“Of course. The government certainly owes you at least a medal for your outstanding attitude under the monarchy. I will speak to one of my high-ranking friends in the administration. A medal costs them nothing and will finally wash away their shame at having ignored you for so long.”
Ossama resolved to buy his father a medal himself, but the blind man shook his head and his usually calm face became tense as if he found such honors exceedingly abhorrent.
“I don’t want a medal. I thank Allah for having given me a son like you. If I am respected in the neighborhood, it’s because of your success. And if the government were to give a medal to someone, it would be to you, my son. I will die happy knowing that the revolutionary government sets great store by your talents.”
A medal from the government in recognition of Ossama’s talents was a sublime idea — the height of mockery. Granted, all the governments in the world were generous when it came to distributing honorary distinctions to worthy people who supported their power, but it was highly unlikely that they’d ever think of offering one of these trinkets to a modest thief on the fringes of society. In any event, the fact that he was excluded from governmental favors did not prevent Ossama from congratulating himself each time he reduced the ill-gotten gains of one of those vultures, decorated or not, by means of his skill as a pickpocket. He remained quiet for a moment, gloating on the inside, still under the influence of this comical and enjoyable conversation with his father. Moaz attributed Ossama’s silence to the pain his son was feeling because of his refusal to move from a building that unquestionably showed the marks of time (but that was certain to endure thanks to the faith of its inhabitants). Like a wise man trusting in providence, he said:
“This house, my son, was built more than a hundred years ago. Why would it collapse now? Most of the buildings in the neighborhood are even older. And then, there are other tenants who have nowhere else to take shelter. Shall I be the only one to flee the disaster? If the heavens so ordain, I will share the fate of my neighbors.”
Ossama knew his father was merciful toward his fellow man, but his intention of sacrificing himself with the rest of the tenants went beyond simple pity; it was evidence of a mysterious arrogance, a final provocation in the face of injustice. The young man was as unnerved by this as he would have been by the
appearance of a precious, naked woman in a desert. So old Moaz had not lost everything! In his perpetual night, he was holding fast to the sole luxury the poor possess — that same dignity that had led him to fight against oppression. Unfortunately, this pride, buried like a treasure beneath the good-natured features of an old man at the end of his life, would no longer serve any purpose other than to brave a natural disaster inscribed since the dawn of time on the walls of a dilapidated building. All of this was quite touching, but Ossama found nothing appealing in this kind of collective, democratic suicide. Having stayed the time required by decency, he was getting ready to leave when suddenly there were frighteningly loud knocks at the door. They echoed in Ossama’s ears like portentous creakings, a prelude to the place’s collapse. He jumped from his chair in a fright, wanting to dash down into the street with his father, when Zakiya’s entrance stopped him in his tracks. Zakiya, who had not been afraid of demolishing the door to announce her arrival, was in her forties and enormous; her distressing ugliness brought to mind the faces of the damned being consumed by hellfire. The crudeness of her manners and her mania for manhandling objects that had the impudence to get in her way made her the ideal accomplice to the danger hanging over the building. With a single, too-violent gesture she could take down a fort. Needless to say, her presence in the room did not bode well for Ossama’s safety and it reinforced his desire to get out as fast as possible of a place that had suddenly become catastrophic.
Zakiya first went to deposit a bag of groceries in the kitchen area, then turned to Ossama and exclaimed in a loud, manly voice:
“Here he is, the handsomest, the most illustrious of princes! May Allah be with you, Excellency.”
She threw herself at Ossama like a bloodthirsty ghoul and grabbed his hand to kiss it. But the young man swiftly pulled it away and drew back, horrified by her abominable touch.
“Well now,” he said. “Since you are here, I’ll be going. I have much to do today. Take good care of my father; otherwise I’ll slit your throat.”
