The Colors of Infamy

by Albert Cossery

  With the majesty of an aristocrat accustomed to bringing the riffraff under control, Ossama rose and crossed the street with an authoritarian stride, counting on his distinguished dress to arrest the bellicose drivers in their ardent race toward oblivion. He reached the opposite sidewalk at the precise moment when the man’s car stopped directly in front of the club door. The man, who’d been awaiting this arrival with the exasperation of a master abandoned by his servant in the midst of a riot, pushed forcefully through the slow parade of peaceful passersby, who showered him with the most offensive curses and insults. During this short but difficult journey, he bumped against Ossama who, with the dexterity of a magician, relieved him of his wallet. The man must have felt nothing in the crush, for he dived into his car with the fiery spirit of someone trying to escape a lynching.

  It was curiosity rather than fear of an unlikely arrest that sent Ossama in search of a taxi. He was eager to examine the fruit of his larceny and to learn his victim’s name, a name that he felt must enjoy — he didn’t know why — some dreadful notoriety. The man must have committed some grandiose misdeed: that explained his state of doleful despondency leaving the club, which Ossama had witnessed. All the while thinking with jubilation about what he was going to find, Ossama endeavored to get a taxi driver’s attention in the maelstrom of traffic. Hailing a taxi amid all those vehicles in perpetual motion was something of a wartime raid, especially since all those damn drivers now had the habit of only picking up passengers from the Arabian Peninsula, recognizable by their traditional dress and the surplus of women in their harems. These desert potentates were reputed to hand out money like peanuts, making them the designated targets of the entire business class. Ossama cursed these invaders — they reeked of oil and they monopolized all the services in the hotels, casinos, and cabarets by ostentatiously displaying their wealth: even hapless belly dancers saw in them their salvation. The crush of cars speeding by nonstop despite the craters and mounds of dirt left by the endless roadwork — you’d think they were competing on an obstacle course — exhorted Ossama to be cautious. Only when traffic had slowed slightly because a bus had collapsed under the weight of its passengers did he decide to place himself deliberately in the path of a taxi that had been forced by the mishap to temporarily renounce its creed of speed. The taxi driver, shocked by this impolite and suicidal way of calling upon him, hurled abuse in an infuriated voice, as if Ossama had insulted both his most distant ancestors and his descendents yet to be born.

  “Curses upon your mother! I almost ran you down. If you want to die, go drown yourself in the river!”

  “God provides for everything,” Ossama replied calmly. “Besides, I fear nothing. I’m wearing an amulet.”

  The taxi driver had time to note Ossama’s stylishness and his face softened at the thought of an excessively expensive fare. For lack of a Saudi prince, this young man would do — yes, he could do justice to his brand-new car. He loathed the lower classes that clamored aboard en masse and dirtied his seats, eating watermelon as if his car were a picnic ground.

  “And where would you and your amulet like to go?”

  “It’s a big city. Take me wherever you’d like.”

  “Your wish is my command, your lordship, and may Allah protect us.”

  Ossama climbed aboard, closed the door, and settled comfortably on the seat cushions that smelled of new leather. As if to give his noble client a demonstration of his virtuosity, the driver grasped the wheel and shot the car forward at rocket speed. This barbaric conduct did not worry Ossama in the least; it fell within the norms of mass hysteria. Completely at peace with himself, he pulled from his pocket the wallet he had just appropriated and opened it with the daintiness of a lover unsealing a missive from his mistress. Crocodile skin, the wallet had no doubt had cost a fortune; it exuded a strong whiff of corruption. A letter was inside; Ossama took it out and read the name of the addressee on the envelope — previously slit cautiously with a letter opener, it didn’t have the slightest nick — sent in care of the Club of Notables. The man’s name had been in the news for a week due to a dreadful scandal. This fabulously wealthy real estate developer was being sued for causing the death of some fifty tenants of a low-rent apartment building constructed by his firm; it had collapsed shortly after being unveiled with great pomp by a government delegation. Dumbfounded, Ossama plucked the letter out of its envelope and began to read. The note, written by hand on the letterhead of the Ministry of Public Works, seemed to come from an accomplice who was terrified of the legal consequences of the carnage. He warned the addressee, in a scathing tone (stamped with unintentional humor), not to count on his present or future collaboration now that fifty corpses lay between them — it was not his intention, he said, to increase the prosperity of undertakers. As for the commission he was owed for his most recent intercession with the ministry in question, he would spare the addressee. Under no circumstances could he continue to have the slightest contact with a man obviously better suited to tombs than apartment buildings, even moderately priced ones. In short, it was a break-up letter to a discredited associate from a thief stripped of all good manners by the idea of prison. It was signed by the Minister of Public Works’ brother — a worthless man very popular with the capital’s shadiest wheeler-dealers.

  Although Ossama counted himself among fate’s privileged few, this magnificent bounty was the last thing he’d expected. He reread the letter several times with fierce satisfaction until he realized he was holding a bomb in his hands and he did not know how to explode it.

