The moment of truth had arrived. With the nobility of a great and generous man who hates to bring up the topic of money, Karim said:
“Zouzou, my dear! Before you leave, reach into my jacket pocket and take what you want.”
The girl stood motionless, visibly disconcerted by this invitation; for a moment her eyes scanned the room—in search of the jacket, perhaps—but then she lowered her gaze, as if suddenly overcome by shame. She was a very young girl, with the face of a child and a touchingly sweet look. From her humble manner you could easily tell that she was new to her profession. Her cotton-print dress, modest bearing, and discreet makeup made her look more like a schoolgirl than a courtesan. Her story was sad. On the previous evening, she’d been fleeing the governor’s henchmen when Karim accosted her, then invited her—according to his usual princely custom—to spend the night in his apartment (a grandiose word that Karim would have used for an empty lot if it were so privileged as to claim him for a resident). The girl had allowed herself to be seduced; what other choice did she have?
She remained silent, irresolute—a heartbreaking sight! A few steps away Karim’s jacket hung from the back of a chair; unfortunately, its pockets were empty, or almost. Any money she’d find there wouldn’t feed a bird, not even if it was starving. Karim eyed the girl, his uncertainty growing by the second. What was she going to do? Go over to the chair and rifle through the pockets of his jacket? The little slut! Would she dare to take him at his word? Hadn’t he treated her like a princess? Wasn’t she satisfied by the passion he’d displayed during their endless night of love? Karim recalled his heated declarations; hadn’t he gone so far as to propose marriage? Honestly, he’d neglected nothing in his efforts to seduce her. Would she tarnish his reputation and, with one petty gesture, ruin a love affair that had begun so well? How stupid!
The silence was unbearable. Karim was about to open his mouth to try to rescue the situation, when at last the girl spoke:
“Oh! No thanks. This has been just fine.”
The bet was won; now Karim could insist without risk. Stretching his arms and letting his head fall on the pillow, he yawned splendidly.
“Oh yes, I insist. Go on, take what you want. Otherwise I’ll be mad.”
“Another time,” said the girl. “I don’t need anything just now.”
The refusal appeared to disturb Karim; he waxed sentimental.
“Zouzou, you’re hurting my feelings. I thought we were more than strangers. Everything I have is yours. Don’t you love me anymore?”
“I didn’t mean to cause offense,” the girl said—she seemed to realize the wrong she’d done to the young man. “It’s impossible for me to take your money. You’ve been so kind.”
“And all because I love you—that’s why,” Karim responded; the girl’s words had made him quite sure of the efficacy of his method. “But I won’t make you take anything. Do as you please. This is your home now, too; we’re like man and wife.”
She smiled sadly, perhaps at the enormity of the lie, perhaps because she sensed the impossibility of ever being his wife. Without a word, she grabbed her handbag from the table and prepared to leave. Only then did Karim realize just how young she was, and how devastating her forlorn look and timid smile could be.
They’d had their long night of love, but this was the first time he’d really looked at her—not through the veil of desire but as a human being, hunted and defenseless. What he saw was so painful that he forgot about the whole decadent-monarch act; the dancers with lascivious hips disappeared; all that remained in the room was a depressing, and very real, spectacle. There was no doubt: the girl had brought tragedy with her. Karim hadn’t expected such a cruel twist of fate; now what had taken place seemed monstrous. How pathetic, he thought, to see myself falling prey to remorse! He tried not to succumb to such weakness, but the pity went straight to his gut. He was overcome with a need to do something for the girl. To help her in some way, not let her leave like this. How? Propping himself up on his elbow, he looked hopefully at his jacket, as if he might discover a hidden treasure in its pockets; in his confusion, he was counting on a miracle. He thought about what apart from money he might offer her, at least as a token of goodwill. Finally, he had it! It was so simple: he’d ask her name. Zouzou was what Karim called all his conquests—not only because it was convenient but also so as not to retain any precise memories of them. With this girl it would be different. He almost wept to think of her leaving him without telling him her name. All of a sudden, that knowledge took on a mysterious importance.
