him, grave and immobile, as if fascinated by the extent of the riches contained in the window. She was a native girl dressed with uncommon care and elegance. The folds of her melaya and the impeccable cut molded her svelte form, emphasizing the firm roundness of her rump. Although the lower part of her face was hidden beneath a black silk veil, the luster of her almond eyes lined with kohl augured a distinguished beauty. Her entire being emitted an air of sensual mystery that made El Kordi tremble in the very depths of his flesh. She seemed extremely interested in a diamond necklace that almost filled the whole window by itself.

This superb creature so charmed El Kordi that he did not react for a moment. Then the fear of seeing her go away moved him to whisper, “O beauty, I am sure that this necklace would look marvelous on you.”

The young woman looked him up and down as if he were an unclean serpent.

“Yes,” she said. “But where is the man rich enough to give it to me?”

El Kordi could not think of any answer to this mischievous invitation. The young woman was a whore, but a high-class whore. He certainly wouldn’t offer her a diamond necklace, or even an ear of grilled corn. Who did she think she was? Her exaggerated idea of her market value amused rather than frightened El Kordi. For his part, he feared nothing: he had nothing to lose in the adventure. This foolish woman did not realize whom she was dealing with. He would have her for nothing! Prostitutes were the kind of women El Kordi seduced with the greatest of ease; he knew their mentality and how to talk to them.

He was now persuaded that fate had led him here just to meet this aristocratic whore. He quickly tried to find a pleasant way to resume the conversation and especially to make her laugh.

But the young woman did not give him time; she suddenly turned away from the window and left with the haste of an offended person. No doubt she had interpreted El Kordi’s silence as a rebuff. Did she really think he was going to buy her a diamond necklace? What a madwoman! Instinctively, El Kordi followed her. Then he noticed she was not alone; a little girl with braided hair topped with a rose ribbon and wearing wooden shoes accompanied her. At first El Kordi was vexed, then he concluded that it was a fortunate circumstance. The little girl offered a good way to easily strike up an acquaintance. He rapidly caught up with them and began to walk in step, waiting for the proper moment to intervene.

He could now appreciate at his leisure the elegant figure of the young woman, who strolled with a swing in her hips, tapping the sidewalk with her high-heeled shoes. She moved like a sleepwalker, eyes straight ahead, indifferent to the desires she excited along the way. Aroused as never before during the course of his amorous adventures, El Kordi experienced some very intense minutes. The vast conflicts that agitated his generous soul had disappeared like a charm. The misery of the disinherited masses, the revolution on the march, the overthrow of evil powers — all that could wait. His only concern was to capture this tempting prey whose lascivious hip-swinging burned his flesh. He was already trembling at the idea of possessing her.

Without bothering about jealous passersby who observed his growing passion with a critical eye, El Kordi prepared for action. He had drawn a handful of roasted seeds from his pocket, and, approaching the young girl, he innocently held out his hand. The little girl looked in El Kordi’s hand but didn’t dare touch the seeds.

“Aunt!”

“What is it?” the young woman asked wearily.

She pretended not to notice El Kordi’s presence.

“Can I take some?”

“What?”

“Seeds.”

“Take some, if you like.”

The little girl turned toward El Kordi.

“Gimme,” she said.

El Kordi poured some seeds into the girl’s hand. She immediately began expertly to munch on them. El Kordi stroked her hair and struck a paternal pose. They now formed a perfect familial group — a young married couple walking with their child. Actually, this easy success had so intoxicated El Kordi that he was not far from marrying the young woman on the spot if she demanded it. Nothing else mattered; he was ready to make any compromise to sleep with her. He had never been so close to such a beautiful, highly bred whore. It was the chance of a lifetime. It seemed to him that if he did not have her, he would not survive his defeat.

Despite the young woman’s disdain, El Kordi was full of hope. He continued to court the young girl.

“What’s your name?”

“My name is Nagafa.”

“What a pretty name!” gushed El Kordi. “Do you like seeds?”

“Yes, I often eat them.”

“Well, next time I’ll bring you a big bag.”

Just then the young woman stopped, faced El Kordi, and said calmly, “I think it’s time to talk seriously.”

Caught unawares by this sudden attack, El Kordi stammered, “Why, certainly. That’s exactly what I was waiting for.”

She was now going to broach the principal question: the price of her charms. El Kordi understood that he would have to be cagey; he did not even have enough to buy a radish.

“What are your intentions?” continued the young woman.

“The best in the world,” El Kordi assured her. “I’m at your service. Your wish is my command.”

“Where do you plan to take me?”

“To my place, of course! I have a very comfortable apartment. I am sure it will please you. I hope you like modern furniture.”

Wanting to avoid serious matters, he was becoming worldly.

“In what neighborhood is your apartment?” She didn’t seem to believe him.

“In Menchief. It’s very near here.”

“You call that near! That’s very far. I’m sorry, but I won’t be able to come.”

“On my honor, I assure you it’s not far. And besides, don’t worry. You’ll spend the night there. I have a big apartment; the little one can sleep in the living room.”

“Spend the night!” She looked at him as if to size him up. “Are you rich enough to pay for a whole night?”

“By Allah! What do you mean? I’ve never been so offended. Do I look like a vagabond? I am a high government official. What do you take me for?”

The young woman seemed skeptical; she reflected.

“I would like to believe you. Let’s take a cab then.”

El Kordi mentally calculated the money he had in his pocket; it would not be enough for a cab. He pretended to hail one, without conviction, in a timid, cracked voice, but no coachman answered his call. They all took him for a joker.

“We’ll find one on our way,” he said. “Let’s walk. Don’t you think the weather is lovely?”

“Walk yourself, servant of a failed government!” And off she went, haughtier than ever, with the little girl clinging to her silk melaya.

Incredulously, El Kordi watched her leave; he still couldn’t believe in the collapse of his beautiful dream. He heard laughter bursting out all around him. It was some passersby who had followed the whole scene and were now enjoying seeing him come away empty-handed. El Kordi turned his back on these envious clowns; he despised their sarcasm. Once again he had become very dignified.

Although Set Amina’s brothel had reopened a week before, many of her regular customers had not dared to put in an appearance. The few clients seated in the waiting room behaved like people at a funeral. They had the impression that a trap had been set for them. And they were not altogether wrong.

In giving Set Amina authorization to reopen her business, Nour El Dine had been guided by the hope — on the strength of the axiom that a criminal always returns to the scene of the crime — that he would discover the individual he was after. With this aim, he had assigned one of his best agents to investigate at the house, passing himself off for a rich, provincial businessman. Since the reopening, this man appeared each evening, drunk and behaving like a real peasant reveling in the pleasures of the capital. All the same, at the last moment he would refrain from accompanying any of the girls into their bedroom, and this weird behavior made the others suspicious. What’s more, the questions he asked were not well calculated to hide his identity. By now everyone knew he was a plainclothes policeman. Set Amina herself had spotted him right off, but she played blind. What else could she do? Just now, seated on the couch in her usual pose, she was watching the policeman toy with little Akila, caressing her thighs under her dress without making up his mind to consummate. Outraged by this behavior that was causing her most popular girl to waste time, she was now complaining to an old admirer sitting beside her on the couch, who was speaking to her adoringly about the time when she was still a desirable prostitute.

“You see! They want to ruin me!” she said. “Is that man never going to leave?”

“Calm down, woman! Policeman or not, he’s still a customer.”

“Him, a customer! May sickness rid me of such customers.”

“Be quiet. He could hear you.”

“Let him hear me! After all, I am the mistress in my house.”

She finally finished her complaining, leaned her cheek against her hand in the classic pose of those overwhelmed with sadness, and gave no further thought to the policeman.

Young Arnaba’s ghost was not haunting Gohar. Comfortably settled in one of the rattan chairs, he was busy lining up numbers on the checkered page of a schoolbook with a yellow cover. He had joyfully resumed his work as accountant and man of letters in the service of a shameless hussy. The house accounting was rudimentary and demanded no intellectual concentration. From time to time, Gohar lifted his head and let this mélange of lust and sterile words seep into his mind. Instead of alarming him, the continual presence of the plainclothes policeman gave him an absurd sense of security. The man amused him: he was making a fool of himself with his insidious questions. Did he not realize that everyone had guessed his true identity long ago? Gohar enjoyed being witness to a police inquiry whose innumerable circumlocutions were an attempt to discover and entrap him. He was not sadistic, just completely indifferent to the result of the investigation. All the efforts being deployed for his capture seemed disproportionate to the insignificance of the crime.

Gohar was less worried about his own arrest than about the dangers to which Yeghen was going to expose himself by helping him. The absolute sincerity of Yeghen’s devotion and his generous offer of aid had touched him. Yeghen was capable of concocting the shadiest of schemes to procure money for Gohar’s trip. Was he about to compromise himself by taking some illegal, and perhaps useless, action? Gohar would have liked to prevent that, and now he was filled with remorse. Should he not have dissuaded Yeghen, shown him the futility of any effort to save him? He had been weak in the face of Yeghen’s manifest kindness. And, besides, had not Yeghen offered him his life? Could you really refuse the help of a man who had put his life at your service? That would have been tactless, an insult to friendship.

What if escape were truly possible, if he really could leave for Syria? He imagined vast fields of hashish and saw himself cultivating the magnificent plant with the same hands that had strangled a young prostitute. Diabolical dream! — it lasted but an instant.

“Gohar Effendi!”

It was the plainclothes policeman summoning him. While continuing to fondle young Akila, he had turned toward Gohar as if to solicit an opinion of the utmost importance.

“I’m listening,” said Gohar.

The few customers scattered throughout the waiting room pricked up their ears. Everything that the plainclothes policeman said concerned them directly.