  II

  The taxi left Ossama on the outskirts of the Sayeda Zenab district. He was born in this poor quarter and had grown up here, and it was neither proper nor decent for him to be seen getting out of a taxi by people who had known him barefoot and dressed in rags. In fact, the young man only came back to this squalid neighborhood to visit his father, a former factory worker blinded when a policeman’s club struck him on the head during a riot following the rise in price of certain staples necessary for the survival of almost everyone in the country. That riot had happened before the military revolution and, since then, he had been living like a recluse in a second-floor apartment in a patched-up building, still standing thanks to the constant prayers of its tenants. Never voicing the least complaint or slightest curse against those responsible for his infirmity, old Moaz spent his days in peace, the revolution having strengthened his conviction that his sacrifice had at least served to establish a more just society for its workers. His blindness prevented him from realizing what had become of this revolution — and Ossama, who had eyes to see, refrained from informing him of its results, not wanting him to despair about long-forgotten events.

  The crowd was sparser than in the city center’s wide thoroughfares, for the neighborhood did not exactly encourage strolls. There were no shop windows to entice passersby with their wares and their air of prosperity; there was nothing to see but small craft stalls, vegetable sellers, falafel stands, and other similar sorry-looking shops. A number of people who had managed to escape the world of work lounged about in the shaded sidewalk cafés, men of leisure oblivious to the hour and the rising prices. The voice of a chanteuse wailing love songs emanated from several radios at once, drowning out with a voluptuous melody the commotion of the street. As he walked, Ossama was greeted by several shopkeepers who cried out in admiration of his fancy clothes and how well he looked, and he responded to their compliments with urbane modesty. Everyone in the neighborhood, especially on his father’s street, was aware of his success in business and they congratulated him at every oppor
tunity. Buoyed by these words of praise, he reached the house of uncertain future; it seemed unchanged since his last visit. With the air of a dying man facing his mausoleum, he stopped and inspected the front of the house propped up by beams that seemed just as rickety as the walls they were meant to support. Ossama was reckless — but not to the extent that he’d allow himself to die from a foolish mistake, with all the posthumous shame of having his body, as it was exhumed from the rubble, associated with the corpses of the lowly: that would have been such an insult to his intelligence. On many occasions he had beseeched his father to move to a more solid place, but old Moaz stubbornly refused, claiming that wherever he went it would still be the same dark night. The fact that he was unable to see the warning signs of an impending catastrophe justified his decision to ignore it. Ossama took this to mean that in certain cases blindness was a blessing. He prayed to the heavens to keep the building from falling down while he was in it, then passed through the entrance and cautiously went up the stairs, holding his breath for fear that exhaling would lead to an untimely collapse. Happily there was but one flight to climb and he quickly arrived at his father’s lodgings. The door was never locked. Ossama opened it carefully and entered a room arranged to resemble the living quarters of an honorable retired civil servant.

  Old Moaz sat in front of the open window in an armchair of gilded wood and red velvet, craning his neck in the direction of the never-ending hum of the street, which seemed to be the only thing that still tied him to mankind. His noble attitude, combined with the splendor of the seat he occupied, brought to mind a fallen monarch who had carried into exile nothing save his throne, a symbol of his lost authority. Ossama’s intrusion did not in any way change the expression of pleasure on Moaz’s face as he listened to the discordant sounds of the traffic and the street peddlers’ colorful calls. Without turning around he asked:

  “Is that you, Zakiya?”

  “It’s only me, Father.”

  The blind man turned his face toward his son, focusing on him with the intensity of a man trying to find his way in the dark, as if he were attempting to make out some signs of joy or sadness. His eyes still looked normal, for only his optic nerve had been damaged by the notorious club. Still, over the years Moaz had acquired the mask of solemnity and profound wisdom that can be observed in blind men with sunken eyes, and that so fascinates and distresses most of the sighted. Ossama often wondered if blindness made men wiser, or if that was nothing but a silly superstition. He had never managed to resolve the question.

  “Welcome, my son. I was just thinking about the gains of the revolution. I have the sense that there is more movement, more activity in the neighborhood. I hear people laughing and joking with each other, as if life had become agreeable to them. It comforts me every day to realize that happiness no longer belongs exclusively to the powerful.”

  Ossama sat down on a chair near his father and cast a disabused glance out the window. The blind man was right, except that what seemed to him to be a kind of energy resulting from the benefits of the revolution was in fact merely the hum of a population growing uncontrollably. No doubt Moaz had forgotten that his compatriots always kept their sense of humor regardless of ideological considerations. It was as if the blow from the club had not only blinded him but also dimmed his memory. As usual, Ossama avoided any discussion of the merits of a revolution that existed only in his father’s mind. He thought it more reasonable to bring the conversation around to some trivial matter, and he asked about the absence of the maid, that awful Zakiya who did as she pleased during working hours.