As soon as he stepped into the street, Ossama felt the elation of a man on death row receiving a last-minute pardon. He picked up his pace, eager to get as far as possible from the disaster-stricken house. Freed at last from his fear of undergoing the same fate as the fifty tenants of the building erected by the despicable developer, he recovered his caustic humor on contact with the crowd moving through this working-class neighborhood, open to every miracle. His code of ethics prohibited him from practicing his trade on these poorest of the poor; he was mostly thinking about the letter that, once its contents were divulged, would surely shatter the already severely compromised reputations of its addressee and his even more valiant collaborator — the minister’s brother — whose crimes for the time being were still unknown to the public.
Though filled with wonder at the fact that he held in his hands such evidence against the brother of an eminent member of the government, Ossama despaired about his inability to make use of it. By some divine decree, he had become the repository of a scandal on the ministerial level, and he felt it his duty to disseminate this information throughout the entire country, and even beyond its borders, with the aim of amusing others less well-informed about the villainy of their leaders. But how did one go about getting such an ambitious project off the ground? To offer the letter to a newspaper was a facile solution that would definitely put him at risk. It would be quite naïve to introduce himself with this bomb to some editor-in-chief, by nature terrified of losing his job. Since all newspapers rely on money to survive, the affair would no doubt be hushed up, and he would be indicted by obedient and corrupt judges who were themselves friends or relations of the grand thieves. Ossama’s innate distrust of all the upper classes was forcing him to seek out some new scheme, one that would allow him remain completely anonymous. Having run through all sorts of possibilities, to no avail, he realized he could never mange the business alone and would have to share this secret that, over the hours, had become too heavy to bear on his own. It could not be imparted to just anyone; he had to be someone with no other obligations, neither wife nor child nor job to protect. He knew no one who fit the description other than members of the underworld, a mob who cared little about politics and on principle preferred the dark shadows of a clandestine life to the unsavory suns of fame. Motivated by some foolish hope, he began to stare at everyone around him, trying to flush out of the swarm of people resolutely indifferent to his problem the unrecognized genius who would be able to counsel him. Everywhere he saw nothing save the flunky-like faces of a people subject to the most urgent, concrete needs; one politico-financial scandal more or less had absolutely no chance of altering their vision of the world. Ossama quickly became fed up with his ridiculous endeavor and he hurried on, determined to get out of this sordid neighborhood that could offer him no comfort in his bitter solitude as a carrier of scandal.
Tormented by his inability to entertain his compatriots with such an amusing affair, Ossama was quickly wending his way — to the detriment of his handsome suit — through the ragged crowd when he saw, sitting at a sidewalk café, the incomparable Nimr, his master in the trade. The man’s head was shaved and a bushy beard hid half his face, but these little modifications of his appearance meant to dupe a police force all too familiar with him could not fool Ossama, who retained an indelible image of his old master as he had appeared when they first met. He hadn’t seen Nimr for several months because the master — despite his proverbial dexterity and precisely because of this reputation — was often in prison. With the joy of a child discovering a toy he thought he’d lost for g
ood, Ossama approached the man who was cautiously sipping a glass of tea like a penniless soul granting himself a fleeting and rare pleasure.
“Peace be upon you, Nimr! Allah has granted my prayer. I was looking for you, my worthy master.”
Nimr raised his head and stared at Ossama with the gaze of someone who despises false words.
“Son of a dog! You knew I was in prison, so how could you have been looking for me? Aren’t you ashamed of lying to your old master? And, besides, what are you doing in this flea-bitten neighborhood?”
Seeing his former teacher disguised as a member of a religious brotherhood, Ossama felt somehow responsible for this distressing conversion. Nimr’s sudden piety had all the hallmarks of a mental breakdown precipitated by a slowdown in business. He thought it wise to reawaken the consciousness of a man whose unfortunate circumstances had plunged him into mysticism by using words that were entirely untrue: “On my honor, I was looking for you. The papers I read every morning informed me of your release without mentioning where you were now residing. But I knew I’d find you in these parts.”