“Arnaba’s murder,” said the policeman, “reminds me of an old story that also took place in a whorehouse. I don’t know if you remember it. There was something strange about it that just came to me.”

The imbecile was going to talk to him about the crime again. Gohar coughed, took hold of his cane, then said with his usual courtesy, “Forgive me, but I don’t recall the incident.”

“It took place before the war. There was a lot of talk about it in the papers at the time. It concerned a prostitute stabbed to death with a knife. At the autopsy, the medical examiner stated that she was a virgin. The funny thing was that she had been plying her trade for almost twenty years. What do you say to that?”

“Unbelievable!”

“Isn’t it? I can’t stop thinking about it. A virgin whore! You can’t trust anybody, can you?”

“Even a whore’s ass holds surprises,” said Gohar. “It can astonish everyone.”

“Your philosophy enchants me. I see you are a man of the world.”

The policeman laughed coarsely, embraced his companion, and kissed her on the mouth like a wild beast. Akila, who was a sly little thing, excited him so much that he was panting visibly. Soon he could no longer resist and agreed to follow her into her room.

“See you later, Gohar Effendi!”

“At your service!”

“The wretch finally made up his mind!” Set Amina exulted. “At least he won’t enjoy himself at my place without paying.”

Gohar resumed his calculations, but he was touched by grace. Once again, tragedy was revealing its ridiculous side. Wasn’t there a peculiar drama in a murdered whore’s corpse turning out to be that of a virgin? Gohar had solved the enigma. Take this laughable world seriously? That had been his folly — long years of folly.

“I knew I would find you here, Master! I have something very serious to tell you.”

An extraordinary-looking El Kordi had appeared in the waiting room: his tarboosh was pulled down over his ears and the lower part of his face was covered with a handkerchief that he held firmly as if to stanch the blood from a wound.

“What’s wrong, my son? Are you injured?”

Now that he was sheltered from the vile stares of his tormentors, El Kordi removed the handkerchief, put it in his pocket, and sat down next to Gohar.

“No, I’m fine,” he said, leaning forward. “I’m simply trying not to be noticed.”

“Why the mystery?”

“I’ve been found out, Master! They know I’m a revolutionary.”

“Who?”

“The police, of course! They’re tailing me. I’m absolutely certain of it. Listen to me, Master. I took the streetcar to the European quarter this evening. It was incredibly crowded. I was completely crushed; I couldn’t move a finger. I was growing impatient when suddenly I noticed a man across from me watching me insistently. It was horrible. The man was one-eyed, and he was observing me with his bad eye. You can imagine my fright.”

“What makes you think he was a policeman? It may have been a one-eyed man and nothing more.”

“Let me finish. It’s a crazy story. When the ticket-taker came for our tickets, the man answered simply, no doubt from a stupid reflex, ‘Secret police.’”

“Very funny!” said Gohar. “I hope you broke out laughing.”

“How could I laugh, Master? I jumped off the moving streetcar right away.”

“But why were you going to the European quarter?” asked Gohar.

“I told you the other day. I have decided to do everything possible to get money. So I went to the European quarter to try to rob a jeweler on Avenue Fouad.”

“And did you succeed?”

“It’s not as easy as I thought,” El Kordi said bitterly. “I don’t think anyone could do it.”

Deep down, he was no longer thinking of the display window filled with inaccessible jewels but of his unsuccessful adventure with the young lady. She had wanted to take a cab. The insolent creature! For an instant, he was about to tell this story to Gohar, but he held back; he didn’t want Gohar to take him for a bogus revolutionary.

“Why do you need so much money?”

“It’s not for me, Master — I can live cheaply. But Naila is sick and I want to get her out of this damnable place. And besides, there are all the others.”

“What others? Do you have a family to support?”

“No, I don’t have a family. But I’m thinking of the oppressed, miserable people. Master, I can’t understand it. How can you remain insensitive to the machinations of those bastards who exploit the people? How can you deny that oppression exists?”

Gohar raised his voice to answer.

“I have never denied the existence of bastards, my son!”

“But you accept them. You do nothing to oppose them.”

“My silence is not acceptance. I oppose them more effectively than you.”

“How?”

“By noncooperation,” said Gohar. “I simply refuse to collaborate with this immense charade.”

“But an entire people cannot afford to have this negative attitude. They must work for a living. How can they not collaborate?”

“Let them all become beggars. Am I not a beggar? Once we have a country where the population is composed entirely of beggars, then you’ll see what will become of this arrogant domination. It will crumble into dust. Believe me.”

It was the first time El Kordi had heard Gohar speak in this tone of bitter violence. So Gohar had his own ideas about the way to overthrow this hateful power! Why had he never voiced them?

“But we are already a nation of beggars,” he said. “It seems to me that there is little more to do.”

“On the contrary. There is still much to do. There are still a lot of men like you who continue to collaborate.”

“You are wrong, Master! I hardly do anything. My presence at the ministry is almost a kind of sabotage.”

Gohar kept silent; he was unhappy with himself. The pomposity with which he had spoken reminded him too much of his university pedantry. What need had he to defend himself? Deny the existence of bastards? He who had abandoned everything, comfort and honors, so as no longer to have to mingle with such swine? What did El Kordi think? That he alone knew that the poor people were ruled by a band of shameless thieves? Even a child knew that.

However, he smiled at the young man.

“You know there’s a policeman here,” he said, intending to tease him. “At this moment he’s busy fornicating with little Akila.”

“By Allah!” said El Kordi. “I must be very careful from now on.”

He suddenly stood up, as if the place had become extremely unsafe.

“I’m sorry about the newspapers, Master! I’ll bring them to you tomorrow without fail.”

“Thank you, my son! They can wait.”

“Here, take this one. I’ve finished reading it.” And he gave Gohar the Greek paper.

Set Amina, who had been watching El Kordi all this time, suspecting him of some plot, sighed as she saw him approach.

“Is Naila in her room?”

“Yes, she’s with a customer. Let her work. Do you all want to ruin me?”

“You won’t be ruined today. Besides, here she is.”

Naila returned to the waiting room, followed by a client who left after a brief goodbye. Paying no attention to El Kordi, she leaned toward Set Amina and gave her a sum of money that the madam stuffed in her blouse.

“Let’s go to your room, my darling!” said El Kordi. “I have to talk to you.”

“Leave me alone,” Naila answered without looking at him. “I’m here to work, not to listen to your nonsense.”

“Go with him, child,” said Set Amina. “This man is crazy. I don’t want a scandal.”

“No, Aunt. I’m not going. I don’t know this man anymore.”

She sat down on the couch and pressed close against Set Amina, as if to seek her protection.

El Kordi did not understand this sudden indifference. Why was she sulking? He took a chair and sat down facing his mistress.

“You shouldn’t work,” he said. “I told you to rest.”

“Are you going to feed me?”

This reproach seemed trivial and unjust. As if it were a question of food!

“I’m being hunted by the police and you talk to me about food!” he said despairingly.

“Shh!” said Set Amina. “Don’t speak of the devil! He’s nearby!”

The plainclothes policeman returned, clasping Akila by the waist and puffing up his chest as if he were the only virile man in the neighborhood. He whispered words of love in her ear and smiled at everyone in the room, as if to apologize for the pleasure he had just enjoyed.

El Kordi calmly turned toward him and said in a worldly tone, “If there is a policeman here, I would love to make his acquaintance.”

The so-called provincial merchant took the blow without losing his joviality. Nevertheless, he played the honest man terrified by the proximity of the police.

“A policeman here! On my honor, it’s a black day!”

“It seems that the policeman is you,” El Kordi said, pointing his finger at him.

The man turned pale.

“You are wrong, Effendi! I am an honorable merchant.”

“Don’t insult the clientele,” Set Amina interjected. “This man is a nobleman. I know him.”

“But you yourself told me he is a policeman!” El Kordi shot back in blind rage.

“Me!” shouted Set Amina. “You ingrate! And I received you in this house like my own son!”

“Calm down, good people!” said the policeman. “It’s a simple misunderstanding. Let’s clear it up.”

“It’s useless,” said El Kordi. “I’m ready to confess.”

“Confess what, Effendi?”

“I confess that I am the murderer of Arnaba.”

The policeman opened his eyes wide and his face assumed a rigid expression. For a moment Naila remained petrified at her lover’s confession, then broke into sobs. Impassive and smiling, Gohar watched the scene from where he was. Assuredly, El Kordi would never change. He had just put himself in a nasty situation for the simple pleasure of astonishing his pitiful audience.

10

THE TALL, broad-shouldered man stood in his stall like a mummy in a sarcophagus. It was a narrow shop, barely two feet wide and a foot deep; it was full of little bottles holding rare essences, pots of unguents, and vials containing elixirs against impotence and sterility. It gave off a heavy, clinging perfume scent that made the air unbreathable all the way to the end of the lane and beyond.

With skillfully measured gestures, the man uncorked a miniscule vial and offered it to a woman customer standing on the doorstep to smell.

“A single drop of this perfume and men will die for you,” he said.

“I don’t want to kill anyone,” the woman laughed. “I just want my husband to find me attractive.”

“Then I won’t sell it to you,” said the man. “I pity him. At the very least, he’d go mad.”

“What a black day! Why all the foolishness? I’ll buy it.”

“Very well, for you that will be only ten piasters.”

“Ten piasters! By Allah! You’re ruining me! I’m the one going mad. Well, here’s your money.”

She rummaged through the folds of her melaya, took out a handkerchief, untied it, and counted out the sum. The merchant gave her the vial.

“You’ll see,” he said. “You will be eternally grateful to me. Your husband will never be able to resist you. It will be impossible for him to go on living without this perfume.”

