“You’ve done all this already! What a genius!”
Khaled Omar fell silent as Heykal began to read the poster out loud, articulating each word as solemnly as a death sentence. Hearing the litany of praise for the governor, Khaled Omar could hardly contain his joy: he bobbed his head like an imbecile; he clutched his chest as if suffocating with happiness. But, in fact, he was just coming to a full appreciation of the murderous treachery of their hoax and was congratulating himself for his part in it.
“The portrait alone is eloquent enough,” said Heykal, when he’d finished his reading. “But I bow down before the writer; he’s just caused the suicide of our beloved governor.”
And for the first time since he’d entered the warehouse, he looked at Urfy.
Urfy received the compliment with some embarrassment, as if his inability to fully share Heykal’s pleasure made him guilty, a traitor to his cause. He smiled appreciatively, but Heykal seemed to detect the bitterness behind the smile. He became very serious, then, after a moment’s reflection, he addressed the schoolmaster again.
“You know how much I love you, brother. But there’s something about you that’s making me worry. Are you ill? That would upset me deeply.”
He spoke with such sincerity that Urfy was both moved and disturbed. But he recovered quickly, realizing what Heykal was alluding to by inquiring after his health. He was asking, indirectly, for news of his mother—his unfortunate mother, his private affliction. Heykal couldn’t hide his real intentions; Urfy had seen him in action too many times. Every time he came over, he would visit the old lady’s room; you’d think he came just to see her. Then with the same serious look he had at this moment, he’d speak to her, displaying his most refined manners and putting on his best gentlemanly tone. And, incredibly, the madwoman was flattered; she grew coquettish; she called him “prince.” It was an unnerving spectacle—Urfy couldn’t understand how it worked, and he preferred to forget it once it was done. He wondered if Heykal only responded to the crazy side of life and if he wasn’t a bit crazy himself.
“I’m doing very well,” he replied.
“But you look tired,” Heykal observed.
“I’m very busy these days. You know, I’m the sole director of the school.”
“I understand. But why the bitterness? My dear Urfy, you know how much I care about you. I’d hate for anything to come between us.”
“What bitterness?”
“Your behavior has changed. It’s as if you don’t agree with us anymore. Don’t you like our new projects?”
“I share your ideas entirely,” said Urfy with the vigor of a disciple accused of lack of enthusiasm. “If I’m bitter, it’s nothing to do with our projects. It’s personal.”
“Well then, listen to me. When these posters are plastered on the walls of this city, people will be stunned—they won’t know what to think. Even the regime will wonder if it’s a publicity stunt pulled by the governor. There’ll be terrible confusion. And it makes no sense to stop there. We’ll put up posters in every corner of the city, and after, we’ll put up others. Starting now, we are all devotees in the cult of the governor—even in casual conversation. Can I count on you?”
But Urfy didn’t have the time to respond. Suddenly they heard the booming laugh of Khaled Omar, who was lounging in a chair while listening to Karim read from the poster. The businessman couldn’t get enough of the panegyric; he asked his young friend to read it again right away, which Karim did. Urfy looked at Karim and thought of the scene at the school between the young man and his mother. He was overcome with shame. Would Karim tell Heykal? Of course, he’d brag about it as a victory. The thought chilled Urfy’s heart. He felt no rancor toward Heykal, only regret at not being able to love him unconditionally. He admired Heykal; he could sacrifice his life for such a man. Heykal with his impeccable appearance and his aristocratic manners was always the same; personal problems could never rattle his cold determination. Urfy envied him this sheer indifference to unhappiness. He felt alone, attached by a thread to Heykal’s madcap world. Would the thread break?
“Everything’s ready for tonight?” Heykal asked Karim.
“Yes, everything’s ready,” Karim replied. “I made an appointment with some friends and they’re supposed to join me here soon. We’ll form groups and divvy up the neighborhoods.”
“Excellent. You’ve been wonderful!”
