5
THE LAMPLIGHTER, performing his nightly chore, leaped from one streetlamp to the next like an aerialist, illuminating the twilit evening with a rich, magical glow. His gestures were sweeping and graceful, and Heykal stopped to watch him before venturing into the street. Before he could take two steps, he was hailed by a man who’d been hiding behind a tree. Surprised, Heykal approached the stranger. He stared blankly for a moment before recognizing him. It was an old acquaintance—a man who’d been Heykal’s personal beggar for years, who used to wait in front of his door every day. Heykal hadn’t seen him since the governor’s citywide crackdown on begging.
The man was trembling; his eyes were haggard and bleary; his rags seemed filthier than usual. He whispered hoarsely:
“May Allah help the believers!”
“Yes,” said Heykal, “sad times. Where’ve you been for so long?”
“I was in hiding,” responded the man, still in a whisper. “What else could I do? The ones they caught they sent to prison. This governor’s a demon.”
“I know. But it won’t last forever. Better times are coming.”
“May God hear you! I was desperate for a word of hope.”
He inspected the surroundings, as if expecting a cop to appear at any moment.
“This city’s no good anymore,” he went on. “The poor, forced into hiding—how are we supposed to survive?”
“Don’t be pessimistic,” Heykal consoled him. “Come on, let’s get out of here. Walk with me a bit; we can talk on the way.”
The man seemed deeply afraid.
“I can’t,” he said. “They’re everywhere. They’re watching me.”
“Don’t be scared,” said Heykal, taking him by the arm. “You’re with me now. You can’t be punished for walking with a friend.”
“A friend!” exclaimed the beggar. “For saying that, I’d follow you to hell.”
He set off with Heykal; at first he was hesitant, but soon he walked forthrightly by his side. Though his fear had apparently dissipated, he was still discreetly on guard. Heykal smiled; this encounter had pleased him. He was trying to think how he could help the beggar.
“Here’s what I propose,” he said at last. “There’s no need for you to put yourself at risk by hanging around all the time waiting for me in the street. Come to my place once a month, and I’ll give you everything then. That way, there’s no risk.”
Heykal glanced at the beggar, who looked sadder than ever. Clearly he wasn’t at all satisfied by this proposition.
“What’s the matter?” asked Heykal.
The man was quiet. He looked downcast, as if he’d just been deeply offended.
“I’m not your employee,” he finally said. “What about our friendship? It’s not just the money. I like talking to you—that’s what I’ve missed the most.”
“I understand,” said Heykal. “I miss it, too. Still, you should do as I say.” He pulled a coin from his pocket and slipped it into the beggar’s hand. “Take this for now.”
“May Allah make you prosper!” said the man. “It’s done me good to see you; I feel a new hope growing in my heart.”
Night had fallen. They arrived at the edge of a large, brightly lit square bordered by shops and cafés with crowded, noisy outdoor seating. In this high-security zone the beggar was overwhelmed by fear; he stopped, terrified, as if confronting a jungle of hungry wild beasts, and refused to go farther.
“So, do we have an understanding?” asked Heykal. “You’ll come see me?”
“I’ll come,” the man promised. “To see you again, I would brave death! May Allah protect you.”
Heykal warned him to be careful, then crossed the square.
The Globe was a pretentious café located on one of the most elegant streets of the European Quarter, not far from the cliff road. It was famous for its long stretch of open-air tables, before which passed a magnificent and unceasing parade of pretty girls. The majority of its customers—almost all, in fact—spent their time lustfully sizing up the feminine figures that sauntered by. The thin dresses worn by these divine creatures made the men’s task as easy as it was mesmerizing. Some customers of the café—not the youngest—would sit and wait all day just to see the perfect curve of a beautiful leg or the quivering mystery of an anonymous haunch. And, in fact, the girls were as eager to display their charms as the men were to observe them; some of them were even said to go without underwear, just for the mischievous pleasure of watching the unfortunate voyeurs overheat. So at the Globe the outdoor tables were always full—except during the blistering midday hours, when it was customary for the young ladies to take their siesta. The inside of the café, however, was almost always empty—with the occasional exception of a pair of old codgers who, awaiting their departure for the sweet hereafter, played a lazy game of dominoes that would probably extend into the afterlife. Every now and then, roused despite themselves by the whoops from outside, they’d cast a dull glance through the window onto the objects of so much lust; then, faint with desire, they turned back to their senile game.