“He’ll just have to come to you to buy more.”

“By the Prophet! I won’t sell it to him.”

The woman left carrying her vial of perfume, and the man turned to Yeghen.

“It’s agreed,” he said. “The price suits me. I’ll take the merchandise.”

“I’ll bring it to you as soon as possible. I don’t know when. I expect it soon.”

“I hope it’s good quality.”

“The best,” said Yeghen. “You know I’m an expert. I’ll see you later.”

Leaving the perfume stall, Yeghen headed for the Mirror Café. He was a little anxious because the man seemed wary. It had not been easy to persuade him. The trick had become too well known among drug dealers; Yeghen had already tried it many times, and he always came out ahead. In fact, it was the simplest of swindles. It involved concluding a deal for a certain quantity of heroin, and then, when the time came, giving the buyer a packet containing sodium sulfate bought in a pharmacy. Since the transaction had to be done in all haste — given the circumstances — the buyer was prevented from appraising the goods. When he discovered the fraud, it was already too late. All he could do was curse the thief, without daring to complain to anyone.

It had been a long time since Yeghen had had recourse to this dishonest dealing. Not because of any scruples of conscience but because his bad reputation made him suspect to all the dealers in town. It was very difficult for him to find new victims. The man to whom he had finally addressed himself was one of the rare dealers he had never fleeced and with whom he had the best of relations. Still, the risk was great because the man was also a police informer. He could be setting a trap for him. But Yeghen was resolved to run this risk; he knew no other way to obtain the money that would allow Gohar to leave for Syria and escape the consequences of his crime.

At the Mirror Café, he found Gohar sitting with El Kordi; the two men weren’t speaking. Looking more dismal than ever, El Kordi seemed to be contemplating some terrible revenge. As for Gohar, he was sucking a hashish ball with tranquil happiness, his gaze lost among the crowd of drinkers who filled the meandering terrace; from time to time he took the glass placed before him and drank a mouthful of warm tea. Yeghen sat down with them without saying anything; he also had no desire to speak. He reflected on the swindle he had just set up; if everything went as planned he would soon have the money that he had promised Gohar for his trip. To save Gohar from prison, and perhaps even from the gallows, had become a kind of sacred mission for him. All these last days, he had thought only of how to help him. His astonishment at Gohar’s crime had remained as strong as ever; the mystery continued to intrigue him. How had Gohar come to that? What absurd chain of circumstances had driven him to commit the only act for which he was not at all made? Gohar was the least violent of men, so how to imagine that he had attacked an inoffensive little prostitute, the most pitiful of all creatures? Yeghen would have liked to ask Gohar for more ample details about the incredible scene that had unfolded between him and his victim, but a kind of modesty, or delicate discretion, held him back. Why did he need to know? Didn’t true friendship rise to the occasion without asking for explanations?

The radio suddenly burst out like a storm, sweeping over the terrace with a wave of deafening music. The squall shook Gohar; he seemed to notice Yeghen’s presence. A pale smile lit his face.

“You look exhausted,” he said. “What’s wrong? Are you ill?”

“Oh, it’s nothing,” answered Yeghen. “I’m just tired. I haven’t slept in a bed for I don’t know how long.”

“You left your hotel?”

“Yes, Master! It was too dangerous; the police knew my address. And I didn’t have money to go elsewhere. No hotel will give me credit.”

“Can I do something for you? My room is at your disposal.”

“Thank you, Master! Tonight I have money. I intend to give myself a royal bed.”

“You think they won’t find you?”

“I need them to leave me alone for a few days, long enough to take care of some business that affects us both. Once that business is in order, I don’t care what they do to me. They have nothing on me.”

“Why don’t you let destiny follow its course?” said Gohar. “What are you afraid of?”

“What am I afraid of, Master! I am afraid of losing you! I’m sorry to be so selfish. I know you make light of what may happen to you. But think of me: I cannot bear the idea of losing you.”

“But if I leave for Syria, you’ll lose me just as much, my son!”

“No, Master! I only need to know that you are alive, though far from me, to not lose you.”

How could he tell him clearly that he feared the worst sentence for him: death. Gohar’s spirit would doubtless survive through the years; his memory would certainly remain, as durable as thousand-year-old rocks. But where would be the joy? What memory could render the sweetness of a word, the treasures of humanity contained in a fraternal gesture? No, Yeghen needed a living Gohar — even a Gohar who was far away; and all he would have to do to be eternally happy would be to picture him with certainty existing somewhere in the world.

El Kordi shook his head and seemed to thrust his imaginary torments far away. He looked at his two companions as if he had only just noticed them. A feverish light burned in his eyes.

“What are you talking about?” he asked anxiously. “Are you really going to Syria, Master? So you’re leaving us on our own! I beg you, take me with you. Yes, I want to go too. Let’s go right away. I have my coach; the horses are chafing at the bit. What are you waiting for, Master?”

“What’s wrong with him?” asked Yeghen. “I swear, he’s delirious!”

“I think he had a fight with his mistress,” said Gohar. “It will pass in a moment. Don’t worry.”

“I know how to calm him down,” said Yeghen. “My dear El Kordi, listen to me. On my way I noticed a little cigarette-butt scavenger who is a real marvel. She can’t be far away.”

Yeghen leaned toward El Kordi and began to converse with him in a low voice. But suddenly he was struck dumb; he had just recognized someone in the crowd.

“Watch out!” he said. “Here comes the inspector who’s investigating the murder. Be especially discreet; don’t say anything.”

“I’ll say what I please,” said El Kordi. “I’m not afraid of anyone.”

Gohar looked as if he didn’t understand; he tranquilly took his glass and drank a mouthful of tea. El Kordi sat up in his chair and struck a very dignified pose. He looked as though he were preparing to enter a decisive battle.

Nour El Dine was near their table; he seemed not to have seen them.

“Peace be with you, Inspector,” said Yeghen with a sarcastic smile. “Please honor us with your company.”

Nour El Dine frowned; his features hardened. Assuredly, this encounter was catching him unawares. He was not alone: Samir accompanied him. For several seconds he seemed to hesitate, then he smiled affably.

“What a pleasant surprise,” he said. “I would be delighted to meet your friends. But it seems I have already had the pleasure of meeting this young man. Haven’t we already met?” he added, addressing El Kordi.

“In a way,” answered El Kordi with haughty stiffness. “I am truly flattered that you remember me, Excellency!”

“How could I forget you! I never forget an intelligent man. Our conversation the other day left me with a high opinion of you. I’ve often thought about that day. But we’ll talk about it later. Let me first present my young nephew. He’s a law student with a great future.”

Samir nodded his head slightly, but he didn’t hold out his hand to shake. He seemed to be making an enormous effort to control his nerves. He was ashamed because he suspected that these men were well aware of Nour El Dine’s inversion. He was struggling between his desire to leave right away and to stay to show them his contempt.

“And this is Gohar Effendi,” said Yeghen. “Excellency, how is it that you don’t know Gohar Effendi already! That is a serious gap in your life!”

“I would be happy to fill that gap,” said Nour El Dine, shaking his hand.

“Well, please sit down,” said Yeghen, who seemed strangely happy about this meeting. He fussed around the table offering chairs.

Nour El Dine sat down; Samir hesitated for a moment, then sat down in turn, crossed his legs, and gave the inspector a look of pure hatred. With what joy he would have killed him!

“May I offer you something?” asked Nour El Dine. Without waiting for an answer, he called the waiter and ordered tea for everyone. His intention was to appear magnanimous.

“It’s such an honor. Really, Excellency, you spoil us!”

“It’s nothing,” said Nour El Dine. “I’m only doing my duty.” Then, in another tone, he added unexpectedly, “I’ve learned you have changed hotels. Is that so?”

“Yes,” answered Yeghen. “I’ve found a better one. Do you know, Excellency, the hotel I was at didn’t have bathrooms? It was impossible for me to stay there any longer. I hope you will understand.”

“May I know where your new residence is located?”

“But of course. I’ve nothing to hide. I’m now staying at the Semiramis. It’s a first-class hotel! I think I will be happy there. Have you ever stayed at the Semiramis? I highly recommend it. It is really an extraordinary place. They say that life begins to have meaning the moment you enter there. Pardon me, Excellency, but I was made for luxury.”

“I see you are as cynical as ever,” said Nour El Dine with a forced smile. “It doesn’t matter. I enjoy listening to you more and more.”

“The pleasure is all mine, Excellency!”

Only Yeghen saw what was truly droll about the situation. This police inspector seated at the same table with the killer he was after, offering him tea and behaving in such a courteous manner, was such a phenomenal thing that he even forgot the danger Gohar was facing. He could not stop grinning, thinking only of enjoying a good joke.

He could not resist the pleasure of provoking Nour El Dine.

“Well, Inspector, how is the investigation progressing?”

“I’m not dissatisfied,” said Nour El Dine. “The end may be near. Don’t forget, patience is the indispensable virtue of our profession. By the way, have you thought about what I asked you the other day? I feel kindly toward you. I’d be sorry if you had problems.”

“I’ve thought about it. I would love to help you, believe me. But really, this affair is beyond my scope.”

“Oh well, too bad. Forget it. Besides, this isn’t the place to discuss these things. I plan to talk with you very soon in a more appropriate place. Tonight I’ve been out walking with my young nephew. One must relax from time to time, right? We’re among friends here; let’s enjoy ourselves. Save serious things for later.”

“Careful, Inspector,” said El Kordi, coming out of his silence. “You did say we are among friends? Then we can say everything?”

“Of course,” said Nour El Dine. “But I wonder what more you have to say. Haven’t you already said everything? A disturbing story came to my attention. It seems that you boasted before witnesses of being Arnaba’s murderer. Is that true?”

