“The cliff road, a strategic route! I had no idea, Your Excellency! On my honor, I didn’t know.”
“Well, I am informing you now. You should know that the cliff road is a strategic route of the utmost importance. Politicians, heads of foreign states, and prestigious military officials often take this road.”
“That’s true,” said Karim, “but I don’t see what that has to do with me.”
“You really don’t see?”
“No, by Allah I don’t! I’m trying to understand, but I don’t.”
“Well, I’ll have to tell you then. It’s like this: You are a dangerous man.”
“Me? What do they have against me?”
“Nothing, at the moment,” the policeman admitted. “But you’re on our black list. We’ve had dealings with you in the past, right?”
“That’s true, I won’t deny it. But it was years ago, under the previous government.”
Again the policeman shook his head, gazing with pity at Karim: such arguments were beyond stupid. Really, these revolutionaries were disarmingly naive.
“If you didn’t like the previous government,” he said, “there’s no reason why you should like this one. We know all about hotheads like you.”
Karim was dumbstruck by the brilliant accuracy of this analysis. What could he say? And yet he wasn’t going to be thrown off track by the whims of one lousy cop. He had to go all the way to the end.
He protested his good faith.
“How wrong you are, Your Excellency! Me, dislike the government? You’d have to be blind not to love it. Look at me: Am I blind? I’ll tell you in all frankness that I look up to the current government the way I look up to my own father. What more can I say to show my respect?”
“Since you brought it up, where is your father?”
“He’s dead,” Karim replied. “I’m an orphan.”
Either out of gratitude—the scene was a gift from heaven—or because he wanted to play his role of repentant rebel to the hilt, Karim was soon on the verge of tears. With his head in his hands, he began mumbling—almost sobbing—about his bad luck, about the unhappiness he’d endured since childhood. He did everything he could to make the whole melodrama seem real, and though he may not have been entirely convincing, the policeman appeared to relent a little at last, remaining silent as he waited for the painful moment to pass. But Karim kept going, talking about his poor mother, dead from a mysterious disease (strongly resembling asthma), the symptoms and effects of which he described with the precision of a trained physician.
Hearing this, the policeman’s eyes grew a little sad. His features took on a defeated, depressed look. He’d been in his job for thirty years; there was nothing left for him to learn about the vicissitudes of existence. His skepticism about the benefits of the rule of law, as well as his total lack of ambition, had kept him in the lower ranks of a profession in which cynicism and brutality were the only virtues that counted. A deep human sympathy made him feel a kinship with his fellow man. This young man could have been his son; he was touched by his suffering, whether fake or real.
“How do you get by? Do you work?”
“Of course,” said Karim. “I’m in manufacturing.”
“Manufacturing of what?”
“I manufacture kites.”
“You’re pulling my leg.”
“I wouldn’t dare, Your Excellency! It’s the truth. There’s nothing extraordinary about it. You’ve just never thought of it. Look, I’ll show you some samples of my work.”
He got up quickly and walked over to the corner where the kites were stored. He chose two of different shape and color, and holding one in each hand he lifted them up so the policeman could admire them at leisure.
“Look. You see these kites; I made them. There are no others like them, not even abroad. I have orders from every corner of the world. Soon I’m going to have to take on some help.”
The policeman, who still didn’t want to believe this story, stared at the two kites like objects in a dream. As much as he wanted to write a positive report, he knew he could never demonstrate that the manufacture of kites constituted honest work. And yet, he thought, these kites—someone made them; they didn’t grow on trees. But how could he tell his superiors that a former revolutionary, a subversive spirit, had devoted himself to such a pursuit, without drawing any suspicion to himself?
“It’s not serious,” he said. “If I put this in my report, I’ll be the one accused of making fun of the authorities.”
“But why? There’s nothing bad about it. It’s a modest living, of course, but it gives joy to thousands of children who play with kites. How can you hold it against me, Your Excellency, that I’m interested in making children happy? Today’s children are tomorrow’s heroes, right? I understand that to a casual observer these kites seem like a childish pastime. But when you think about it, you begin to understand that in practicing this peaceful sport, the children acquire a robust constitution and a healthy view of society, which helps to turn them into good, law-abiding citizens. In other words, as you can’t help but see, I labor in the national interest.”
The policeman listened to this long outburst with growing discomfort; this young man surprised him more and more. If he wasn’t a revolutionary, he had to be, at the very least, quite mad. The policeman thought about his report; he foresaw problems.
“If I may,” broke in Karim after a silence.
“Please.”
“Do you have children?”
Now he was asking personal questions. What next? Was his wife pretty?
“Yes, I have children. May God preserve them.”
“How old are they?”
“The oldest is thirteen.”
“What a marvelous coincidence! Would you permit me to offer them one of these kites? It would be an honor as well as a pleasure.”
The policeman resisted, but politely, not making a fuss.
“If I’m not mistaken, this is an attempt to bribe an officer of the law. I will be obliged to mention it in my report.”
“To bribe you!” exclaimed Karim. “May the sky fall on my head! Your Excellency, you’ve hurt my feelings. Believe me, I love children. So much so that whenever I see one, tears spring to my eyes. I don’t understand how you could misconstrue my offer as an attempted bribe. It was an impulsive gesture; my intentions were noble and pure. I’ll be insulted if you reject my humble offering.”
