Albert Cossery
The Colors
of Infamy
Translated from the French by Alyson Waters
A New Directions Book
I
The human multitude meandering at the nonchalant pace of summer along the ancient city of Al Qahira’s torn-up sidewalks seemed to be dealing serenely, even somewhat cynically, with the steady, irreversible decay of their surroundings. It was as if all these people, stoically strolling beneath the molten sun’s incandescent avalanche, were, in their tireless wanderings, benignly colluding with some invisible enemy eating away at the foundations of the erstwhile resplendent capital. Immune to drama and devastation, this crowd swept along a remarkable variety of characters lulled by their idleness: workmen without jobs; intellectuals disillusioned with fame; civil servants forced from their offices for want of chairs; craftsmen without customers; university graduates sagging beneath the weight of their futile knowledge; and finally those inveterate scoffers — philosophers in love with their tranquility and shade, who believed that the city’s spectacular deterioration had been expressly created to hone their critical faculties. Hordes of migrants had come from every province with preposterous illusions about that hive of activity, the prosperous capital, and they had latched on to the local population, forming an appallingly picturesque pack of urban nomads. In this riotous atmosphere, cars sped by, heedless of traffic lights, like machines without drivers, transforming any vague notion a pedestrian might harbor of crossing the street into an act of suicide. Along the neglected thoroughfares stood apartment buildings doomed to imminent collapse (the landlords had long banished from their minds any pride of ownership) and from balconies and terraces converted into makeshift lodgings flew the multihued rags of destitution like flags of victory. These dilapidated dwellings brought to mind an image of future tombs and gave the impression, in this country awash with tourist attractions, that all these pending ruins had over time come to be prized as antiques and were therefore not to be touched. In some places water from burst sewer pipes caused pools as wide as rivers to form, wafting the effluvia of unspeakable stenches and pullulating with flies. Naked and unashamed, children entertained themselves by splashing about in this putrid water, sole antidote to the heat. As if it were a day of revolution, the streetcars overflowed with clusters of people and dug out at a snail’s pace a pathway along the rails obstructed by the pressing mass of a populace that had long ago gained expertise in survival strategies. Resolutely circumventing every obstacle, every pitfall in their path, the people, discouraged by nothing and with no particular goal in mind, continued their journeys through the twists and turns of a city plagued by decrepitude, amid screeching horns, dust, potholes and waste, without showing the least sign of hostility or protest; the awareness of simply being alive seemed to obliterate any other thought. Every now and then the voices of the muezzins at the mosque entrances could be heard emanating from loudspeakers, like a murmuring from the beyond.
More than anything, Ossama enjoyed contemplating the chaos. As he leaned his elbows on the railing of the elevated walkway on its metallic pillars that encircled Tahrir Square, he was contemplating ideas that flew in the face of all the theories propounded by those certified experts who swore that a country’s continued existence was predicated on order. This absurd notion was utterly belied by the spectacle that spread before his eyes. For some time now, he had been treating this structure, dreamed up by humanist engineers to shield the miserable pedestrians from the street’s dangers, as a panoramic observation deck to reinforce his profound conviction that the world could go on living in disorder and anarchy indefinitely. And indeed, despite the elaborate free-for-all that dominated the huge square, nothing seemed to alter the population’s mood or its spirited gift for sarcasm. Ossama was convinced that there was nothing more chaotic than war; yet wars lasted for years on end and it even happened that generals notorious for their ignorance won battles because shock, by its very nature, is a great producer of miracles. He was thrilled to live among a race of men whose exuberance and loquaciousness could not be spoiled by any iniquitous fate. Rather than fulminating against the problems they faced because of their city’s outrageous decrepitude, they behaved affably and civilly, as if they attached no importance whatsoever to those material inconveniences that could lead to suffering in petty souls. This dignified, noble attitude filled Ossama with wonder, for to him it was a sign of his compatriots’ complete inability to fathom tragedy.