“That’s true, you’re not mistaken,” said El Kordi. “I don’t deny anything. Why don’t you arrest me?”

“I didn’t know anything about this,” said Yeghen. “My compliments, dear El Kordi.”

“I won’t arrest you,” continued Nour El Dine, “because I know you’re not the killer. You simply wanted to brag. Why? I have no idea. I am just surprised that a man like you, with a good education, who speaks foreign languages, would indulge in such eccentricities. I cannot understand your mentality. Can you explain his conduct to me, Gohar Effendi? I believe you witnessed this ridiculous scene.”

There was a silence. All eyes turned to Gohar. Even Samir stared at him attentively, his features tensed in an expression of feverish expectation.

Gohar said nothing. He could no longer feel the hashish ball in his mouth; it had completely dissolved. He swallowed his saliva two or three times and savored the last bitter taste of the drug. People and things around him were taking on a richer, more glistening hue and their slightest details became perceptible. Laughter and voices were changing into a single murmur, secret and insidious, like a sensual woman’s sighs at the moment of ecstasy. His eyes rested on Nour El Dine and he was amazed by a feeling of strange goodwill that came over him in the face of his tormentor. Through some extraordinary acuity of perception, he discovered in this aggressive-looking tormentor a tortured, disturbed being, more weak than dangerous. What a sad look! What moral suffering hidden behind this façade of authority! Gohar’s instinct told him he had nothing to fear from this man and, even odder, that this man needed his help and pity.

“The inspector is waiting,” said Yeghen. “Come on, Master, give us your thoughts.”

“Well,” Gohar began, “I think I can explain my young friend’s behavior. El Kordi is a man with a very noble soul. He hates injustice and would do anything to fight it. He would like to reform the world, but he doesn’t know how to begin. I think this crime revolted him. He wanted to take responsibility for it and to offer himself as a martyr for the cause he defends. I am glad you didn’t take his confession seriously, Inspector. You must pardon his extravagant behavior. He acted on a very honorable impulse.”

“Master, this is intolerable!” cried El Kordi. “Let me explain it to you. I know I’m not the killer, but what does it matter if it’s me or someone else? The important thing for you, Inspector, is to arrest someone, right? So I offered myself. You should be grateful to me.”

“Absurd!” said Nour El Dine. “Completely absurd! That’s not it at all. I want to arrest the guilty person and no one else.”

“Why?” asked Yeghen. “Why only arrest the guilty one? You disappoint me. You allow yourself to be influenced by trifling considerations.”

“Why?” repeated Nour El Dine. “But it’s as clear as daylight! Why should I arrest an innocent man?”

“The innocent or the guilty,” said Gohar. “It must be difficult to choose.”

“But I don’t choose,” said Nour El Dine. “I base my conviction on certain precise, irrefutable facts. I only arrest a man when I am convinced of his guilt. All of you here are educated men and yet you seem to have no idea of the law.”

“It isn’t the law that interests us, but man,” said Yeghen. “What interests us is to know why a man like you spends his time arresting his fellow men, instead of enjoying his short life. I find that occupation very unhealthy.”

“But I’m just defending society against criminals,” said Nour El Dine. “What sort of men are you? You’ve lost touch with reality!”

“Your reality is a reality made of prejudice,” said Gohar. “It is a nightmare invented by man.”

“There aren’t two realities,” said Nour El Dine.

“Yes, there are,” said Gohar. “First, there is the reality born of deception, and in which you are struggling like a fish caught in a net.”

“And what is the other?”

“The other is a smiling reality reflecting the simplicity of life. For life is simple, Inspector. What does a man need to live? A little bread is enough.”

“A little hashish too, Master!” said Yeghen.

“So be it, my son! A little hashish too.”

“But that is the repudiation of all progress!” exclaimed Nour El Dine.

“You must choose,” said Gohar. “Progress or peace. We have chosen peace.”

“So, Excellency, we leave progress to you,” said Yeghen. “Enjoy it! We wish you much happiness.”

Nour El Dine opened his mouth to answer, but no words emerged from his stricken throat. He was fascinated by the character of Gohar. This man had spoken of peace like an easy thing that one could choose. Peace! Nour El Dine knew nothing at all of Gohar’s prior existence, but it seemed to him that this man was not only what he appeared to be, that is, a failed intellectual reduced to poverty. His ascetic face, his refined speech, the nobility of his attitude — all denoted a sharp and penetrating intelligence. How could such a man have fallen so low on the social ladder? And, especially, why did he give the impression of enjoying it and taking pride in it? Had he by some chance discovered peace in the depths of this extreme deprivation?

From the police reports, Nour El Dine knew that Gohar held some sort of a job at Set Amina’s bordello. He had not attached much importance to this, thinking it was a matter of an old servant to whom Set Amina charitably gave some small tasks. He had not imagined a man like this. Now that he was seeing him, he had completely changed his opinion on the subject, and he even wondered if he might be the killer.

“What is peace?” he asked Gohar, looking at him with a strange fixedness.

“Peace is what you’re searching for,” answered Gohar.

“By Allah! How do you know what I’m searching for? What I’m searching for is a killer!”

“Let me say I’m amazed, Excellency” said Yeghen. “I still wonder why you didn’t believe El Kordi’s confession. I would be curious to know your reasons.”

“They are very simple,” said Nour El Dine. “I had already met this young man. El Kordi couldn’t be the killer. He talks too much; he allows himself to divulge too much of his thought. He totally lacks hypocrisy. He is an idealist. It seems to me that the man who committed this crime is a more subtle, enigmatic individual.”

“My word, then you believe in psychology!” exclaimed Yeghen. “I would never have thought that of you, Inspector. Ah, you never cease to amaze me!”

“I must admit that this is my first investigation into a crime of this sort. The absence of material incentives and the lack of signs of rape oblige me to conclude that it was a motiveless crime.”

“A motiveless crime,” said Yeghen. “Why, you have a highly perspicacious mind, Excellency! Excuse me for having taken you for a brutal, narrow-minded person until now.”

“My dear Yeghen, you were wrong to assume that the inspector was narrow-minded,” said Gohar. “He has analyzed the situation very well. All the same, I would like to call his attention to something.”

“What’s that?” asked Nour El Dine.

“Does a crime without motive fall within the scope of the law? Isn’t it of the same nature as an earthquake, for example?”

“An earthquake doesn’t think,” said Nour El Dine. “It is a calamity that just happens.”

“But man has become a calamity for his fellow man,” answered Gohar. “Man has become worse than an earthquake. At any rate, he does more damage. Inspector, don’t you agree that the horrors caused by man long ago exceeded those of nature’s cataclysms?”

“I can’t stop an earthquake,” said Nour El Dine with comic stubbornness.

“And the bomb!” said Yeghen. “Can you stop the bomb, Excellency?”

“That madness again!” said Nour El Dine in a resigned tone. “No, Yeghen Effendi, I cannot stop the bomb.”

“So they pay you to do nothing,” said Yeghen. “What do I care if you catch a poor murderer? Ah, but if you could stop the bomb!”

Samir had remained outside the conversation; all this time he had preserved his attitude of cold disdain. He seemed visibly disgusted by the whole gathering. His curiosity, however, was fully aroused. Though he despised them, they were, nevertheless, new beings for him; he had never met their like. He had the impression that these men were spouting idiocies, but that they were doing it purposely to provoke Nour El Dine. They seemed to be heartily enjoying themselves. Samir looked at El Kordi, and without understanding why, he realized that this man at least knew. He seemed to regard Nour El Dine with a hatred almost equal to his own. Had the inspector already made a pass at him? Samir turned his head away; the annoyance he was feeling turned to anger.

He stood up.

“What, are you going?” Nour El Dine asked him.

“Forgive me, sir, but I must go. My honorable father doesn’t allow me to stay out late.”

“Give my regards to all the family,” said Nour El Dine.

“I won’t forget,” said Samir in a courteous but acerbic tone.

Head high, he turned his back and crossed the terrace.

“I beg you to excuse my young friend,” said Nour El Dine. “He is extremely timid.”

“He is charming,” said Yeghen. “Really charming. But it is time for me to go too. I regret cutting short such a profitable conversation, Excellency. The truth is that I am falling asleep.”

“Delighted to make your acquaintance, Inspector,” said Gohar, standing up. “We’ll meet again, I hope.”

“May I accompany you a little way?” said Nour El Dine.

“With pleasure,” answered Gohar. “I am your humble servant.”

Yeghen had already disappeared. El Kordi remained alone; he seemed not to have noticed that the others had gone.

Yeghen stifled a cry and stopped. A terrible doubt had just arisen in him, waking him from his torpor. He suddenly had a burning sensation throughout his body, but it was not the cold. The cold couldn’t penetrate to the regions of his anguish. He waited a moment, then feverishly plunged his hand into his pocket and withdrew a small coin. With his numb fingers he touched it, squeezed it for a long time to feel its substance and hardness, but that seemed insufficient to him. A dire foreboding was still preventing him from breathing. As quickly as possible, he had to assure himself that the coin was not fake, but how to go about it in this darkness? He had to see it in full light.

There was a streetlamp at the end of the alley; Yeghen headed for the light, suffering from an inexpressible fear. The cruelty of fate now appeared to him in all its horror. If the money were fake, there went his night’s sleep. His dream of a night of repose in a hotel room, far from the cold and the fatigue of useless walking, now depended on this single coin.