“When I think about the posters I pasted up a few years ago, attacking the government...”
“And now you’re praising it. What a nice change!”
“I’ll come along,” Khaled Omar proposed. “I want to put up at least one.”
“Not a good idea,” said Heykal.
He didn’t say why, but he was thinking that Khaled Omar’s wild getup and booming laugh would attract attention to the group.
“I bow to your orders,” said the businessman, not in the least put out.
Heykal smiled at him. Then said:
“You must excuse me—I have to go.”
He walked over to the pile of posters and took one, stared at it for a while, then folded it up and slipped it into the breast pocket of his jacket.
“I might need it tonight,” he said enigmatically. “Goodbye!”
He left the warehouse and walked out into the empty street, happily inhaling the invigorating scent of the sea.
8
THE SCENT of the sea mingled with the perfume with which Soad had doused her wispy, half-developed adolescent body. She rolled on the sand, striking lewd poses as if to seduce the stars; no one else was in sight. She was on the beach at the end of the deserted casino promenade, in a sheltered spot away from the twinkling lights of the open-air disco. By the time it reached her, the music’s deafening beat had died down, acquiring a ghostly resonance as ethereal as her own presence on this abandoned stretch of sand. She froze for an instant, her face set in a childish pout; then she scooped up a fistful of sand and let it sift over her hips, enjoying the sensation of it pressing down on her, heavier and heavier, massaging her like a deep caress. She repeated this trick a few more times, hovering on the brink of ecstasy, resisting the desire that flooded through her body. Suddenly she stopped; with a supple flick of the hips, she shook the sand from her dress and turned to look at the lights of the disco.
The world at the end of the deserted promenade looked eerie and vaguely fantastical: she could have been watching the scene from a planet thousands of kilometers away. On the dance floor, surrounded by greenery, fountains, and dwarf palms, couples moved like marionettes controlled by a madman. She saw her father sitting in the governor’s box, separated by a railing from the rest of the guests. The governor was holding court before her father, two men she didn’t recognize (they did nothing but nod their heads in a sign of agreement), and a well-known singer, who according to rumor had been the governor’s mistress for the last several months. Her name was Om Khaldoun, and she was old, fat, and as hideously made-up as a pharaoh’s mummy; she’d escaped ruin thanks to the narcissism of certain men of standing in the city. To be the lover of a famous singer was a chance to show off their fortune—the word was that she charged these archaeologists of the flesh a pretty penny. Every time she saw Om Khaldoun, Soad wondered how any man—however philistine and lacking in aesthetic sensibility—could make love to such a withering, flabby creature for vanity alone. Once the singer had been her father’s mistress, and the girl still held painful memories of the time. That was when her hatred for her father grew into insurmountable disgust; she wouldn’t let him near her anymore, let alone touch her. He seemed contagious to her; he exuded the stench of old lady, like the stench of rot. Even after he broke things off with the singer, it was a long time before the girl could look at him without repulsion.
Soad’s father epitomized the greedy, power-hungry bourgeoisie who reigned over the city like a pack of jackals ripping into a carcass. He restricted his associations to his own kind—but only the more servile among them, people he co
uld lord it over and put down as he pleased. He was insolent, disdainful—even with the governor. Soad, powerless and mortified, had listened for years as her father cut people down with the precision of an executioner. Nothing escaped his peremptory judgments or his furious condescending outbursts. These usually happened in the middle of the receptions he hosted in his sumptuous villa, as vast as a palace and swarming with servants. He’d start by welcoming his guests as if their very arrival was a humiliation to be avenged as soon as possible. Then, after shaming his visitors, he’d stir up bitter arguments about business and politics. Nobody dared contradict him: the virulence of his rejoinders was legendary. His way of carrying on a conversation—he would submit his interlocutor to a stream of scathing invective—attracted the city’s elite in droves; each came to see the others insulted. But his daughter he treated with a careful, almost timid benevolence. Her rebellious temperament frightened him; he suspected that a full-scale revolt was in the making. All he asked was for her not to cause a scandal. That was what panicked him: scandal. He trembled at the thought of her getting pregnant, dreading the prospect like nothing else. And Soad knew it; every day she could see him staring at her stomach, as if expecting to see it swell with that terrible scandal. But having settled on this obsession, he paid no further attention; apart from that, he knew nothing about her.