With infinite sweetness, he inquired:
“What’s your name?”
She hesitated before responding. Clearly this sudden sign of interest touched her.
“My name’s Amar,” she said.
“Well, Amar, I’m delighted to have met you. Come see me often. I’m counting on you.”
“May I, really?” she said with a glimmer of happiness in her eyes. “I wouldn’t be disturbing you?”
“Not at all. On the contrary. This is your home. Didn’t I say that?”
“That makes me very happy. I’ll go now.”
He thought he should get up, walk over, and kiss her, but then he was reluctant to prolong things further. The girl broke his heart; anything more, and he might get depressed. He stayed put.
“So long then,” he said, still lying down.
Before she left, she thanked him with rare civility for the night she’d spent under his roof. To hear her you would have thought she’d been showered with kindness and respect. Perplexed, Karim imagined that she’d guessed his game and that her friendly words were steeped in vicious mockery. But that wasn’t likely; this girl exuded candor and honesty. Karim was ashamed of having taken advantage of her innocence; once again, he felt overcome by regret. In the end, it was she who had the upper hand. He realized that now.
Amar opened the door onto the sun-drenched terrace, and the light entered the room.
“Leave it open,” Karim said.
Hearing the outer door close behind the girl, Karim felt relieved of a heavy weight. Finally he could breathe freely! He jumped out of bed, tied the drawstring of his pajamas, and went out onto the terrace. For the week or so in which he’d occupied this room, where he enjoyed a superb view of the sea (a nice change from his previous place, so dark and airless, a real hovel in a rough neighborhood), he’d woken up each morning in good spirits. Every day the first thing he did was to go out on the terrace and revel in the spectacle afforded by his privileged position. He still hadn’t gotten over the novelty of it: even reading the paper, until now the most essential ingredient of his happiness (proving as it did that the universe was fertile with insanity of all kinds), now came second to this daily tour of the horizon. Like an explorer looking down from the top of a mountain, Karim gazed from his sixth floor onto the city, its multiple haunts filled with cretins and crooks going about their business. The thought of a whole society given over to sheer bloody-minded rapacity gave him limitless pleasure. More and more, he thought of his new residence as an observatory, in which his sense of humor could be nurtured and blossom freely.
He leaned on the brick parapet that surrounded the terrace and stared out at the sea. It extended brilliantly, like a mirror, all the way to the far-off point where the horizon was veiled in haze. The city stretched out to the left and right, with its gleaming modern buildings projecting a false image of a flourishing city. Almost no one would suspect the immensity of the slums, filled with disgusting hovels and ancient filth, that lay hidden behind the façade. Karim felt the heat of the sun on his bare chest; he took a deep breath, then leaned over to look at the paved road that ran beneath the cliff, continuing along the shore for several kilometers. It was a wide two-lane avenue with a sidewalk where in the evening pedestrians came to breathe the sea air and snack on watermelon seeds. Cars sped by furiously, looking from a distance like malfunctioning mechanical toys. Sometimes, to Karim’s delight, the driver of a hors
e cart dozing in his seat added a human note to the infernal race toward annihilation. But it was increasingly rare to see anyone taking a break. The police were cracking down on the lazy and the carefree, judging such attitudes to be crimes against the nation. An entire civilization, an entire way of life, easygoing and debonair, was about to disappear. On the sidewalk, there were only a few people, all walking by at a rapid pace, racing to God knows where. Something in the landscape had changed: not the least sign of a bum sleeping in the sun; not a single body sprawled out or squatting on the street. Begging had been driven underground. And where had the beggars gone? It was unlikely they were all working in factories. Where, then?