Heykal approached the café. He walked confidently, slipping between tables and carefully guarding the virgin purity of his magnificent, freshly ironed suit. He was looking straight ahead and seemed to pay no attention to the people in his path. He wondered if Khaled Omar was already there, and whether he would be recognized by him. Heykal wanted to gauge the intuition of his future friend and accomplice. It was a litmus test: surely any truly intelligent man would recognize him immediately! It seemed impossible that Khaled Omar—if he was the man Heykal imagined him to be—would fail to notice his presence.
Someone stood up in front of him, as if to block his way. It was Khaled Omar, a short man holding out a fat, ring-laden hand.
“What an honor to meet you!”
“The honor is all mine,” responded Heykal. He pressed the businessman’s hand.
“Please sit,” said Khaled Omar.
Heykal sat. Khaled Omar remained standing for a few seconds, then sat as well. He gazed ecstatically at Heykal as if at an enchanting vision.
“Forgive me for making you wait,” said Heykal. “Have you been here long?”
Khaled Omar emerged from his reverie.
“Ten minutes, if that, but it’s nothing. I’m happy to see you. I recognized you right away.”
The waiter approached. A glass of whiskey and a small plate of loukoums were already on the table.
“What can I get for you, bey?” asked the waiter, addressing Heykal.
Heykal ordered a whiskey, and the waiter left. Khaled Omar grabbed the plate of loukoums and offered it to the young man.
“Please, help yourself.”
“No thanks,” said Heykal, “not right now.”
“Then forgive me for eating in front of you,” said Khaled Omar. "I adore sweets of all kinds.”
He took a loukoum and popped it into his mouth, then licked the traces of powdered sugar from his fingertips.
Khaled Omar ate his loukoum, bobbing his head and gazing rapturously at Heykal.
“I recognized you right away.”
“I have to admit that pleases me,” responded Heykal.
“You were sure I would, weren’t you?”
“What makes you think so?”
“Well, I thought it strange that you wanted to meet this way,” said Khaled Omar. “I couldn’t see why you’d want to make things difficult—our friend Karim could easily have introduced us. But in any case, his description of you didn’t steer me wrong. I don’t mean that he described the way you look or your clothes; no, he spoke only of your ideas. And that was enough for me to recognize you.”
“So my ideas show on my face?” asked Heykal.
“It’s hard to explain. I saw you walking across the square, and I said to myself: That’s him. You had the look of someone who knows more than everyone else.”
“I know two very simple things,” Heykal said. “The rest is of no importance.”
&n
bsp; “I wonder if they’re the same two things I know myself.”
“I’m sure they are. It’s why I’m here, and it’s why we can speak frankly.”
“So tell me what the first thing is. I’m listening.”
Khaled Omar hastily re-knotted his tie and smoothed his well-groomed mustache with his fingers, as if whatever he was about to hear merited an impeccable appearance. There was a gleam of amusement in his eyes and a hint of anxiety on his face.
“Number one is that the world we live in is governed by the most revolting bunch of crooks to ever defile the soil of this planet.”
“I couldn’t agree more. And number two?”
“Number two is that you must never take them seriously, for that is exactly what they want.”
“Agreed!” said Khaled Omar, and burst into a long, resounding laugh.