Ossama was a young man, about twenty-three years old, who although not strikingly handsome, nonetheless had the face of a charmer; his dark eyes shone with a glimmer of perpetual amusement, as if everything he saw and heard around him were inevitably comic. He wore with incomparable ease a beige linen suit, a raw silk shirt set off by a bright red tie, and brown suede shoes. This outfit, quite ill-suited to the scorching heat, was not the result of personal wealth, nor was it due to a taste for show; it was donned solely to reduce the risks inherent to his profession. Ossama was a thief; not a legitimate thief, such as a minister, banker, wheeler-dealer, speculator, or real estate developer; he was a modest thief with a variable income, but one whose activities — no doubt because their return was limited — have, always and everywhere, been considered an affront to the moral rules by which the affluent live. Possessed of a practical intelligence that owed nothing to university professors, he had quickly come to learn that by dressing with the same elegance as the licensed robbers of the people, he could elude the mistrustful gaze of a police force that found every impoverished-looking individual automatically suspect. Everyone knows that the poor will stop at nothing. Since the beginning of time, this has been the only philosophical principle by which the moneyed classes swear. For Ossama that dubious principle was based on a fallacy because, if the poor really stopped at nothing, they would already be rich like their slanderers. Consequently, if the poor continued to be poor, it was simply because they did not know how to steal. In the days when Ossama had lived his life as an honest citizen, accepting poverty as his inevitable lot, he’d had to put up with the wariness his rags aroused in shopkeepers and the closed-minded members of the police force. At that time, he had felt so vulnerable that he never dared to go near certain city districts where the privileged set led their glittering lives for fear he would be suspected of evil intentions. It was only later — once he’d at last caught on to the truth about this world — that he’d decided to become a thief and, in order to carry out his trade respectably, had adopted the visible attributes of his superiors in the profession. From then on, suitably attired, he could frequent without difficulty the lavish milieus where his masters in plunder lounged about, and steal from them in turn with elegance and impunity. True, with these petty thefts he recouped a mere fraction of the fantastic sums that these unscrupulous criminals amassed without a thought for the misery of the people. Yet it must be pointed out that Ossama’s objective was not to have money in the bank (the most dishonorable thing of all), but merely to survive in a society ruled by crooks, without waiting for the revolution, which was hypothetical and continually put off until tomorrow. Cheerful by nature, he was predisposed to humor and mischief rather than to the demands of some dark and distant revenge.
He thought he�
�d had enough of admiring his compatriots’ performance as they attempted to dig themselves out of the chaos, and he was about to leave his observation deck when — ever on the lookout for an entertaining detail — his eyes were drawn to a scene transpiring on a traffic island that served as a streetcar stop. Several plump, buxom women carrying innumerable packages and straw baskets were conferring with a burly young man who wore a tattered T-shirt and some sort of filthy fabric draped about his hips as if he were a classical statue representing destitution. These monumental nymphs had apparently just climbed off a streetcar and seemed to be engaged in some bizarre dealings with the scantily clad fellow — unfortunately the distance and the ambient cacophony made them inaudible. Ossama was concentrating, trying to make out the nature of the discussion when suddenly it came to an end in an unexpected way. He saw the man take the females, who were terrified by the constant onslaught of cars, under his protection, raising his arm skyward as if to invoke the name of Allah and escorting them into the traffic until, in a blaze of horns, they reached the haven of a sidewalk. Having arrived safe and sound, the survivors unknotted their handkerchiefs and each gave a coin to her savior who, having caught his breath, was already offering his services to any number of pedestrians hesitating at the edge of the sidewalk, still stunned by his exploit. Ossama keenly felt all the hilarity of this one-of-a-kind scene. Street crosser! This was a new trade, even more daring than that of thief because one risked a violent death; it was a trade he could never have dreamed up even in his wildest theories about the ingenuity of his people. The man who had invented this astounding profession in order to make ends meet deserved his admiration and undying friendship. He would have liked to congratulate him and even write to the government to request that he be decorated as a model for a new generation of workers. This inventor of a job as yet undiscovered by the hardened unemployed of the beleaguered capital was unquestionably entitled to a medal; but Ossama mistrusted all those corrupt government ministers who were hardly in a position to appreciate an initiative that offered no clever way for them to grow richer, and he decided to leave them in ignorance of such a captivating phenomenon.
He cast a parting glance filled with brotherly affection at the man in rags, then wended his way toward the steps that led to Talaat Harb Street; he climbed down them cautiously (they were covered with a thick layer of dust that could damage his shoes), and found himself on the right-hand sidewalk, which was, for the moment, in shade. A voluptuous calm spread through his body on contact with the air — tepid and sticky but how refreshing after the furnace he had just left! His clothes felt lighter and he struck the pose of a prodigal, carefree young man as he set out to mingle with the crowd. He avidly listened in on the discussions of the passersby strolling beside him, catching incredible bits of conversation shot through with irony and invective regarding the ruling hierarchy, illustrating that mixture of insolence and arrogance that poverty bestows upon its chosen ones. And as he listened, it seemed as if each speaker prided himself on being descended from the Pharaohs. The fact that all these beggars laid claim to some imaginary nobility was pleasantly appealing; Ossama believed the most ostentatious indigence was the irrefutable sign of true grandeur. All along the street, store windows displayed the full panoply of a consumer society, a society still limited in scope, but firmly determined to profit from its offerings. One could see household appliances of all kinds, radios, televisions, VCRs, refrigerators, expensive jewelry, roll upon roll of silk fabric, Persian rugs, fashionable women’s clothing, luxurious limousines with gleaming chrome, and, most absurd of all, travel agencies advertising snow-covered landscapes in a kind of reverse exoticism. The crowd on the whole remained indifferent to these primitive enticements imported for the most part to satisfy the voracity of a tribe of vultures. Only a few individuals, either from fatigue or out of infantile curiosity, stopped to contemplate all these objects beyond their comprehension, wondering what unjust fate had caused them to be so poor in a country so rich.