It was such a pity! The absence of beggars on the cliff road was a sign of changing times. This idiot governor, with his absurd ideas, had succeeded in fundamentally altering the city. Karim wondered what had become of the dummy he’d dumped off in the middle of the European Quarter last night. Had they discovered him yet? He wished he’d been there when the police had apprehended the bogus beggar; he’d missed out on a good laugh. Maybe there’d be something about it in the papers. But there was no counting on it. The papers were all in the governor’s pay; they’d never dare to publish a story that might turn him into a laughingstock for kids. So what? The governor himself would hear about this farcical attack on his orders. His thick skull would shatter to pieces—he’d never expect them to come after him in such an unusual fashion. Up to now, he’d been happy to arrest the odd member of the underground revolutionary party, an easy target over the years for whatever governor happened to be in power. Having thus made a show of strength, and having resolved, in the manner of his glorious predecessors, the problem of opposition in the laboring classes, the governor believed his interests to be safe from any damaging propaganda. He was familiar with only one kind of subversive spirit: those scattered individuals who, intransigent in their hatred, sought glory through action and were willing to lay down their lives for the sake of the right and the good. Men who took themselves seriously, in other words, like him. How could he have suspected that the city was also home to a new, budding breed of revolutionary, scathing and funny, for whom he and his kind all over the world were nothing but puppets pulled by strings, their words and gestures nothing but the grotesque convulsions of a buffoon. Karim could see that terrible things lay in store for the governor. He’d find himself overwhelmed by a new kind of insurrection and wouldn’t know how to react. There’d been entertainment value in the bogus beggar, but that was only a trifle compared to the immense, crazy plot that was now under way. Karim knew that his friend and accomplice, the incomparable Heykal, was currently working on a secret plan of such subtlety and scope that it would destroy the governor’s authority for good. To tell the truth, Karim wasn’t sure just what was being plotted; Heykal had been mysterious about the details of his jolly conspiracy. But now Karim had proof that the launch of the secret offensive was imminent: Heykal had finally decided to meet with Khaled Omar, the businessman, and he had asked Karim to take a message to Omar arranging a meeting that very night. That this meeting was taking place showed that Heykal had developed a plan of attack and that he required material assistance in its execution; Khaled Omar’s fortune and generosity of spirit could be invaluable to the cause. Tonight, then, would bring news: at last, Heykal would unveil his plans. The meeting was to take place in a café in the European Quarter, and Heykal had requested to speak to the businessman alone; clearly, he wanted to ply his charms in private. Karim wasn’t worried about how things would turn out. Heykal exerted an irresistible influence over everyone he met; Khaled Omar would certainly be convinced. There really was no resisting Heykal.
It was still too early to visit the businessman; he didn’t get to his office before late morning. Killing time, Karim wandered around the terrace, dreaming of all the trials he and his friends had cooked up for the wretched governor. And yet, the memory of the young prostitute he’d tricked with his declarations of undying love continued to trouble him. He swore that if he saw her again, he’d offer her money or a present of some kind. Soothed by this altruistic thought, he went back inside and headed straight to the corner where there was a pile of kites of all sizes and colors, some still unfinished. For several months, Karim’s favorite activity had been making kites, which he sold to a candy seller who had a shop nearby and a loyal clientele of children. In an era of propeller planes, young Karim found it wildly appealing to resist the nefarious progress of a world infatuated with the mechanical by making kites—such superbly frivolous toys. He felt a reassuring sense of joy whenever he saw them in the sky—lightweight, peaceful constructions taunting the ponderous planes, those crude machines devoid of poetry.
He rummaged briefly through the pile of kites and finished by digging up one that was still in a skeletal state, but whose frame, made from reeds that he’d trimmed down and cinched together with string, suggested a kite of astonishing size. He grabbed a pair of scissors, some rolls of colored paper, and a dish, in which he mixed flour and water to form a paste. Returning to the terrace with this assortment of materials, he laid the frame of the kite on the flagstone floor, crouched down, and set to work with the focus and intensity of an expert building a rocket to the moon.