The laughter was contagious. As it spread to the surrounding tables, it grew even louder, outrageously loud. Khaled Omar turned from one neighbor to the next, winking as if to thank them for participating in his hilarity while encouraging their continued pursuit of such joyful delirium. Finally he got hold of himself; the others, however, were still convulsed with the mirth he’d so inconsiderately unleashed. Heykal had been unmoved by the general hilarity; he remained seated, stiff and aloof, observing his new friend with satisfaction. He was utterly delighted with this jovial little potbellied man, with his gleaming pomaded mustache and strong smell of violet-scented perfume. How unusual! A man whose success hadn’t corrupted him one bit. He acted just as he had when he’d gone barefoot and even slept in the street. His bizarre outfit was only a disguise; all the riches in the world would never tame the crude joy and artless affability of his every gesture. His big, mocking laugh was an outright defiance launched in the face of power.
“You see?” Khaled continued. “There’s all you need to know!”
“Yes,” said Heykal. “But still, not enough people get it.”
“Who cares? Don’t tell me you’re the kind who wants to make the world a better place?”
“God, no!” Heykal responded. “I have no interest in bettering anything. There’s nothing worse than a reformer. They’re all careerists.”
“I thought you’d say that, but I’m relieved to hear it,” said Khaled Omar. “I had the misfortune of encountering that kind in prison. They were no better than my jailers. So righteous—and as full of themselves as pregnant women. They made prison such a depressing place!”
“They’re utterly tiresome,” said Heykal, with something close to hatred. “All they want is to replace one government with another, ostensibly more-just one. They all dream of becoming ministers. Ministers! Can you imagine a filthier ambition! Please, I beg you, don’t speak to me of those people!”
“You’re right. So listen: I want to be clear about why I’m here. I’m sure our friend Karim has told you how destiny magically transformed me from a jailbird into a rich and respectable businessman. A beautiful story—very instructive—and I’ll tell it to you some day in all its glorious detail because I know you’ll appreciate it. But the short version is I earned all my money in such a crazy, ridiculous fashion that my eyes were opened to the madness of the world. Now I’d like to put this money to use—in a way that isn’t sensible or just. I’d like to make a contribution to the madness of the world. Do you understand?”
“Perfectly: a cause that is neither sensible nor just. I couldn’t put it better myself.”
“It goes without saying that everything that is mine is yours. He placed a brotherly hand on Heykal’s arm. I’m eager to know: What are your plans?”
Heykal remained silent. He wasn’t surprised by the businessman’s offer, it was just that something in his heart stirred whenever he was reminded of his ability to sway others. This man, whom he barely knew, had just offered him his fortune. What did he want in return for such extravagance? This illiterate businessman was a strange character indeed. What was it he’d said? To make a contribution to the madness of the world!
Heykal was almost scared to find so much lucidity in such an unrefined mind. Had he just met his master? And what did Omar want from him? What untold delights did he hope would result from this mad pursuit to which he had just pledged his entire fortune? His entire fortune! That was more then Heykal had asked for. As if it cost a fortune to entertain yourself! All you had to do was look around: the spectacle was free.
Khaled Omar lifted his hand. His rings flashed, and the waiter approached.
“Let’s drink to our mutual understanding,” said Heykal, raising the glass the waiter had set down on the table.
Khaled Omar raised his own glass, and they toasted each other.