Despite the enormity of his lie, Ossama had no need to fear being contradicted — the master, being illiterate, was no great fan of newspapers. Nimr seemed to weigh the plausibility of this unverifiable account, and it happened that his vanity got the better of his mistrust. He was several years older than Ossama and he reveled in his incontestable authority in their professional community. He had to his credit the training of an entire generation of pickpockets who pillaged the city while blessing his name. Parsimoniously clothed in rags that bordered on the indecent, he looked with scorn upon his favorite student’s disloyal chic. For a long time this stylishness, incompatible with Nimr’s ethos of an emancipated proletariat, had offended him as if it were some sort of treason. Ever since Ossama had begun to frequent the posh districts in order to track down his victims among the capital’s grand thieves, the young man had distanced himself from Nimr’s sphere of activity and Nimr regretted, not without some rancor, the loss of such a promising pupil. Ossama’s intelligence in the trade that Nimr had taught him seemed to have extended well beyond his instruction and this was unforgivable to a master who believed himself unsurpassable in his field.
“I’ve got to admit that you cut a fine figure. But I cannot congratulate you. You have betrayed me, your teacher, with your irreverent methods, and with me, the entire profession.”
“How have I betrayed you? I steal from the rich, that is, from thieves. Is that a betrayal?”
“I taught you to steal and now you are wielding your talent in the posh neighborhoods, denying your own milieu and heaping scorn upon your instructor. We are no longer on the same side. All you’re missing is a sports car to get around in. Maybe then I will admire you. For the moment, you’re nothing but a young peacock proud of his feathers.”
“Even before you went to prison I explained to you the reasons for my sartorial disguise. When I work in certain circles dressed as I am, no one dares take me for a thief. And so I’ve eliminated all risks.”
“That’s exactly what I hold against you! There’s nothing more immoral than stealing without risk. Risk is what sets us apart from bankers and their ilk, who practice legalized theft under the patronage of the government. I did not instill my art in you for you to become a movie-star thief whose only concern is pleasing his public.”
Far from being outraged by his former teacher’s accusations, Ossama was smiling: he knew the entire diatribe was merely a roundabout way of celebrating their reunion. Nimr was too proud to let any opportunity pass for showing his anger at anything that could possibly undermine the sacred rules of his art.
Ossama had never forgotten his own state of physical and mental exhaustion when he’d met the man who was to become his teacher and supporter during the entire period of his apprenticeship. A few years earlier, wishing to help his disabled father, he had abandoned his studies, assuming that already armed with the ultimate knowledge — how to read and write — it would be possible for him to find a well-paid position. But he was rapidly disillusioned; no one wanted his knowledge. Courier, shoe-shine boy, peanut seller, servant — he got to know the misery of the needy in search of their daily bread. Then came the long period when he had no work, and begging became his only job, his sole source of income. It was a painful ordeal: with his unmaimed, healthy body, begging turned out to be a very unprofitable line of work for Ossama. He was at a disadvantage compared to all the injured — blind or one-armed — who ostentatiously practiced this ideal, tax-exempt trade. In a moment of sheer delirium, he thought about cutting off an arm or a leg in order to appeal to those dutiful donors enticed by open wounds and weakened bodies. Finally, starving and on the verge of suicide (it was so easy to die by throwing yourself beneath the wheels of all those cars eager to mow you down), he’d sat down on the curb, brooding over his sorry fate, and waited for a bus or a truck loaded with watermelons to pass by, a guarantee of a definite demise. Just then a jovial-looking individual with the relaxed appearance of a lord of the underworld, seeing him in this delicate position — the intense traffic made the curb as dangerous as the edge of an erupting volcano — munificently tossed Ossama a twenty-piaster coin. This individual was none other than Nimr, who had just confiscated the purse of an important flour dealer and, as was his custom, was distributing a little of his illicit gains to the poor, thereby lending to his trade some of that social-mindedness generally ascribed to bandits of legend. He was stupefied when Ossama