And, once again, his eyes filled with tears!
This was a terrible test of the will. The whole investigation was disconcerting—it was so out of the ordinary. Could the young man be in earnest? The policeman thought it was possible. Those proud, stubborn revolutionaries would never talk like this, let alone break down and cry. That was evidence enough that he wasn’t mistaken. But strangely this certitude—he didn’t know why—made him sad. What would happen to the world if all the revolutionaries repented and reformed? It seemed to him that a light, somewhere, would go out.
Karim had put one of the kites back on the pile; he held the other out to the policeman, in a beseeching gesture. His face wore an expression of intolerable moral suffering.
“You can’t do this to me!”
The officer’s compassionate character made him vulnerable. He felt vaguely guilty of impoliteness. The most basic civility demanded that he not refuse a gift offered with such fervor.
Perhaps it was the very meagerness of the gift that finally convinced him to accept. He coughed to clear his voice.
“Well, then, thank you. But I’ll take the smallest one.”
“I am your servant,” Karim blurted out. “You do me unspeakable honor.”
Taking the policeman by the arm, he invited him to choose. The policeman, after a moment of hesitation, chose the smallest kite he could find; he hadn’t forgotten the issue of transport. He saw himself lugging the cumbersome toy home, unable to hide his burden.
“With my compliments,” said Karim. “I hope that the children enjoy it.”
>
“For their sake, thank you,” the policeman said, as he turned toward the door. “I must write my report. You’ll receive a summons shortly.”
“Your visit has comforted me enormously,” Karim replied. “I felt alone and abandoned. Believe me, I’m so grateful.”
He escorted the policeman onto the terrace and to the door of the stairway, bowing continually. For several minutes he continued to maintain an attitude of artificial deference, then, all at once, he burst into laughter.
He couldn’t stop laughing. The cliff road had become a strategic route! Ah! The sick bastards! They had strategic routes now! What presumption! They’d make use of anything to enhance their prestige. But to make him move for so stupid a reason! That was the limit! It was of the utmost importance that he respond to this threat. He wouldn’t let himself be evicted; he wouldn’t give them the pleasure. First of all, he had to do something about this miserable policeman before he had a chance to write his report. Karim felt sure he’d brought him around, but you never knew. He’d ended up taking a kite; why wouldn’t he take more? Karim decided to turn the whole business over to Khaled Omar, the businessman. Khaled Omar, thanks to his contacts at every level of society, would be able to get to the policeman—or his superiors! Khaled Omar could afford to bribe an army of bureaucrats. Karim collected his materials and brought them back into the room. He dressed hastily. It was time to go visit his rich friend.
Outside the house, he paused briefly, contemplating the strategic route with a malicious glint in his eye. He felt a strong desire to piss on it.
3
KHALED Omar, an illiterate man, had made his professional debut where some businessmen finish their careers: in prison. A few short years ago he had been a penniless drifter—perpetually hungry, sleeping on the streets, living off thievery and handouts. But Providence, for mysterious reasons, had planned a glorious future for him. Caught red-handed picking a wallet from someone’s pocket, he was arrested and given a sentence of eighteen months. This unhappy circumstance was the prelude to his ascent into prosperity, for it was behind prison bars that he discovered his vocation and his star began to rise. Freed from the dread of starvation, no longer worried about his survival, his frustrated but now awakening spirit began to notice a host of things he’d never had the chance to appreciate. Looking around him, he was fascinated by the prevailing economic phenomena of a society condemned to isolation. The black market inside the prison made a powerful impression on him. At first he couldn’t participate; he had nothing to sell and nothing with which to buy anything. So he bought on credit and sold his new acquisitions at a profit. The simplicity of this operation astounded him. For the first time in his life he’d made money without expending the slightest effort. In no time, he became a shrewd speculator. He had an innate sense of the laws of supply and demand, and by the end of six months he controlled every transaction and regulated prices at will. He provided the prisoners with supplies of all kinds: cigarettes, drugs, sometimes even women. The jailers, practical men, supported his enterprise; he made it worth their while. By the end, he’d turned prison smuggling into a veritable branch of the national economy.
When he was released, in possession of some cash—and, more important, of a flair for business—he hurried to put on a suit and good shoes and to don a tarboosh. Then, having rented himself an office, he embarked on a number of legal and quasi-legal operations, always with success. He now owned several buildings, along with beautiful land in the most fertile regions, and he continued to conduct his affairs while exerting himself as little as possible. He limited his activities to talking on the telephone with people he never saw. Despite his prosperity, despite his fancy exterior and elegant airs, he retained his peasant manners and his common speech. He only liked vagabonds and only enjoyed the company of unemployed eccentrics whose time was their own. His easy rise to riches had opened his eyes to the fraudulence of the world: he understood that such a thing could not be possible except among madmen and thieves.