Yeghen was sleepy; he dreamed of a higher order of sleep, one with the unfathomable taste of nothingness. The light was still ten yards away; Yeghen could wait no longer and stopped to look at the coin. Trembling, he opened his hand; he brought it to eye level and, at the same time, uttered a horror-struck cry. The coin had fallen. His hand was trembling so much that he had not felt it slip. Yeghen almost threw himself on the ground, actively searching with his hands and eyes; he saw nothing, felt nothing. He felt dizzy and his brain began to rave. The streetlamp was too far away; the light it produced reached only to the edge of where he needed to search. Yeghen grew wild with impotent rage. He cursed himself for having taken the coin out of his pocket. Then he attacked the government. These two-piaster coins were really too tiny; couldn’t the government make them bigger? “Government of pimps!” How dare it make such small coins! Just to save money. It was shameful and absurd.

In his madness, Yeghen imagined carrying the streetlamp to the place of disaster. He felt capable of anything to recover his coin. Suddenly he thought of matches and jumped. All of his suffering had immobilized him as if from shock. The box of matches was in his pants pocket; he took it out, lit a match, leaned down, and moved the flame around him. The first examination showed nothing, the coin was still lost. Yeghen lit another match, took several steps sideways, his nose almost to the ground. Soon his heart jumped with joy; the coin was there before him, clean and brilliant like a diamond. He grabbed it, hastily stuffed it in his pocket, then stood flabbergasted, exhausted by the effort. The match that he had forgotten to extinguish burned his fingers.

“Government of pimps!” he shouted.

The sound of heavy footsteps was heard, and someone stopped behind him. Yeghen held his breath, then turned around and found himself face-to-face with a policeman. It was a sinister apparition; Yeghen stood petrified. It was no longer a matter of fatigue or cold or famine: he was before the official representative of all these calamities. He smiled foolishly.

“So, you insult the government!” said the policeman.

“Me?” stammered Yeghen. “I don’t insult anyone, Excellency!”

“I just heard you shout, ‘Government of pimps!’ I’m not deaf. Come on, admit it.”

“Oh, that’s nothing, Excellency,” said Yeghen. “That was just because of this match that burned my fingers.”

“We’ll take care of the match later,” said the policeman. “For the moment, tell me: Are we a government of pimps, yes or no?”

“No, Excellency! On my honor, it wasn’t our government I meant.”

“And what government was it?”

“I was thinking of a foreign government,” said Yeghen.

“A foreign government,” said the policeman dreamily. “You’re a liar. You were thinking of our government, I’m sure of it.”

“On my honor, Excellency, there has been a misunderstanding. I swear that it was a foreign government. I can even tell you the name.”

The policeman was quiet. He seemed to be reflecting. It was painful, very painful for him to reflect, so he stopped just in time. He was beginning to feel uncomfortable.

“Tell me the name of this country. Come on, quick.”

Yeghen didn’t try to find a country; the world was immense and the countries swarmed about the surface, but Yeghen did not deign to choose. The name came out all by itself.

“Syria,” he said.

“Syria,” the policeman repeated. “That’s far away. You’re sure about that?”

“Completely certain. I swear to you on my honor.”

“Very well,” said the policeman. “But I’m not letting you go yet. What were you doing here lighting matches? I was watching you for a while, you know.”

“I’ll explain it to you,” said Yeghen. “I just lost a coin and I was looking for it by lighting matches. As you see, it’s very simple.”

“A coin! What sort of story is this?”

The affair was becoming complicated. Yeghen was exhausted; he was trembling with cold. By what magic did the world contract around him? All his life he had been hunted. And now, on the threshold of a night of repose, he found himself hemmed in by this demonic power, always lying in wait for him. He hated the forces of law and order, especially these local policemen, the perfect images of brutality. However, right now he would have liked to be on the other side of the fence, to be this stupid, limited policeman. He was sick of always being on the side of the pursued. He had a crazy desire to be on the side of the pursuers, if only for one night, if only for this night. To sleep, to not be cold, to get rid of this heavy fatigue that he carried around like a burden. Yes, to be an abject policeman, but to be able to sleep.

He used a humble voice, seeking refinements of politeness to say, “Believe me, Excellency, I’m telling you the truth. Here’s the coin.”

Yeghen took it out of his pocket and showed it to the policeman.

“I had just found it when you arrived.”

The policeman looked at the coin and yawned. He did not want to go to the police station, and besides, this fellow seemed devoid of interest.

“All right,” he said. “You can go. But stop behaving suspiciously. I’m watching you.”

“Thank you, Excellency,” said Yeghen. “You are a superior soul. You are the incarnation of intelligence. One day you will be minister.”

Yeghen breathed deeply, then began to run. He stopped under the streetlamp, opened his hand, and examined the coin in the light. It looked normal; it was real money. No one would dare refuse it. Yeghen went on his way, still feeling the presence of the policeman watching him from the shadows.

The first hotel he stopped at had a sign that read “The Sun Hotel.” Yeghen went in. The clerk sleeping on a dirty couch raised his head and looked at Yeghen as if he were a thief.

“What do you want?”

“I want a room,” said Yeghen.

“A room,” said the man. “Yes, I can give you a room. It costs two piasters. Do you have the money?”

Yeghen was prepared for this question; he held the coin tightly in his hand. He handed it to the man. The man took it, looked at it in the light of the smoky lamp that lit the vestibule, then said deferentially, “Follow me, sir!”

They climbed a staircase without a banister, its steps worn and dangerous as traps. On the third floor, the man stopped at a door and pushed it open.

“Come in. It’s the most beautiful room in the hotel. I only give it to honorable customers.”

“I’m very grateful,” said Yeghen.

The room was furnished with one iron bed covered with a faded, rose-colored eiderdown, a chair, and a little black wooden table. But Yeghen was only looking at the eiderdown.

“Tell me: I trust there are no bedbugs?”

“Bedbugs!” the clerk said resentfully. “Never, this is a first-class hotel.”

“All right, thank you.”

“I’ll leave you now,” said the clerk. “Sleep well.”

Yeghen undressed in the dark and got into bed. He fell asleep right away and had a dream. He dreamed he was an all-powerful policeman and that he commanded a whole multitude of brutes armed with clubs. He feared no one. He was the uncontested master of the street. Now it was he who tracked down poor men. He sowed terror in his wake, and all the outcasts fled at his approach. He saw himself pursuing a short, ugly person who was none other than himself. He finally caught him, and when he struck him with his bludgeon, he felt a terrible pain ravage his body.

Yeghen awoke uttering a piercing cry. The room was bitterly cold. He moved to pull the eiderdown back up, but to his great surprise he discovered it had disappeared. Astonishment took his breath away; he could not understand what had happened to the eiderdown. He began to call for the hotelkeeper as loudly as he could.

An endless time passed, but no one answered. Sitting up in bed, Yeghen panted, his arms crossed on his chest to keep away the cold. He was about to call again, when the door opened and the desk clerk appeared in the opening holding a kerosene lantern in his hand. A finger to his lips, he advanced cautiously.

“Where is the eiderdown?” cried Yeghen. “What’s going on?”

“It’s nothing,” whispered the clerk. “I’m using it to put a customer to sleep. As soon as he’s asleep, I’ll bring it back to you, on my honor! Only, I beg of you, don’t make a scandal.”

Yeghen then realized what had happened while he was asleep. The hotelkeeper had come into his room and taken away his eiderdown to give to a new customer. He was completely astounded by these fantastic proceedings.

“You have only one eiderdown for the whole hotel?” he asked.

“Oh no,” said the clerk in a low voice. “This is a first-class hotel; we have three eiderdowns, but we also have many customers.”

“I understand,” said Yeghen. “What are we going to do? I’m cold. And I have to sleep. I want an eiderdown.”

“In an instant,” said the clerk. “On my honor, I will bring it back to you right away. The customer I gave it to was very sleepy. He was sleeping on his feet. He must be fast asleep now. Don’t move. I’m going to see. And above all, don’t shout.”

The clerk went out on tiptoe, carrying the lamp. Yeghen remained in darkness, shivering with cold. He heard the man open the door next to his; no doubt it was the room of the new customer. Yeghen began to murmur, “Let him be asleep. Dear God, let him be asleep.” Then he burst into raucous laughter that resounded throughout the hotel like a call to madness.

11

THE POLICEMAN who had brought in the whole gang gave a confused explanation, but Nour El Dine was not listening to him. He was finding it hard to resume his official character; all this was so far from his mind. This story of a café brawl was becoming more and more complicated. Who had started the fight? No one knew. Seated behind his desk, Nour El Dine took in the whole group with one look of unspeakable disdain. Now and then he sighed loudly, like a weary man ready to commit a desperate act. They were lined up before him: three broad-shouldered men with rough hands — probably cart drivers — and a skinny man dressed in rags with a bloody face. According to the policeman, he was a beggar. He stood with head high, and with swollen eyes stared at the police inspector with haughty defiance.

Nour El Dine finally decided to question him.

“Are these the men who beat you? Do you recognize them?”

The man with the bloody face quivered and took one step toward the police inspector, as if he had just insulted his mother.

“Beat me!” he cried. “Who would dare beat me?”

“So what are you complaining about, you son of a bitch!”

“I’m not complaining, Excellency! Who told you I was complaining?”

The three men built like carters remained motionless and silent. They studied their victim with malicious pleasure. Nour El Dine moved as though to stand up — he felt like hitting everyone, but he suddenly sensed the futility of his gesture and refrained. On the outside, he was still a police inspector, tough and uncompromising, tightly laced into his uniform, but deep inside everything was dissolving. He understood nothing of the mortal illness that had taken possession of his being and that rendered him unable to exercise his authority. It seemed that the power from which he drew his strength no longer existed, had never existed. To the astonishment of his audience, he brought his hand to his forehead and leaned on his desk in a pose of profound depression.