Heykal’s silhouette emerged from the lights of the disco, and she watched him walk toward her on the promenade, long and slim and superb, like an enigmatic god emerging from the void. She leaped to her feet but didn’t run toward him; she waited valiantly until he was in front of her before throwing her arms around his neck and hanging from him, bouncing up and down and sighing hugely and happily, like a child who has been given a fantastic toy and can’t believe her luck. He endured her caresses with tender indulgence. He was susceptible to these signs of adoration, to the rush of inarticulate words like the babbling of a drowning victim come back to life—in short, the frenzied behavior of a young girl in love. She continued kissing him and rubbing up against him, shameless in her desire, clearly hoping to lure him onto the sand. Finally Heykal freed himself from her clutches and pulled away gently.
“All right, little girl, that’s enough for now,” he said.
“You’re so mean to me,” she moaned.
She was distraught, on the verge of tears, pouting like a child who’s been mistreated by an adult. But it was an act, a way of playing the victim to get his sympathy. She never knew if he was happy to see her or not. He never told her he loved her. He was always impassive, even in the throes of passion, with the same wry smile on his lips, the same expression of bottomless pride—not so much remote as willful and controlling.
“You really are mean to me,” she said again, pounding at his chest with her fists.
Heykal laughed.
“Come now, let’s stop the theatrics,” he said, taking her by the arm and escorting her along the beach.
The truth was, he didn’t want to make love to her there because he was afraid of ruining his clothes. He had to be in the casino soon, on a mission requiring utmost discretion; an unkempt outfit would make him stand out. And at the moment, anyway, he felt an excitement that was quite different from carnal desire as he contemplated the web he had woven for the governor and the inevitable repercussions of the postering campaign.
They stopped where the casino’s private beach had been roped off. Soad sat on the rope pretending to swing. Heykal remained standing, looking at her, then sat down next to her and put his arm around her waist. From here the darkness seemed infinitely opaque; the only light was the glimmer of the stars reflected in the sea. The music had stopped, and with the sudden silence the faintly glowing buildings of the casino were plunged into a catastrophic remoteness. Heykal felt they were the only survivors in an annihilated world; suddenly possessed by a strange feeling of power, he pulled Soad firmly and desperately to him, as if to defend her even from death.
Then he let go and asked:
“Is your father here?”
“Yes, he’s with the governor. How’d it go tonight?”
“Very well. The posters will be up by tomorrow morning. The portrait of the governor is so good it’s frightening; it’s even more lethal than the accompanying text. What I’d like is for you to pay close attention to the governor’s reaction. Do your best!”
“That’s all I am to you, a spy,” she said, pouting. “You’re so cruel!”
It was partially true; Soad had often spied on the governor when he met with her father. The governor still thought of her as a young girl and had no qualms about divulging official secrets in her presence. There was a time when the two men’s conversations made the young girl yawn. She found it dull to hear them go on about such stupefyingly serious matters of state. But ever since she’d known Heykal, she’d become quite curious about all the things that the governor, thanks to his studied stupidity, carelessly let slip. Whenever she could (and it was to amuse herself as much as to please him), she’d report back to Heykal, revealing the details of the governor’s plots and plans.
She got up and stood before him imploring:
“Do you love me?”