Lost in his work, Karim took no notice of the pathetic character who’d come onto the terrace and now stood near the door to the stairwell, trying in vain to catch his breath. This pale, miserable individual, some fifty years of age, carried a folder under his arm and in his hand a closed umbrella, on which he leaned, trembling. He continued to gasp for a moment, then suffered a coughing fit which, returning repeatedly, nearly choked him. At the first sound of the violent cough Karim lifted his head and stared, dumbfounded, at the intruder. The man returned his gaze like someone meeting an acquaintance in a crowd without much pleasure.
“Are you Karim?”
“Yes, that’s me. What’s this about?”
“Police,” said the man. “I’ve been ordered to conduct an investigation with regard to you.”
Without taking his eyes off the man Karim jumped to his feet. Funny kind of cop! In this heat he was dressed to endure the rigors of a harsh winter, in a dark, heavy suit with a wool scarf around his neck. His thin face bore a wary, concerned look but not a severe one—the sort of gravity commonly found on the faces of people condemned to an early death. And he was on the brink of exhaustion. For a man of his age, the six flights he’d just climbed must have constituted a dangerous feat. Out on the terrace in the blinding sun, he couldn’t see clearly; he opened his umbrella and, in its welcome shade, began to scrutinize the young man. This comical pose restored Karim’s confidence; his worries fell away. He walked up to the policeman.
“So what’s the subject of this investigation?”
“Couldn’t we go inside? I’d like to sit down. I need to speak to you.”
“It would be an honor!” Karim said. “Come in!”
The policeman closed his umbrella and entered the room. Unfazed, Karim followed. He wondered, though, what the reason for the investigation could be. It had been a long time since he’d tangled with the authorities. That they could have identified him—so quickly!—as the man behind the bogus beggar was inconceivable. Unless they were psychic! Hardly likely. Well, it would soon become clear. The face of this timid, asthmatic policeman seemed like a good omen to him.
Karim never forgot his manners.
“Please, Your Excellency, have a seat! I do hope you’ll forgive the mess. I’ve just moved in.”
“Not a problem. This isn’t a social visit.”
The policeman sat, gasping as before, but more weakly now. Karim discreetly reached for his jacket and put it on, covering his bare chest; he’d just remembered that it was important to be properly attired in front of a representative of the law—even one who was suffocating to death from asthma. Since he’d known Heykal—that is, since he’d come to appreciate the comic side of life, with its many ridiculous passions—Karim had ren
ounced all dignity in his dealings with people who possessed even a modicum of power. Better to play the fool, to act dumb as a post; it was the only way to throw them off. Heykal had explained to him that dignity existed only between equals who shared a mutual respect. Maintaining your dignity before a police officer, or any other agent of the powers that be, meant absolutely nothing. Faced with a mad dog, the only intelligent thing to do is run. As to those individuals who, in the immensity of the world, deserved to be treated with dignity, they were few and far between. The risk of running into one of them was negligible.
Karim buttoned his jacket and sat down. Then, as if expecting a message of the utmost importance, he said:
“I’m listening.”
The strange policeman opened his folder. He pulled out a piece of paper and consulted it.
“Have you lived here long?”
“About a week. As you can see, I’m still settling in. I’m going to completely renovate the place. I’d lined up a carpenter, but unfortunately he just lost his wife, and I’ve been left hanging. I need to find another one.”
The policeman sighed and shook his head, as if it was painful for him to destroy such a beautiful plan.
“You’d do better to hold off,” he said.
“Why?”
“Because you can’t live here. It won’t be permitted.”
“What do you mean ‘permitted’?”
The officer’s eyes narrowed to a point, and he leaned toward Karim as if to reveal a terrible secret.
“Did you know, my friend, that this building lies on a strategic route!”
This declaration could only provoke hilarity, but Karim remained imperturbable. Not the slightest smile crossed his face. On the contrary, he appeared to be deeply impressed by what he’d just heard. In a tone of contrition—the tone of a citizen thoroughly invested in the well-being of the state—he replied:
The Jokers Page 2
