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 g
o 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.”
Proud Beggars Page 15