The street was packed with evening strollers enjoying the cooler air at the end of the torrid day. There were the working stiffs, upright and formal; the dignified family men flanked by wives and children; the occasional pair of young newlyweds, who clutched each other’s hands in a grotesque show of commitment. But none of the drinkers at the Globe paid any attention to this mundane procession. They weren’t there to look at humanity in all its mediocrity; they were waiting for a luxuriantly curvaceous woman to show up and arouse their desire. From time to time a metallic squeal, sharp and deafening as a siren, signaled the ambling approach of a tram. The drivers of horse carts, who were so skilled at maneuvering through traffic jams, lashed out at the indolent mob filling the street, impervious to anything but the welcome sea breeze. Heykal tried in vain to locate a single bum, a single happy-go-lucky derelict who had managed to escape the clutches of the police. Not one. Reduced to the contributing members of society—in other words, the depressed and overworked—the city’s streets were becoming strangely sinister. Wherever you went, you were surrounded by public servants. Heykal couldn’t help but remember how the beggar had responded to his invitation to come collect his monthly sum at the house. That a starving beggar would refuse to be seen as an employee: what an insult to posterity, which only recognizes those who make careers of following the rules! History’s full of these little bureaucrats who rise to high positions because of their diligence and perseverance in a life of crime. It was a painful thought: the only glorious men the human race had produced were a bunch of miserable officials who cared about nothing but their own advancement and were sometimes driven to massacre thousands of their own just to hold on to their jobs and keep food on the table. And this was who was held up for the respect and admiration of the crowd!
Khaled Omar waved away a fly that had landed on the plate of loukoums and gave Heykal a look full of unspoken expectation. Why was his companion so silent? Why was he pretending to be so interested in what was going on in the street? Was he having second thoughts? Khaled Omar had long imagined this meeting, and he’d wondered whether Heykal would ask for his help right off. Heykal’s silence made him think he was hesitating to reveal his plans. This lack of confidence pained Omar. Hadn’t he just put all his earthly goods at Heykal’s disposal? The young man’s visible coldness, the elegance of his manners, his wary sarcastic smile—none of this displeased Omar. They were the signs of an aristocratic mind. No, Khaled Omar admired Heykal without reservation. If only he’d deign to take his fortune and accept his devotion.
“Thank you for your generosity,” said Heykal. “I will definitely need your help. But it won’t cost a fortune. Much less.”
“Whatever it is, give me your orders. I’m at your service.”
Heykal crossed his legs and let his gaze stray over the passing crowd once more; then he turned to Khaled Omar and said:
“Well, I’m sure I don’t need to tell you that the horror and stupidity of the current governor are completely beyond the pale.”
“I know, and I also know that he’s supported by a revolting clique of newspaper editors who can’t stop singing his praises.”
“That’s not a bad thing. On the contrary: it’ll make our task easier.”
“How?”
“Very simple,” said Heykal. “We
’re going to jump on the bandwagon. We, too, will sing the praises of our odious governor. We’ll outdo them in their idiocy.”
“Karim told me that the papers have stopped publishing your enthusiastic letters to the editor. Well, it was a magnificent idea! I want to congratulate you for it.”
“That’s all over. Now we’re going to inaugurate an unprecedented campaign of subversive propaganda, the likes of which no secret police in the world has ever seen. For starters, I’ll print posters featuring the governor’s portrait with some words in his praise. The text will be so ridiculously laudatory, even the most naive citizens will laugh. With the help of some friends, we’re going to put them up on every wall in the city. Do you understand the impact this will have?”
“Of course. Everyone in the city will think the governor had the posters printed to bolster his image.”
“And why not! Has anyone ever known revolutionaries to attack a government with praise? Another thing: the governor himself will assume it’s the work of some well-meaning supporters. He’ll be flattered—that’s for sure. He’s too stupid to get it right away. But even if he did understand, it would be hard for him to take action against us. We’ll go on soft-soaping him indefinitely—and what’s the risk? They won’t dare charge us with praising the governor too much—although I’ll happily praise him in front of any tribunal. But it won’t come to that.”
“Your words fulfill my every hope!” said Khaled Omar. “By Allah, I don’t know what to say!”
“And that’s not all,” Heykal went on. “These posters are only the beginning. I have other ideas. In a word, we’re going to make the governor infamous across the country. He’ll become such a laughingstock that the government will have to strip him of power.”
Khaled Omar was wriggling in his seat, ever more captivated by his companion’s diabolical perversity. And yet there was an important flaw in Heykal’s logic. To plot the destruction of a man as entertaining as the governor: Wouldn’t that work against their common desire? The thought silenced him momentarily.
The Jokers Page 5
