“I’m going to leave now,” said Nahed. “I’ve imposed long enough on you and your valuable time.”
“Don’t worry about that. I’m not one of those people who believe they are taking part in some obligatory ritual by devoting themselves to work that is by and large pointless. The only valuable time, my dear Nahed, is the time that we use for reflection. This is one of those inconvenient truths that slave dealers despise.”
“It’s just amazing that the truth isn’t obvious to everyone!”
“You’re quite mistaken. Everyone knows the truth, but something that everyone knows has no market value. Can you imagine the bastards who control information selling truths? In the best of cases, they would be made a laughingstock. For one simple reason. The truth has no future, whereas lies carry great hope.”
Nahed began to laugh. She often laughed in his company, as if to show him that she had absorbed his teachings and that henceforth she would look at life as an instigator rather than a docile tool. Again Karamallah was surprised by a fleeting spark that lit up the girl’s face. He looked at her, his eyes suddenly filled with gratitude toward the invisible author of this moving transfiguration.
“Every time I come here you lift a weight from my shoulders. I always feel lighter when I leave this cemetery — it’s become a magic place — everything seems so easy here.”
Karamallah took a few steps toward the door, looked at the alley deserted under the sun, then returned to the girl. In a jocular tone, he said:
“Do you know that a while ago a skinny donkey that was being led to the slaughterhouse by its owner cast a reproachful glance at me?”
“You’re making fun of me, Master! How do you know it was reproachful?”
“Because all I need is to see an old woman struggling to walk, a man struck with a horrible infirmity, or simply a child crying, to feel guilty about what is happening to them. I think it’s because I personally have no use for unhappiness, so the unhappiness of other people seems to denounce continually my own lack of seriousness. But let’s leave the donkey to its fate. Let’s talk about you a little. For some time now I’ve been meaning to tell you that you shouldn’t feel obliged to bring all these gifts each time you come to see me. I don’t know what to do with these treasures. They are turning my mausoleum into a museum.”
“But you are rich, Master. All the gold on earth couldn’t make you richer. What you call my ‘gifts’ are only small tokens of friendship, to keep you from forgetting me. I know you’re going to laugh at me again, but with all due respect, I confess I’m afraid of vanishing from your memory as soon as I’ve finished my work.”
“Why would I forget you? You will always be welcome in my home, here or elsewhere. So, tell me, where did you get this idiotic idea?”
Nahed was slow to answer; her features tensed, and her face became unsightly again, as though to underscore her painful confession. “Well,” she said, avoiding Karamallah’s gaze. “I know you only like women who are very young and very pretty. And I am old and ugly. That’s why I thought you wouldn’t want to see me again.”
She stopped speaking and then looked Karamallah in the eye, awaiting his verdict.
Without the slightest warning, Karamallah was first stupefied and then beset by remorse, like a slowly spreading ache — remorse for his thoughtless cruelty. Had he wounded the girl by being aloof and perhaps even betraying his displeasure without realizing it? She had risked prison in order to leave him mementos of her, and Karamallah could not erase this fact through mockery of any kind.
“Forgive me if I’ve never complimented you on your looks,” he said, with the air of an actor not quite sure of his lines. “Such fawning methods for charming a woman have always repulsed me. But since you bring up the subject, I must tell you that you are more than beautiful — there is something enigmatic and at times unsettling about your seemingly ordinary face, something that none of the pretty girls whom you suspect me of loving will ever possess. Are you satisfied now? And do you believe me?”
“I believe everything you tell me, Master. Even when you seem to be joking . . .”
Karamallah silently congratulated himself. He had just avoided one of those ruses that only women can invent, the mechanisms of which no philosophy — ancient or modern — has ever managed to lay bare. Having extricated himself so brilliantly, he was encouraged to settle a question of decorum that had long been up in the air. Nahed particularly annoyed him by behaving like a submissive, respectful disciple, and Karamallah scorned the praise of a society that only respects scoundrels. He experienced any and all admiration for him as an insult in disguise. In essence, he didn’t think anyone deserved the slightest veneration. In this cemetery invaded and degraded by the misery of the living, only the dead — discreet and silent — had the right to his respect.
“Nahed, my child! You don’t owe me any respect. All people think they are, or aim to be, respectable. Do me the honor of not confusing me with that mob of morons.”
Ever since Karamallah had pointed out the ambiguous charm of her face, Nahed had had a faraway look in her eyes, as if observing herself in an imaginary mirror. Karamallah’s request forced her out of this sublime contemplation.
“I never confuse you with anyone else. But it would be insolent not to respect you.”
“That’s exactly what I want you to be. Insolent. It would enliven our conversation a bit; your respect bores me and puts me to sleep.”