  “Hasn’t Zakiya come yet?”

  “She’ll be here soon. She’s a good woman and she tends to me with great compassion.”

  Ossama had to admit that the room was clean, the furniture nicely polished, and his father’s robe meticulously washed and pressed. Nonetheless he suspected the “good woman” of having matrimonial designs on the invalid. With all the money Ossama provided for his father’s care, she probably thought old Moaz was a banker or a counterfeiter. And on top of all that, she had the repellent face of a woman who had been successively repudiated by all the husbands she’d managed to hoodwink with her magic spells. The idea of having Zakiya for a stepmother was so repulsive that he didn’t hesitate to caution his father — by means of an aesthetic opinion — against the schemes of this female all too happy to wed a blind man.

  “I only have one thing against her. She’s simply too ugly.”

  “What do I care about her ugliness? Her beauty wouldn’t matter to me either. You forget, my son, that I am blind.”

  This reminder of the obvious plunged Ossama into a bitter reverie. He did have moments of forgetfulness about his father’s infirmity, but to have imagined that Moaz could care whether his maid’s features were charming or repulsive was cause for alarm. He sought to make up for his blunder by getting to the point of his visit without further delay.

  “Forgive me, Father, for not having come sooner. I was swamped with work. Even today I had to talk for hours with a real estate developer, a man of national importance and a very tough negotiator, regarding a large cement order. I managed to close the deal, and so I brought you a little money.”

  Ossama pulled out the crocodile-skin wallet he had stolen from the developer and removed a few ten-pound notes that he placed on his father’s lap with some embarrassment, as if his father could divine their origin. Sometimes Ossama had the feeling that the blind man was not fooled by his social success and for a few seconds he scrutinized his father’s face, believing he might glimpse a smile of complicity on it. But the austere face, ennobled by hardship, revealed no sign of connivance. Reassured, and having carried out his filial duty, all that remained for him to do was to convince the old man to leave this house of certain death before it was too late. This subject of conversation, which he took up again each time he visited, at least had — at the prospect of an impending move — the advantage of alleviating his fears. It was becoming more and more agonizing for him to venture into this trap with its rotted framework and crumbling stones ready to swallow him up at the slightest tremor.

  “I need to speak with you, Father.”

  “I’m listening, my son. Do you have problems?”

  “Yes, big problems. I’m worried about your safety. You must leave this place immediately. It could collapse at any moment merely from an overladen cart passing by or a hag nagging her offspring in a loud voice. I beg you to trust me.”

  Old Moaz raised his hand as if to hold up the building and prevent imminent catastrophe.

  “We are in the hands of Allah, my son. We can do nothing against his will. If this house must collapse one day, it will do so solely as he decides. As for me, I’ve told you, I don’t want to leave this neighborhood. I will live here until the end. I don’t want to die in foreign lands.”

  “Who’s talking about foreign lands? I’m merely offering to move you to a building liable to resist collapse for a few more years. There are still a few, even in this neighborhood. I’ll take care of the whole move. That way I won’t have to worry about you while I’m dealing with important national affairs. Do you want to harm the country with your stubbornness?”

  “If I am harming the country, may the country forgive me. But do not trouble yourself with me. I am at the end of my life and I don’t care how I die. In fact, I have a favor to ask you. I’d like you to buy me a few chairs, maybe a dozen. Be kind enough to remember. There is no hurry, but it’s better to take care of it ahead of time. I’m counting on you; you are a good son.”

  Ossama remained stunned for a few moments, wondering if his father were simply rambling, or if he were planning on giving a party to celebrate the anniversary of the revolution. He didn’t dare to ask, for fear of hearing him confess to a project of this kind. The building would definitely not last long if it were assailed by a swarm of guests. But what guests? His father was onl
y in contact with Zakiya. Could it be that she had achieved her aim — that the old man was thinking of acquiring lavish furnishings for his wedding?

  The idea so alarmed Ossama that he cried out as if in a nightmare:

  “Chairs! What do you need a dozen chairs for?”

  “I’m thinking of the people who will come to my funeral. They should not have to stand. That would not be proper.”

  “What people, Father! Do you know many people?”

  “There would be my old friends from the factory. I’m sure they have not forgotten that I received the blow that blinded me when we fought together. And perhaps the revolutionary government will send one of its ministers. He can use this armchair that you gave me; it will be free when I die. He will be able to sit in it without feeling out of place. You see, I’ve thought of everything — my funeral will take place with decency and dignity.”

  Ossama almost burst out laughing as he imagined a member of the government sitting in this red velvet gilded armchair as if he were in his office. At the same time, he was filled with compassion for the blind man’s ignorance and he repressed his gaiety. So, after all these years, old Moaz still believed his former factory friends remembered his bravery during the riot and that the government considered him a martyr of the royalist repression. Such belief in man’s good nature deserved the deference due to a creature that had gone insane.