The policeman leaned toward him and said quietly, “Are you sick, sir?”

“Throw the whole bunch in the cell,” answered Nour El Dine. “I don’t want to see them anymore.”

When the policeman and the four men had left the room, Nour El Dine looked at the plainclothesman seated on a chair, who had been waiting for a moment. It was the man he had assigned to watch the brothel.

“What do you have to tell me?”

“Actually, Excellency, I have nothing new to report. I think my job has become useless. Everyone there seems to know who I am.”

“That doesn’t surprise me coming from you. No doubt you did everything to stand out.”

“But I did obtain results, Excellency! The confession of the young man—”

“I know,” Nour El Dine interrupted. “He made a fool of you.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Don’t try to understand; you’ll hurt yourself! Tell me: did you notice anything new about this Gohar Effendi?”

“No, sir. He is a courteous and well-behaved man. He never seemed suspect to me.”

“Well, that’s why I find him suspicious. You may go now.”

Once alone, Nour El Dine took his head in his hands and breathed a sigh of relief. His nerves were exhausted. This gang of bastards gave him no respite. He would have liked to kill them all, so as never to hear about them again. For some time he had been carrying out his duties in a grotesque fashion. A troubling element was interfering with his vitality and making him cruelly perplexed. What could he call this strange weakness, this weariness of the soul that had paralyzed him right in the middle of an interrogation, annihilating all will in him? It was making him stupid.

What he found incredible was this pride he was discovering everywhere around him, even among the most destitute people, those least likely to have any. The memory of the starving beggar with the bloody swollen face continued to haunt him. A strange fellow. He had not wanted to admit that he had been beaten. Who’d have expected to find pride there? Nour El Dine was faced with an enigma he could not penetrate, an enigma beyond any police investigation. What kept him in this fool’s profession? Did he still believe in it? To spend his life seeing this accursed brood file before him, to suffer the frightening pride of these vagabonds — what a wretched curse! And that, just when he himself had forsaken all pride. For hadn’t he almost groveled in the dirt before Samir, trying to soften him? The bitterest thing was that this shameful humiliation had not achieved anything; the young man had remained unmoved, coldly hostile. And when he had tried to touch him — most unhappy gesture — Samir had drawn a small knife from his pocket and had threatened him. Nour El Dine would never forget the hatred he had read in his eyes. That murderous light! He shivered again just thinking about it.

It was not so easy to forget, to overcome his sadness. At every moment as he carried out his duties, he ran up against the imbecilic pride of this miserable rabble. That only reopened his wound. And what on earth for? What joy could he hope for? More and more he felt that he must relinquish the responsibility of this endless, useless battle where he harvested only bitterness and deceit. Let murderers prosper and die in their beds. After all, he didn’t give a damn.

It was already night when he rose and went out to the street. The yellow lights of the streetlamps sparkled all around the immense square bordered by stores and noisy cafés. Nour El Dine hurried across the road without paying attention to the swirls of traffic. The noise of streetcars and automobiles rushing by reached his ears as if muffled by distance. It seemed to him that for some time things were moving away from him, and that he saw them through a veil. Eyes wild, the collar of his tunic unbuttoned, he advanced, pushed toward his destiny by a malevolent force. He could not lie to himself; what now drew him to Gohar had no connection with the investigation of the murder of the prostitute. Since meeting Gohar, and especially since the conversation he’d had with him while accompanying him to his door, there had been a change in the way he thought about his work. Nour El Dine was beginning to waver. He, who had never questioned the sacred power that he held, was beginning to wonder where truth lay. He was no longer sure of anything. Despite his conviction that Gohar was the killer he sought — although admittedly he had no tangible proof — he continued to be far more interested in Gohar’s personality than in the act of arresting a criminal. He realized that Gohar posed a problem whose solution would be fundamental to his future. All the time he had been compiling the facts accusing Gohar, he had felt he was dealing with explosive material that, once ignited, would leave only rubble behind. But he also felt that out of this rubble would come peace, the peace that he had felt in Gohar’s presence and that at this moment he lacked terribly.

Nour El Dine plunged into the maze of alleys dimly lit by an occasional streetlamp. He could not quite remember where the house was located; all these shacks resembled one another in their common dilapidation. He made several detours, scrutinizing the cracked façades, trying to remember at which door he had left Gohar that night, but in vain. Everything was jumbled in his head; he couldn’t recognize the precise spot. Bitterly disappointed, he was about to turn back when chance favored him: passing by a door, he bumped into someone.

“What a pleasant surprise!” said Gohar. “Were you coming to visit me? Welcome.”

“I was passing through the neighborhood and thought of coming to see you,” said Nour El Dine. “I hope I’m not disturbing you.”

“Not at all. It is an honor for me. Really, what a pleasant coincidence. I don’t usually come home so early, but I wanted to leave this package in my room.”

Gohar was carrying a big package of old newspapers under his arm, held with difficulty tight against his hip. He was bent under the weight of his burden and appeared out of breath. Yet he amusedly contemplated the police inspector, as if this meeting made him strangely contented. He easily guessed it had not been accidental and that Nour El Dine had come to his house with the intention of questioning him about the crime. Did he already suspect him? Anyway, Gohar had been expecting this visit. He even desired it.

“Excuse my going up before you,” he said, “but I must show you the way. If not, you could kill yourself. This stairway is a veritable abyss; every step is a trap.”

One behind the other, they slowly climbed the dark staircase. In this impenetrable darkness, Nour El Dine could not see Gohar; he only heard his hoarse, panting breathing. He felt as if he had suddenly gone blind.

At last a faint glimmer. Gohar stopped on the landing; his neighbor’s door was open and a light from a kerosene lamp feebly lit the flat, which seemed empty. Gohar stood in puzzlement for a few seconds. This open door frightened him; he would not care to meet his neighbor, the terrible hag. But suddenly the sound of a voice like an infant’s cry roused him from his hesitation.

“Good people! Come and help me!”

Gohar advanced to the threshold, then entered his neighbor’s flat, looking for the source of this poignant cry. He spotted the limbless man in a corner set on the ground like a horrible mutilated statue. With demented, tearful eyes, he was staring at a plate filled with beans and a piece of bread spread out before him: his evening meal. At Gohar’s approach, he raised his head and his face assumed an expression of intense relief.

“What can I do for you?” asked Gohar.

“I’m hungry,” answered the man. “My wife went out and left me all alone. Could you help me eat?”

“Certainly,” said Gohar.

He leaned down to place his pack of newspapers on the ground, revealing Nour El Dine in the doorway.

“The police!” cried the limbless man, noticing him. “What are the police doing here?”

“He’s a friend,” said Gohar. “Don’t worry. He won’t harm you.”

“I don’t like to see the police. Get him out of here!”

Rolling his eyes in fear, the man forgot his hunger and thought only of this astounding scandal: the presence of a police inspector in his room. He twisted his body on its base of piled-up rags and grunted like a beast caught in a trap, absurdly trying to escape what he thought to be an arrest. His desperate efforts were so pathetic that Nour El Dine was on the point of going to help him. Finally he calmed down, his fright abandoning him little by little, and he remained immobile, mouth open, waiting for his food. With his large, flat nose, thick lips, and puffy cheeks covered with stubble, he resembled an enormous toad.

Gohar squatted next to him, and with an almost maternal delicacy and sweetness began to feed him. He behaved with the man as he would with an infant.

“Why did she leave?” he asked. “You had a quarrel?”

“Yes,” said the man. “That bitch is jealous. She never stops making scenes.”

“If she is jealous, then she must love you,” said Gohar. “Tell me what happened.”

“Well, it was like this. Tonight when she came to fetch me in town, she found me chatting with a young cigarette-butt scavenger. That made her furious. Every time she sees a woman come near me, she goes crazy with jealousy. And yet I am faithful. I can’t help it if women make advances to me. I swear to God! I don’t know what attracts them to me!”

Nour El Dine remained leaning against the doorframe like a condemned man at the stake. The words of the limbless man had trouble penetrating his consciousness. Was it possible? He couldn’t conceive of such pretentions, such self-conceit on the part of so hideous a human wreck. He had the feeling that the man was indecently putting on airs by speaking of the attraction he exercised on women. What especially fascinated Nour El Dine was the absence of any gestures; this absence conferred a grave, solemn tone on his words, the cold dignity of a talking machine. Nour El Dine wanted to burst out laughing, but a reflex of professional manners restrained him. He must keep a straight face at all costs. He had come this far to penetrate a mystery; perhaps he was finally going to understand.

The limbless man ate with a ferocious appetite. From time to time he glanced furtively at Nour El Dine; he still could not believe that this inspector was here on a courtesy call. Fear of being arrested made him swallow too quickly; he seemed to beg Gohar to hurry and, above all, not to abandon him.

“Don’t worry, she’ll surely come back,” said Gohar.

“Oh no! I don’t want her anymore,” said the man. “Let her go and get herself screwed somewhere else. I’ve had enough. And besides, she’s too old for me. I’m going to repudiate her. I intend to get remarried with a young virgin.”

He smiled lewdly, looked at Gohar, and added, “What do you think of that?”

Gohar recalled the horrible woman and was pleased at the thought of having a young neighbor soon.

“I think you’re right,” he said. “It’s always preferable to have a young woman. There’s no doubt about, it’s more enjoyable.”

“That’s right. What I want is a little virgin. I hope you’ll do me the honor of coming to my wedding. I’m going to give a nuptial dinner.”

“I wouldn’t miss it,” said Gohar. “You want something to drink?”

“Yes, please. There’s the water jug.”

The water jug was against the wall behind Gohar. He took it, tipped it toward the man’s mouth, and helped him drink.