The Cosmopolitan Café, which at one time owed its fame to the social and intellectual standing of its clientele, was now overrun by an assemblage of people without any particular status, and was slowly spiraling down toward marginalization and opprobrium. It had lost its glorious terrace — gradually eroded over the years by the devastating tide of passersby — and no longer kept anything outdoors other than a few tables protected by a dead-end alley too short to tempt strollers. Ossama sat down at a table in that alley spared from the crowd, ordered a lemonade from the waiter, and began to keep an eye on the opposite sidewalk where an old apartment building still retained some vestiges of its opulent architecture, like a courtesan worn out by time in whom one can catch a glimpse, despite her wrinkles, of some meager residue of buried beauty. This deterioration of a building once so opulent-looking had, it must be admitted, nothing compelling to hold Ossama’s attention, with the exception of a wrought-iron gate with open double doors flanked by a black marble plaque on which the words “Club of Notables” were inscribed in golden letters, thereby signifying to the people that it did not recruit its members among the rabble. Several times in the past, this den of the mercenary aristocracy had been a fruitful source of personal gain for the young man. The members of this club were not only “notable” (as the sign proclaimed) because of their ill-gotten gains; it went without saying that they also carried in their wallets a tiny portion of their wealth, and Ossama was kind enough to relieve them of that during an imperceptible brushing of bodies. The operation was amusing and easy, and was coupled with the pleasure of the gambler, for Ossama never knew who his next victim would be or how much he might collect. In truth, he was a tolerably frivolous thief, interested more in the pleasantly risky aspect of the adventure than in any financial gain. His cynical and prankster-like concept of theft shielded him from the gloomy, anxious attitude of the ordinary thief obsessed with the foolish morality of the well-to-do. His heart was gripped with joyous excitement and he watched the entrance to the club as if the lascivious and divinely beautiful woman imagined by idle men in their erotic fantasies were about to emerge.
It was not this sort of ideal woman, but a young girl, barely seventeen, who appeared at his side and said in a timid, almost plaintive tone:
“May I please sit with you?”
Ossama recognized the voice and he turned to look at the girl who was standing in front of him, slender and fragile in her short cotton print dress and her cheap jewelry gleaming in the sun. For a moment he was seized with panic; the girl’s intrusion was going to jeopardize his plans and lead him into a pointless, poignant conversation detrimental to his optimism. But very soon he smiled and said, with the ill humor of a lover annoyed by his lady friend’s willful obtuseness:
“Of course, Safira, you can sit down. Why all the formality? Really, you make me sad.”
“I don’t want to bother you.”
“You never bother me. By Allah, don’t you know that?”
The girl sat down, her eyes suddenly lit by a glimmer of gratitude. It was obvious that coming across Ossama was a joy for her — perhaps her only joy. The pallor that could be seen through her lightly made-up face betrayed how ill-nourished she was and the hardship of her charmless existence. This face expressed the pain of immutable poverty, but, even more so, resignation and shame, and it was not at all attractive to Ossama; still, he was always compassionate and friendly with the girl. Aware that she was hatching some romantic scheme that concerned him personally, he was trying to protect him
self by pretending to be corrupt and without a future.
“It’s unbelievable!” Safira suddenly exclaimed, as if she were in raptures over some miracle. “When I went out today, I was sure I was going to run into you. Isn’t that amazing?”
“I’m as delighted as you are,” Ossama answered, suspecting that the girl had traveled the entire city to find him. “Believe me, I bless the good fortune that set me on your path.”
By adopting this exaggeratedly warm tone, Ossama was simply hoping to establish an affectionate mood of honest camaraderie. Unfortunately, this mischievous cordiality, despite its excess, contributed to encouraging Safira’s modest quest for requited love. She lived in the Shoubra district with her mother in a rear basement apartment, in total isolation and poverty. To obtain the few piasters needed daily to sustain them in the chaos, Safira had nothing but the sole means offered to the proletariat living under governments that starve their people: she could continue seeking work that did not exist and die of malnutrition, or she could become a cut-rate prostitute — Safira was still too naïve to appreciate her body’s true worth. Ossama had slept with her on the evening they met, and in exchange she had asked for a sum so modest that this lack of venality in a prostitute had surprised and embarrassed him. Sexual relations that were all but free surely had to be hiding a trap; from then on he had refrained from renewing that episode of distraction, yet without denying the girl his friendship. She seemed to have attached herself to him like a drowning girl to a wisp of straw — Ossama considered himself in these cases even slighter than a wisp of straw — perhaps because she saw him as an outcast as unhappy as she. The young man had told her he was a thief and therefore, in his way, a pariah living on the fringes of society and this — in her ignorant mind — seemed the essential ingredient of a love affair. The fact that she was so easily resigned irritated Ossama and had a devastating effect on his spirits. So much bitterness, so much criticism had accumulated in her gaze that she stifled any desire he had to laugh. In truth, his compassion for the girl prevented him from viewing her through his usual prism of ridicule and condemned him to seeing a reality whose tragic aspect he normally actively denied. At times she would give herself over to the eagerness and teasing of girls her age; then, suddenly, she would become fierce, almost frantic, as if the crude images of her life suddenly loomed out of her memory in their basest details, casting a cloud over any brief moment of youthful enthusiasm.
The Colors of Infamy Page 1