picked up the coin and returned it to him saying in the disabused tones of a dying man that he had no more use for money. Nimr sensed before him a tragic, extremely complex case and sat down next to Ossama with the curiosity of an archeologist coming upon a fake mummy in a museum. At first the young man didn’t respond to his questions; the idea of suicide was still haunting him and this stranger — whom he deemed disreputable as well as powerless to come to his aid — annoyed him with his inquisitiveness. But in the end Nimr’s solicitude eased Ossama’s pain and a fraternal bond was created between him and the man who would soon teach him how to free himself from destiny. In a monologue punctuated by gasps, Ossama described his long ordeal searching for work and his fruitless experience as a beggar handicapped by the absence of bodily injury. He added that he had made up his mind to commit suicide and that he was sitting on this curb waiting for a vehicle to go by large enough to ensure a swift death. Dazzled by such honesty in distress, Nimr helped Ossama up and immediately took him to a local restaurant for a bowl of beans. While Ossama was eating his fill of this invigorating dish, Nimr told his new protégé about the wonderful life he led, a life of freedom based on the universality of theft. He had been a pickpocket since his innocent (so to speak) childhood days and had become a highly skilled professional capable of teaching his art to even the most feebleminded of his fellow citizens. From time to time he was arrested, but prison didn’t bother him much; on the contrary, he saw it as a sort of rest cure. He would emerge vigorous and full of zeal, ready to take up his trade once again like a civil servant after a period of sick leave. Having flaunted his glorious career, he then told Ossama that he was prepared to instill his mastery in a boy who knew how to read and write — rare talents in a profession made up of illiterate elements with no political opinions. Ever more enchanted by this exceptional recruit, Nimr elaborated for the benefit of the young man his theory that theft was the just recovery of small change by the poor in a world where the grand thieves at the pinnacle of the social scale grew fat with impunity. Dumbfounded at first by what he’d just heard, Ossama was quick to grasp (the dish of beans having produced in his brain the same acumen as a little ball of high-quality hashish) the simplicity of these words that tossed into the void all the deceitful and apocryphal values accepted by the slavish multitudes. Full of gratitude and comforted by such new, flamboyant ethics, he accepted his savior’s proposal without suspecting that one day he’d become more skilled tha
n his future master in a profession as old as humankind. For an entire winter Nimr taught Ossama how to acquire that nimbleness of the fingers that secures the reputation of virtuoso pianist and pickpocket alike. Then he let him loose, happy to have done a good deed — one he hoped would be taken into account on Judgment Day. Ossama proved not unworthy of this crash course, and he often saw his professor during the years when they worked in the same districts of the capital. Nimr, for his part, was extremely pleased at having divined in his young pupil the qualities essential to his stealthy trade that required, in addition to agility, a revolutionary consciousness. But when Ossama got it into his head to dress like Prince Charming in order to penetrate spheres reserved for the grand thieves, their occasions for meeting became rarer. Nimr, who persisted in gleaning his due from the ill-stocked pockets of his equals, could only with great difficulty escape from a tradition-bound police force totally lacking in imagination. A beloved guest of the penitentiary system, he often went months without seeing his brilliant student.
Nimr still had the disgruntled look of a man whose principles had just been violated. He planned on remaining in this ornery mood for a long time, but after a while Ossama’s impish grin managed to exhaust his feigned sulkiness. Obviously the young man was not paying any attention to his scoldings and, worse, couldn’t care less.
“I forgive you,” said Nimr, “because I think of you as my son — a son of a bitch, but my son nonetheless. I hope you have not been neglecting my teachings since you started working among the distinguished set.”
“I’ve always done as you taught me — and the ‘distinguished set’ can mostly be distinguished by the fatness of their wallets. I steal from them and they respect me. And every policeman whose path I cross greets me with deference.”
“I don’t doubt it. Those people are too stupid to read your profession on your face.”
The Colors of Infamy Page 4