“Thank you,” the man said, after having drunk. “Believe me, I’m sorry to take advantage of your kindness like this.”

“It is an honor and a pleasure for me,” said Gohar.

“You can count on my gratitude. I would be delighted to render you any service whatsoever.”

“I am your humble servant,” said Gohar. “A neighbor like you is a blessing from heaven.”

This exchange of exquisite courtesies was not to Nour El Dine’s taste. He began to wonder if Gohar and the limbless man were making fun of him. For an instant he thought of leaving, fleeing this vision of hell. But something held him in spite of himself; he wanted to understand. If only they would explain to him how this man, this outcast from humanity, could excite a woman’s jealousy. But no, Gohar continued to converse tranquilly with the man, making a grand display of civilities as if it were a worldly conversation. Nour El Dine felt like an intruder, as if seeing a pair of lovers busy caressing each other. He had a strong desire to beat a retreat. He backed up slowly and found himself alone on the dark landing. But it was too late now to escape the trap that destiny held for him. Gohar’s voice already reached him, saying goodbye to the limbless man.

“Peace be with you! I’ll be back to see you soon.”

Gohar came out on tiptoe, his cane held above the ground, taking a thousand precautions, as if he feared to disturb the sleep of a sick person. With the happy air of someone who had just attended an amusing spectacle, he crossed the landing and pushed open the door to his flat.

“After you, Excellency!”

Nour El Dine hesitated before crossing the threshold, then he boldly advanced into the darkness like a man resolved to hurl himself into an abyss. He stopped, winded; he had just collided with a wooden object. He went around the obstacle and stood still, expecting to receive a knife in his heart. He had the feeling that Samir was hiding in the shadows, knife in hand, ready to kill him. For an instant this uneasiness was extreme, then he heard Gohar moving somewhere in the dark and soon a candle flame lit up the room.

“Would you kindly take this chair,” said Gohar. “I’m sorry the place is not worthy of you, Excellency! It’s a poor flat, but please behave as if you were in your own home.”

Nour El Dine let himself fall into the chair but didn’t say anything. What did this speech mean? Did he take him for an imbecile? Behave as if he were in his own home? It was the height of mockery. Nour El Dine almost believed that evil spirits were trying to ridicule him. He had expected to find a miserable room, filled with broken, dirty furniture, but not this extraordinary austerity, this marvelous emptiness as tempting as a mirage. This starkness seemed suspect and he looked around uneasily and suspiciously.

With his back to the wall, Gohar was seated on the packet of newspapers. He still wore his tarboosh and held his cane in his hand. It was cold and damp in the room. Nour El Dine buttoned the collar of his tunic, shook his head, and after a moment’s silence said, “It’s beyond all reason, Gohar Effendi!”

“What do you mean?”

“I’m thinking about that beggar. What conceit! To hear him tell it, all the women run after him.”

“Don’t forget, Inspector, that that beggar is a gold mine because of his mutilations. Women are selfish.”

“Still! Such a horrible creature!”

“There is nothing horrible about him,” said Gohar. “Especially for a woman. That armless, legless man makes love as well as anyone. And even better than some, judging by what I happened to hear. Believe me, the woman’s voluptuous cries were not faked. And I confess that it’s rather comforting.”

“What’s comforting?”

“It’s comforting to know that even a man with no limbs can give pleasure,” said Gohar.

“Such a monster!”

“This monster possesses an advantage over us, Inspector. He knows peace. He has nothing more to lose. Just imagine, no one can take anything else from him.”

“Do you think you must go that far to have peace?”

“I don’t know,” said Gohar. “Perhaps you must become a man with no limbs to know peace. Do you realize the impotence of the government against a limbless man? What can it do to him?”

“It can hang him,” said Nour El Dine.

“Hang a man with no limbs! No, Excellency. No government would have enough humor to indulge in such an act. That would really be too much.”

“You are a curious person. Do you read all these newspapers?”

“God forbid!” said Gohar. “No, they serve as a mattress to sleep on.”

When he grasped the significance of the newspapers spread on the floor, Nour El Dine was seized with panic before such total poverty. Even the most miserable being slept on a mattress, he thought. How could you sleep on a pile of newspapers? In his mind that was proof of insanity.

“You don’t have a bed? You sleep on a pile of newspapers?”

“I’ve slept like this for years, Excellency! Why do you worry?”

“How did you fall into such misery? From the way you speak, you seem to be an educated man, I’d even say a highly cultivated one. Normally you should have occupied a high rung in the social hierarchy. But you live like a beggar. That is a mystery I’d like to understand.”

“It’s no mystery. I live like a beggar because I want to.”

“By Allah, you’re a surprising man! Your way of thinking baffles me more and more.”

“The truth, Inspector, is that you are easily surprised. Life, real life, is childishly simple. There is no mystery. There are only bastards.”

“Who are you calling bastards?”

“If you don’t know who the bastards are, then there’s no hope for you. That is the only thing you don’t learn from others, Inspector.”

Hands clenched between his knees, Nour El Dine bowed his head; he seemed to be meditating on a doleful problem.

“It’s more complex than that,” he said finally. “There are not just good guys and bastards.”

“No,” said Gohar. “I refuse to allow nuances. Don’t tell me that it’s more complex than that. Why don’t you understand that this so-called complexity only benefits the bastards?”

Resigned, Nour El Dine fell silent. Once again weariness took hold of him. This empty room gave him a feeling of peace and seemed to isolate him from the rest of the universe. He imagined himself sleeping on the pile of newspapers, happy and lazy, freed from his anguish. What was the use of continuing to search for an impossible happiness? It was true that nothing could happen between these walls, in this skillfully arranged emptiness. No doubt Gohar was right. To live like a beggar was to follow the path of wisdom. A life in the primitive state, without constraints. Nour El Dine dreamed of how sweet a beggar’s life would be, free and proud, with nothing to lose. He could finally indulge in his vice without fear or shame. He would even be proud of this vice that had been his worst torment for years. Samir would come back to him. His hatred would vanish automatically when he saw him dispossessed of his emblems of authority, washed of his prejudice and his slimy morality. He would no longer have to fear Samir’s disdain or his sarcasm.

But it wasn’t that easy to yield to temptation. He rose from the chair and took a few steps across the room; then, turning, he stood before Gohar. For a moment he admired the calm face of his host lit by the flickering candle. Doubtless this man had committed a crime, but his features remained perfectly serene. He seemed immune to fear and suffering, a stranger to the real world that surrounded him. A plaintive sigh escaped Nour El Dine’s chest. He felt he was not mature enough for this calm, this absolute detachment that a beggar’s life called for. He was still too submissive to the regulations of his work; his duty commanded him to complete his mission. He could not forget entirely that he was a police inspector responsible for enforcing the law, and that he was there to investigate the murder of a young prostitute.

“Actually,” he said, “I came here to ask you some questions.”

“I’m listening,” said Gohar. “Ask me all the questions you want.”

“It’s about that murder in the whorehouse,” said Nour El Dine, sitting back down in his chair.

“I know,” said Gohar. “I was expecting your visit. Speak, and I will answer you. While we wait, I’ll make you some coffee. Pardon me for having neglected to offer you something to drink.”

“I don’t want anything,” said Nour El Dine. “Don’t trouble yourself for me.”

Gohar lit the spirit burner anyway and began to prepare the coffee. As he poured the water in the coffeepot, he observed Nour El Dine in silence. He was curious to know how the resolution would take place. But the police inspector asked no questions. He seemed to be lost in some distant dream.

It was Gohar who asked, “Do you suspect someone?”

“Frankly, I must say that I suspect you,” answered Nour El Dine with an anxious look in his eyes.

“Well, I congratulate you, Excellency,” said Gohar. “You have seen things clearly. I am the murderer.”

This sudden confession had the effect of a catastrophe on Nour El Dine. He shook his head firmly, at the same time thrashing his hands in front of his eyes in a gesture of negation, of refusal.

“What a farce!” he cried. “Oh, no, it’s too childish, Gohar Effendi! Your young friend El Kordi already confessed. What’s gotten into you all that you all want to confess? By any chance, do you also want to reform the world?”

“God forbid!” said Gohar. “You are wrong, Excellency, to compare me to that young man. El Kordi thinks like you; he too believes that things are more complicated than they are!”

The coffee was ready; Gohar poured the contents of the coffeepot into two chipped cups, then held one out to Nour El Dine.

“I’m at your disposal,” he said. “What do you plan to do?”

“I don’t plan to do anything for the moment. I can’t arrest you on the basis of a simple confession. I need proof. Tomorrow I’ll make a decision. I must first question someone; everything depends on that interrogation.”

Suddenly a song rose up; it was coming from the next flat. In a hoarse voice, the man with no limbs was crazily singing a joyous song.

“Faster, coachman, faster!

Take me to Zouzou’s house!”

“Incredible! — he’s singing!”

“Why shouldn’t he sing?” said Gohar. “He has every reason to be cheerful.”

“Yes, no doubt. Still, I would like to understand.”

Nour El Dine brought the cup to his lips and drank a mouthful of coffee. The coffee was bitter, as bitter as his life.

The sun was shining above the peaks of the minarets when Yeghen stopped, undecided, at the edge of the square. He knew that soon, in the police station, all would be injustice and gloom. Yet he was not afraid. His indecision had nothing to do with a fear of torture. He was simply possessed by a boyish desire to prolong his walk among the crowd. He loved to stroll about, always expecting the unpredictable. He had taken his drugs beforehand, so he felt calm and clearheaded. The thought of confronting the authorities even made him oddly elated.