His office was made in the image of his rugged spirit. Situated in a back alley of the port, it was striking for its complete lack of paperwork, account books, and the other nonsense businesses employ to create confusion with an imposing appearance. All you could see was a table dominated by an old-fashioned telephone, two wicker armchairs, and a few wooden crates stacked in a corner against the wall, covered in dust.
When Karim showed up just before noon, Khaled Omar was in the middle of a phone call. He waved to his visitor with his free hand, to indicate that his conversation was nearing an end. Karim sat down in one of the wicker chairs and admired the businessman’s technique. Slouched in his swivel chair, Khaled Omar listened to his interlocutor, punctuating the conversation with a nod of the head or a curt word. From time to time he let out a sigh, as if to make it clear that he was sacrificing precious time. There wasn’t a scrap of paper or a pencil on the table. He kept everything in his head.
Khaled Omar put down the receiver and swiveled to face Karim; thunderous laughter burst out as if from the depths of his being. It was the laugh of an ecstatic animal, irrational and physical to the core.
“So, my young friend! How’s your health? Do you know what that fellow on the phone was asking me?”
“No,” said Karim.
“Well, he wanted me to get him a tiger!”
“A tiger? Probably wants to sic it on his mother-in-law. That’s pretty funny!”
“Not at all. He’s dead serious.”
“You don’t mean to tell me you have a tiger to sell him?”
“Why not? I’ll find him one.”
Khaled Omar grabbed the fat amber pipe of a hookah that was on the floor by his feet and lifted it to his lips; he wore rings on every finger. He took a few puffs, exhaling a cloud of dense smoke through his nostrils before continuing:
“You see, my young friend, there was a time when I was always scavenging for a crust of bread and never finding anything, and I started to think bread had never existed except in my imagination, that bakers themselves were mythical creatures. And look at me now: I know where to find a tiger. I know who to call to bring me a tiger, on a leash or in a cage. Isn’t that extraordinary?”
He burst into laughter again.
“It’s hard to believe!” exclaimed Karim.
“It’s very simple,” Omar said. “You have to penetrate the right circle. Everything a man desires exists, in fantastic quantities, in a well-guarded stockpile somewhere. Have you ever seen a ton of rice? Neither have I. And yet I’ve sold millions of tons of it. That’s the beauty of business. You don’t see it; everything happens behind the scenes. I might as well be selling the wind—that’s what’s so entertaining.”
“You’re a sensational man, brother Khaled—let me kiss your cheeks! To think I might never have met you...”
Khaled Omar looked at his visitor with visible pleasure. The friendship that united him with the younger man dated back to his time in prison. Karim was only twenty; he’d been arrested as a “dangerous political element” and incarcerated alongside ordinary criminals. Their first few encounters were fairly painful. When the future businessman heard from Karim’s own mouth that he was in jail for political reasons, he laughed in his face: he couldn’t help but take him for a pathetic fool. Khaled Omar, a simple, primitive man, couldn’t comprehend someone risking his freedom for a motive as essentially abstract as a political cause. In his view, that was pure stupidity. He had nothing to regret about his own imprisonment; yes, he had risked his freedom, but for a tangible end—in this case, a wallet stuffed with cash. Plus he found Karim’s whole image ridiculous: these political activists who played the martyr made him sick. But despite all that, he developed a brotherly feeling for the young idealist and helped him out in jail.
“Can I offer you something? A coffee, maybe?”
“Yes,” said Karim. “I’d love a coffee.”
Khaled Omar stood up, walked around the desk, and went to open the window. A loud murm
ur rose from the alley, where there was a daily market. The sound of the vendors proclaiming the succulence of their goods broke into the room, rattling it like an earthquake. The businessman yelled down to a coffee vendor across the alley, cutting through the din with his thunderous voice:
“Two coffees! Hey, Achour!”
“Two coffees!” the vendor’s voice echoed back.
Khaled Omar quickly closed the window and returned to his seat behind the desk. He seemed amused, as if he’d just remembered a funny story.
“Congratulations on your bogus beggar. What a riot, this morning, when the police found him.”
“Tell me, are they talking about it around town?”
“First, the news went around that a cop had slit some old beggar’s throat. People were outraged. But in the end, they found out it was a hoax. The police are still at a loss, though. They’re trying to hush up the incident in the papers—they think it’s a stunt organized by beggars to protest the governor’s orders.”
“Let them think what they want. We’re not done laughing yet. Listen, I came here to tell you that I’ve set up a meeting with Heykal. Tonight, around eight o’clock, on the terrace of the Globe Café. He wanted me to tell you that he’s looking forward to it very much.”
“You know that I’ve wanted this meeting for a long time,” Khaled Omar said, a barely perceptible tremor in his voice. “Everything you’ve told me about him fills me with fellow feeling—I love him like a brother already. He should know he can count on me for anything he wants to undertake; my humble fortune is at his disposal.”
“I’ve told him all that. He feels close to you, too—he already knows you better than I do. He’s often spoken of you as a man dear to his heart. And all that without ever having met you. He’s sure you won’t disappoint him.”
“What’s he planning? Has he told you anything?”
“No,” Karim admitted. “I assume he wants to speak with you first. He needs your help. I’m sure tonight he’ll bring you up to date with his projects.”
The Jokers Page 3