Nahed stood, collected her notebooks, and placed them in her imitation-leather schoolbag, then bowed ceremoniously to Karamallah, entering her phase of youthful insolence with this parody. She was wearing a sleeveless black cotton dress, emblematic vestments for venturing into a cemetery. Karamallah wanted to tell her that she did not need to dress in mourning to gain access to his mausoleum, but then he realized that this might be the girl’s only frock and so he refrained from saying anything. He followed her to the door and watched her move off in the distance, a dark and fragile silhouette in the sun’s brutal brightness, swinging her schoolbag like a weapon against the injustices of fate.
Karamallah was about to go back inside his mausoleum when he saw two men arriving in the dusty alleyway. He recognized one of them — despite an attempted metamorphosis — as Nimr, the famous pickpocket, an amusing acquaintance from his prison days. He was accompanied by a young man dressed in the latest fashion who appeared to be asleep, and was walking like a somnambulist eager to return to his bed. Quite obviously these two characters had come to see him, because no funeral procession preceded them. And so he waited for them, assured of spending an afternoon full of surprises and agreeable discussions.
Karamallah had found Nimr vastly entertaining when they were cellmates. Even though he was illiterate, Nimr was a true wise man who spoke with authority about his eventful career as unlucky thief and outstanding educator of juvenile delinquents. But who was the eccentric-looking young man and for what obscure reason would Nimr, who was in hiding, expose himself with an individual capable of drawing out the local populace with his flamboyant attire? Faced with this enigma, Karamallah had no doubt that their visit held delights in store.
The two men were now in front of him and Nimr bowed as if he were placing his shaved head before the master as an offering. For Nimr, Karamallah was the incarnation of the supreme truth, a truth that all nations of the world combat as if it were a contagious virus. He kept his bow for a moment, then raised his head and said in the mournful voice of a man whom destiny had mistreated:
“Forgive me for disturbing you, Master! But we are dealing with an exceptional matter. Allow me first to introduce one of my former pupils who has been stunningly successful in an unjustly disparaged profession.”
“So I see,” Karamallah stated ironically. “You’d have to be blind not to notice this success. How fortunate I am to welcome triumphant youth into my home!”
“What are you waiting for to greet the master, you son of a dog!” exclaimed Nimr, who had decided to demonstrate his authority over his former pupils, even those at the pinnacle of their art.
Ossama approached Karamallah and shook his hand with the anguish of someone come to consult an oracle.
“You never disturb me, my dear Nimr. You know that,” said Karamallah. “In fact, I was waiting for a visit such as yours. At the moment, current affairs are dreadfully dull — no financial scandals, no civil wars, no political assassinations. Nothing! It’s as if all the bastards had died or gone on vacation. But come in, come in. You and your glorious pupil are most welcome.”
Karamallah stepped back to let his visitors pass. Ossama hesitated a moment, then quickly crossed the threshold of the mausoleum; he had the distinct impression that he was penetrating another world. He was highly impressed by the courtesy and ease with which Karamallah invited them to enter a tomb. He was like a prince receiving a delegation come to his palace to bring the latest news about his kingdom. Nimr, who did not seem at all disoriented in this makeshift lodging, had not been wrong in describing Karamallah as an exceptional individual. The young man saw at once not only that Karamallah was a remarkable character but also that he moved in a world marvelously suited to him. Ossama had never imagined that one day he would find himself in such a place under the sardonic gaze of a stranger to whom he nonetheless felt remarkably close. Why had he so readily agreed to follow Nimr on this expedition? Was it not, rather, that he had been the leader and his former teacher, the follower? He convinced himself that strange, unknown forces had led him here for a meeting of the utmost importance. The idea filled him with unsettling bliss.
Karamallah invited them to be seated, pointing to a couch that he also used as a bed, while he went to his desk chair.
Ossama was breathing cautiously. He dreaded the odor of the corpses buried nearby and especially feared being contaminated
by the germs that were in all probability lurking in the room. It took him some time to get used to the situation. The few pieces of furniture that he could see and the many books piled on the desk were reassuring in their banality. On balance, the room looked like any other you might find in an apartment in the city. He forgot the cemetery and the presence of the dead as he studied their host with the eyes of an orphan choosing among several potential adoptive fathers. The man he saw had to be about fifty years old, despite his mischievous, childlike smile and his clean-shaven face that displayed constant delight, as if a divine decree had bestowed eternal happiness upon him to the exclusion of everyone else. He was dressed simply in a robe of yellow silk, his bare feet slid into red leather babouches. Ossama had to admit that their host, in his sartorial simplicity, had the more noble presence, despite his own panoply of expensive suits purchased from the capital’s finest tailors. Once he realized this, he began to feel vaguely miserable.