Yeghen had been expecting this summons. For a long time, he suspected that Nour El Dine, the police inspector, had dark plans for him. But what exactly did he know? Did he take him for the killer, or did he only suspect Yeghen of knowing the murderer’s identity? In any case, Nour El Din was hoping for some confession from him. Yeghen had no illusions about the manner in which the inspector planned to question him. Torture had become one of the favored methods in the life of civilized society. Nothing could be done against stomach cancer, and even less against the terror instituted by men to oppress other men. Yeghen put police brutality in the same category as incurable illnesses and natural cataclysms.

The police station was located on the other side of the square. It was a one-story white stone building with bars on the windows. Instead of crossing the square, Yeghen took the sidewalk to the left; he had decided to stroll a little more. It was eleven in the morning and the square was swarming with a multitude of people whose busy appearance fooled no one. Yeghen admired this perpetual stagnation amid the disorder and illusory movement. To a sharp eye, it was readily apparent that nothing urgent or sensational was taking place. Despite the noise of streetcars, automobile horns, and the strident voices of strolling merchants, Yeghen had the impression of a world where words and gestures were measured according to an eternal life. Frenzy was banished from this crowd that moved in eternity — it seemed animated by a wise joy that no torture, no oppression could extinguish.

With lucid detachment, Yeghen thought about the suffering awaiting him. It was not the first time he had undergone an interrogation; the brutality of policemen held no secrets for him. But up to now he had experienced it for minor offenses involving drug trafficking. This time, it was something else; it was a murder. The question was, would the policemen hit him harder than usual. No, Yeghen told himself. For a small drug deal or for a major crime, the force of the blows would be roughly the same. So he didn’t have to fear any weakness on his part. He knew he would never pronounce Gohar’s name. It was not a question of courage or of sacrifice for friendship’s sake. To betray his friends, or even his own mother, seemed insignificant compared to the innumerable crimes committed throughout the world. No, in this case it was not only to save Gohar but also to demonstrate to Nour El Dine the ludicrous role of the police. Nour El Dine was the personification of an absurd justice. Yeghen had to prove the grotesquery of the situation to him. With this to look forward to, he felt joyous and began to laugh.

Yeghen entered the police station. He found himself in a big room with whitewashed walls containing only a desk, behind which sat a sergeant. This man was reading his newspaper with a rather comically laborious look. Yeghen approached him, took out his subpoena, and waited. The sergeant stopped reading and raised his head.

“What is it?”

He looked at Yeghen as if he suspected him of the worst misdeeds. Yeghen knew this look. His ugliness always exposed him to criminal prosecution; he represented the very image of the alleged killer for these obtuse souls. He smiled and handed his summons to the sergeant. The man took the piece of paper, glanced at it, then said, “Wait here! Don’t move.”

“I’m not going to flee,” said Yeghen.

The sergeant pressed a button while watching him with a sullen look. After a moment, a bull-like policeman appeared and saluted according to regulations.

“At your command, Sergeant.”

“Take this man to the inspector.”

The policeman saluted again, then motioned for Yeghen to follow him.

“Come on.”

Yeghen followed the policeman along a narrow corridor. Contemplating the massive shoulders of his guide, he felt his will waver. To fall into the hands of a torturer like that meant certain death. The policeman stopped at a door and knocked. A voice answered from within. The policeman opened the door and pushed Yeghen ahead of him.

“Sir! The sergeant told me to bring you this man.”

“Very well,” said Nour El Dine. “You may go.”

The inspector was seated behind his desk with the collar of his tunic open, his features glum and tense. He had not shaved and seemed not to have slept all night. His eyes burned feverishly, and the look he gave Yeghen was that of a man come to the end of a tragedy.

“Approach. I am glad to see you.”

“Greetings, Inspector,” said Yeghen.

“You are late,” Nour El Dine returned. “For that alone you deserve a week in prison.”

“Excuse me, Excellency! I don’t have an alarm clock.”

“Stop the jokes. I’m not in a mood to joke. I warn you, this time it is serious. You won’t get out of here alive.”

Without being invited, Yeghen took a chair and sat down.

“I’ve already made my will,” he said.

Nour El Dine was quiet; he tried to control the rage that was choking him. From his first words, Yeghen had shown him the insanity of this interrogation. These people never took anything seriously. Nour El Dine felt much more comfortable with the vagabonds, the rabble born to commit sordid offenses. At least you could frighten them. But these disreputable intellectuals were forever breaking down all sense of authority in him. Nour El Dine considered himself a reasonable being; that is, he believed in the existence of the government and in the speeches pronounced by ministers. He had blind faith in the institutions of the civilized world. The attitude of Yeghen and his fellow men always disconcerted him; they appeared not to realize that there was a government. They were not against the government; they simply were not aware of it.

“I will no longer tolerate your stupid jokes. You are here to be interrogated about a murder!”

Yeghen smiled smugly.

“Your servant, Excellency!”

He sat huddled on his chair, ready for any eventuality. He knew that all this would end in blows because he would not say anything. Through the bars of the closed window he saw the animation of the square and heard the muffled noise of traffic. So life continued outdoors.

“Very well,” said the inspector, “let’s start at the beginning. But I warn you one more time that this is serious, and that I want precise answers. I know you are aware of many things.”

“Me?” said Yeghen. “Really, Inspector, you honor me too much.”

“Tell me: Were you at Set Amina’s the day of the murder?”

Yeghen pretended to reflect.

“To tell you the truth, Excellency, I was sleeping.”

“Where were you when Arnaba was assassinated?”

“I just told you, Excellency, I was sleeping.”

Nour El Dine kept his composure; his face serious, he was silent for a moment. There was no doubt that Yeghen was playing dumb.

“I know for a fact that you were at the brothel on that day. Who did you meet there?”

“I was sleeping, Excellency.”

“No one came while you were asleep?”

“How should I know, Excellency, since I was asleep?”

“By Allah! Do you sleep all the time, you son of a bitch!”

“Excuse me, Inspector, but I didn’t know that sleeping was against the law.”

“Well, I’m going to wake you up.”

Nour El Dine was overwhelmed; the stupidity of such a defense went beyond his understanding. The wretch was sleeping! He must have taken drugs before coming. He knew Yeghen was capable of hanging on to this unshakable position until the end.

“I’ll give you five minutes to think it over. After that, I know how to make you talk.”

Yeghen was about to answer that he was sleeping, but he realized the inspector hadn’t asked him any questions, and he was silent. In five minutes the torture would begin. He set about thinking of frivolous things.

Nour El Dine looked at his watch, then sat back in his chair and waited. This interrogation was turning into a joke. It would only serve to further shake his own confidence in authority and justice. He was now convinced that Yeghen would not say anything; he would keep his secret even under torture. As this attitude did not tally with his character, it was rather disturbing. Nour El Dine was certain that Yeghen knew who the murderer was. So why was he keeping quiet? The murderer could not pay him to keep quiet; the crime had brought nothing to its perpetrator. It was not a question of honor either. Nour El Dine was sufficiently aware of Yeghen’s past to know that he never bothered about certain prejudices.

He asked, “You’re not afraid of a beating?”

“No,” answered Yeghen.

“That’s not possible.”

“Beatings are minor incidents in the life of a man like me, Inspector! Minor incidents.”

“You have no dignity.”

Yeghen laughed.

“You remind me of my mother,” he said. “My mother always tells me that my father was an honorable man and that I am the shame of the family.”

“You have no emotions? You feel nothing?”

“Yes, Excellency! At this moment I feel an immense astonishment.”

“What kind of astonishment?”

“I am astonished that a man like you spends his time playing such unsatisfying games.”

“How would you like me to spend my time?”

“Go for a walk,” Yeghen answered.

Nour El Dine became livid.

“I see there is nothing to be done,” he said. “You asked for it.”

The door opened, admitting two policemen who looked at Yeghen, then slowly approached him.

“You going to talk now?”

Yeghen didn’t answer. Nour El Dine signaled to the policemen. One of them went behind Yeghen while the other stood in front of him, ready to strike.

Yeghen watched this whole scene like an uninvolved spectator. He told himself only that he had been wrong to claim the inspector was not playing an enjoyable game. For them, this must be very enjoyable. After all, these men had their own amusements. He felt neither hatred nor disdain for them. He felt very calm and he closed his eyes.

The first punch nearly took off his head; he felt an atrocious pain that was immediately neutralized by a second blow, then by all those that followed. Then the pain grew and formed a compact, measureless block. Yeghen found himself plunged to the bottom of a black gulf filled with flashing lights. Sometimes Nour El Dine’s voice reached him, still asking, “You going to talk, you son of a bitch?”

Suddenly, in the tumult of his brain, he heard a distant noise. This noise reminded him of something and he tried to understand what it was. He was a long time trying. The canon blast at noon! It was noon and the canon had just boomed. He opened his eyes and shouted, “Gentlemen, it is noon!”

The policeman who was lifting his arm to knock him on the head stopped, amazed.

“So what?” he asked.

“Well then! I think that it’s time to eat,” said Yeghen in a weak voice. “I’m hungry.”

Nour El Dine buried his head in his hands; he wanted to scream.

“Throw him out,” he said. “I don’t want to see him anymore.”

The policemen grabbed Yeghen and took him away. Nour El Dine remained alone, prey to the most profound consternation. Then he remembered that it was noon and he stood up to go to lunch.

Leaving the police station, Nour El Dine thought that Gohar was no doubt the murderer. But what did that matter to him now? He had decided to hand in his resignation and to live henceforth as a beggar. A beggar, that was easy — but proud? Where would he find pride? There was nothing left in him but an infinite weariness, an immense need for peace — simply for peace.

Content

Albert Cossery
Proud Beggars

BIOGRAPHICAL NOTES

INTRODUCTION

PROUD BEGGARS

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