Coming from the mouth of a little girl this banal question was especially poignant. Heykal felt sobered; he wouldn’t allow himself to be sucked down into love’s murky waters. What he felt for her was nothing like the ferocious passion she seemed to harbor for him. She mistook the real and incomparable complicity that bound them together for a mere sentimental bond, made up of nothing but platitudes and habit. But how could he explain the difference to her? She had no idea, and it would be cruel for him to disabuse her. She was a woman, after all, and he couldn’t ask her to deny her nature.
“Of course I love you,” he responded with a bitter, pained smile—smiling not at the lie but at the sadness he already felt knowing he’d lose her someday.
“What a man I have!” she cried out, thrilled. “The fact that a man like you even exists is a miracle!”
In her delight she jumped off the rope onto the sand, but Heykal grabbed her and made her sit next to him again. Then, caressing the back of her neck, he said:
“Listen, I have a job for you. The next time you come to see me, bring a typewriter. I’ll dictate a letter to you.”
“What are you plotting now? A new hoax?”
“Well, yes. I’m going to send a letter to all the papers asking them to set up a subscription to pay for a statue of the governor.”
Soad clapped her hands at the announcement of this plan; again she tried to stand up, wanting to demonstrate her enthusiasm, but Heykal held her down firmly and ordered her to remain calm.
“Listen,” he went on, “that’s not all. You’ve got a part to play in this. Do you know who’s going to sign this letter? Your father, the most eminent of the governor’s friends.”
“What a devil! How I love you!” She threw her arms around his neck and covered his face in tiny kisses.
“And I’ll need to see your father’s signature in order to imitate it. Can you get me one?”
“That’s easy. I’ll have him write me a check. It won’t be the first time—that’s how he gives me money.”
“Excellent!” exclaimed Heykal. “I’m so proud! Ask him for a check made out to cash so I can include it with one of the letters. I’ll send that one to the most influential paper—it’ll make the letter all the more believable. After that, the rest of the papers will publish the letter without question.”
Soad suddenly doubled over, screeching with vicious laughter—the laughter of a woman scorned, seeking revenge.
“Ah! what a fool! If he only knew!”
“Who?” said Heykal.
“My father. Do you think he’ll commit suicide? Oh, I hope he does, I hope he does!”
“Your personal problems don’t interest me,” Heykal said. “You must understand that.”
The fierce hatred in the girl’s laugh reminded Heykal once again of the abyss between t
hem. Women loved deliriously, but they hated with the violence of an unchained beast. And hatred was an emotion that Heykal lacked completely. His profound distrust of humanity in general made him loathe to dignify with his hate the buffoons who strutted around on the world’s stage, proudly proclaiming their crimes. He looked at the girl’s disappointed face; she seemed to be waiting for a word or a caress from him to renew her spirits. But he was silent. He was thinking about another face, a face of extraordinary serenity in which hatred had been abolished forever. All the tenderness in him went out toward the face of the old madwoman, Urfy’s mother. Her insanity was what he admired more than anything; she existed on a plane free of corruption, an extraterrestrial universe of inviolable purity, immune to the usual abominations. Heykal, who cared about nothing, was jealous of Urfy’s crazy mother, this sublime being buried in a basement in an unsavory part of town; the schoolmaster possessed the one thing that could actually move Heykal. He had to hide it from Urfy, painfully aware as he was that his friend would never understand such a special veneration. He knew that Urfy secretly reproached him for his frequent visits to the old woman’s room, that he suspected him of a diabolical regard for his mother. How could he know that these were Heykal’s only moments of true feeling, when his devotion and kindness flowed freely and he was capable, at last, of boundless self-sacrifice? Faced with this old madwoman, a human reject, he was blinded by tears of tenderness and love. But he would rather endure Urfy’s terrible suspicions than confess to the infinite sweetness of those moments when he gave in to the force of that sad face. The situation was awkward, and it troubled him so much that he’d greatly reduced the frequency of his visits to the old lady. Now just the thought of her face—like a martyred child’s—could trigger the tremor in his soul that had become indispensable to his happiness.
The Jokers Page 8