“So. What is this exceptional business?” Karamallah asked, staring at his visitors with the joyous attitude of someone awaiting the announcement of an inheritance.
“It concerns my brilliant pupil here,” answered Nimr professorially, forgetting that he was not speaking to a young thief-in-training. “And when he told me about his uncertainty and his anxiety, I naturally thought you were the only person to advise him. This business requires an enlightened mind because it involves many dangers. . . . In a word, it’s a bomb!”
“I’m listening with every fiber of my being,” said Karamallah, who was sincerely dazzled by this opening.
Ossama had recovered quickly from admitting Karamallah’s esthetic superiority, but he remained perplexed. He couldn’t understand why Karamallah seemed so delighted with a story about which he still knew absolutely nothing. Their host had greeted them upon arrival as if he’d long been awaiting them in order to begin some bizarre festivities.
“Come, tell your story to the master,” Nimr ordered his former pupil. “And be humble. Don’t brag too much about your contacts in high society. Tell him only what you told me.”
The time had come for Ossama to recount his story for the benefit of the master, and he did so in a detached, precise way — not, however, without voicing a few details about the immorality of his victim, a certain Suleyman, real estate developer, who had masterminded the catastrophe.
“Show me the letter,” said Karamallah, ever more captivated. He had not been mistaken — the afternoon was indeed turning out to be prodigiously entertaining.
The young man hastily pulled the letter from his pocket and held it out to Karamallah with all the trust his intelligence inspired. Karamallah grabbed it and began to read. And as he proceeded, his face expressed intense contentment, giving the impression he was reading a passionate epistle from a prepubescent mistress of noble birth. This went on for quite some time and it seemed to his visitors that the master couldn’t get enough of the pleasure the letter was giving him.
“What a delectable letter!” Karamallah said at last, guffawing. “Obviously it doesn’t tell me anything new about that developer of ruins — his name is a byword for scum. However, I didn’t know that his accomplice — the minister’s corrupt brother, so renowned in the circles of legalized fraud — could write such a masterpiece of black humor. There’s enough in here to keep me happy for days.”
Nimr remained in suspense for a moment more; then his face fell — he was as disappointed as a thief who, having stolen some jewels reputed to be of great value, suddenly realizes that they are paste. There was nothing grandiose in Karamallah’s conclusions about so serious a matter, nothing likely to increase Nimr’s prestige in the eyes of his former student. He’d really wanted to show Ossama what educated people he frequented, wise men able to solve the most difficult of problems. But this letter — even with its explosive contents — had only managed to amuse the master. Despite this letdown, Nimr did not lose hope and he made a face to indicate to Ossama, who was likewise dazed with incomprehension, to be patient.
“We were hoping, Master, that you would tell us what to do with this letter,” Nimr ventured. “Shall we bury it in this cemetery or should we drop it like a bomb on the city? Don’t you think that newspapers would pay a pretty price for a copy? There’s a first-class scandal in it.”
“Nimr, my brother, though you are at the peak of your profession, permit me to inform you that this letter will not provoke a scandal of any consequence, because crime in the highest echelons of society is tolerated in every country in the world. The people are accustomed to this kind of exploit; they even applaud it. In my opinion we need to find something else. Something original, and above all agreeable. There’s no point in giving such a gift to imbeciles. Let’s keep it for ourselves.”
“What do you suggest we do?”
“I don’t know yet. The whole thing is so grotesque that it should lead us to come up with some grandiose solution. And one that is as hilarious as possible.”
These last words heartened Ossama, who had been fretting because of Karamallah’s lack of gravity about his discovery. But finally the master had committed himself — in his own way, it’s true — to finding a solution to the problem this letter posed; that it looked to be a bizarre solution should have shocked Ossama but that prospect, oddly, seemed even more appealing to him, and not lacking in destructive ferocity. So, after having traipsed through muddy alleyways, his visit to this remote cemetery had not ended in failure. He was beginning to fall prey to the ineffable charm of his host, this inexplicable charisma — part haughtiness and part inner joy — of a man who lived in a mausoleum. Rather than indifference, how did such a macabre environment produce this tremendous vitality in the service of scorn? It was a sign of a mind that moved in a space freed from all the useless prejudices that darkened the lives of men. Suddenly Ossama again became aware of his own foolishness at not having been able to detect the laughable side of the sufferings that had weighed on him in his youth. Ka
ramallah was most certainly the prophet of a great eccentric battle against the official agents of deceit.
The Colors of Infamy Page 6
