He felt the girl move, then touch his arm.
“But, I love you,” she said in a whisper.
Karim silently rejoiced. Games of love like this made him happy. Whether they were seven or seventy, women always fell for the same tricks. Age didn’t matter; you seduced them all the same way. He stroked the girl’s hair lightly, a tender gesture of reconciliation, and looked around the class. How marvelous to be sitting at a school desk again: suddenly he felt the desire to act like a student. He grabbed the girl’s notebook and, writing meticulously, began to translate a popular proverb about human ingratitude: “We are the ones who taught them to beg, and now they beat us to our own benefactors’ doors.” Karim copied the sentence several times, as devoted as a star student. He’d forgotten his age and the absurdity of his presence here. All he wanted was to shine. The girl watched him, captivated; she’d never seen such a serious student.
There was still a quarter of an hour left before the end of class, but Urfy cut the session short.
“All right, children, be off!”
“But it’s not time yet, sir!” protested several students, waking up with a jolt.
“No protests,” interrupted Urfy. “I’ve seen enough of you for today.”
With heavy hearts, dragging their feet as much as they could, the children succeeded in gathering all their belongings and left the classroom. But they didn’t go far; they just scattered into the narrow street, searching for dark corners not too far from the school. When the last student had left, Urfy stepped down from his desk and went over to Karim, who hadn’t budged from his seat.
“I didn’t expect you so early,” he said, by way of an excuse.
“I had nothing else to do,” Karim admitted. “And I couldn’t wait to read what you’d written. You’ve finished, I hope?”
“Just,” responded Urfy. He pulled a folded piece of paper from the inside pocket of his jacket and offered it to Karim: “Here, read.”
“You’re happy with it?”
“That’s a question to ask His Excellency the Governor. I am but his humble biographer.”
Wanting to indulge fully in the delight he anticipated from this reading, Karim assumed a comfortable position. Then he unfolded the paper, and what he read made him almost crazy with pleasure. A storm raged within him, it seemed, making him shake with insane, unstoppable laughter. Urfy hadn’t expected such a success; he was passably proud of the text but was still surprised. Some of the children, overhearing this bout of hilarity, crept out of the shadows of the nearby houses and spied on them through the basement windows. Seeing the beardless wonders preparing to jeer at them, Karim calmed down immediately. He wiped the tears from his cheeks and turned to the schoolmaster.
“It’s...sublimely grotesque,” he said, jubilation in check. “With the portrait above it, this will make a sensational poster!”
“Do you really like it?” asked Urfy.
“It’s...well...monstrous! I can’t wait to print it.”
“That’s your domain. But tell me: How do you know about printing?”
“By chance. I worked for a few months as a typesetter in a printshop. It was during the time when I wanted to live among the people. So I took different jobs.”
Urfy slumped onto a bench and stretched his legs, which were numb from inactivity. His gaze fell on his worn-out shoes, and he noticed something strange: one was more worn than the other. Briefly the mystery absorbed his mind, then he snapped back to attention and placed his hand fraternally on the young man’s shoulder.
“You were very young,” he said, “and you wanted to defend the cause of the people, is that it? And you got sent to prison.”
Urfy wasn’t asking a question but stating a simple fact. Everyone knew that defending the cause of the people led straight to jail.
“Naturally,” responded Karim. “Not that I regret it, because at the end of the day, it was in prison that I did get to mix with the people. See, in a factory you slave away like beasts—there’s never time to talk to your co-workers. All your conversations come back to the job, the awful pay, or the contagious misery that tears families apart. Nothing but painful subjects. But in prison there is downtime; you talk for the pleasure of getting to know one another. It’s funny, but a prison is less sinister than any workplace. Do you know that before prison I believed that ‘the people’ were sullen by nature and were somehow predisposed to misery and hardship? I never would have believed they were so lively, so full of humor. Yes, it was only in prison that I discovered this fundamental truth about our people—and realized that all my ideas about them had been false.”
Like any intellectual worthy of the name, Urfy had also fought for the people in his youth. But his unassuming air, his shyness and fear of attracting attention made him all but invisible to the police, who cared more about revolutionary looks than about actual revolutionary fervor. As a result, he’d never gone to jail. Now his curiosity was piqued; he realized he could learn from Karim’s experiences. He pressed Karim’s shoulder, encouraging him to continue.
“Tell me about it.”
“Well,” resumed Karim, “I’d seen the people as I’d wanted to see them, consumed by hatred and dreaming of revenge. And I wanted to help them carry out that revenge. I thought they were oppressed—but then I realized they were freer than I was. You wouldn’t believe how they laughed when I tried to explain that I was in prison because of my political ideas. It was a disaster; they thought I was an idiot. And I thought that by announcing my revolutionary position—how I was declared an enemy of the government—I’d earn their respect! How presumptuous! They’d always known that the government was a joke. But with all of my intelligence, I’d taken it seriously! I felt like an ass, playing the martyr to the working class. I was the only one who took the government seriously.”
“What a blow to your ego!” Urfy observed. “I bet you weren’t happy about it.”
“At first, no. But then my position began to seem silly. Soon I was laughing at everything, too, and in the end I was converted. And there was plenty to laugh about, believe me. It’s amazing the different characters you meet in prison! Their ideas about the government were fantastic—it was nothing more than a bunch of perverts. I loved everything I heard.”
“So prison was a decisive experience for you.”
“It was a start. And then I met Heykal.”
At the mention of Heykal, Urfy flinched. He withdrew his hand from the younger man’s shoulder and went back to contemplating his worn-out shoes. He thought of the pleasure Heykal must have felt hearing Karim talk about his time in prison; it was a story that would feed right into his endless appetite for the ironic. Urfy refused to be seduced by the strange buffoonery of the world; he actually fought against the temptation of enjoying it too much. He was well aware that the world was ruled by idiots and crooks who deserved no respect, but this gave him no pleasure; instead, he felt the full bitterness of the situation. Unlike Heykal, he would try at times to find a semblance of sincerity or justice in human institutions. Sadly, facts always proved Heykal right—he triumphed at every turn. And it wasn’t just that he triumphed; he shocked Urfy with his mania for seeking out the sick, risible side of every activity—as if to find the slightest grain of sanity in the whole comic routine might spoil his happiness. But Urfy was often incensed. In spite of everything he held on to a vague hope, and this condemned him to moral isolation from his friends—men whom he loved and admired.
“So,” he finally said, “tonight’s the night? You’ll be able to do it?”
“I’ll print enough,” Karim said, “for us to start postering tonight. But we should get going. I’ll need your help—to correct the proofs at least.”
“Where’s the printshop?”
“In a warehouse near the port that belongs to Khaled Omar. He should be coming with Heykal to meet us there this evening.”
“So Heykal’s coming?”
“For sure. He has to give us his final instructions. Di
d you know this is only the beginning, that Heykal has other projects in mind? Just thinking about it keeps me up at night!”
Karim’s enthusiasm for Heykal’s genius prevented him from noticing the look of sadness on the schoolmaster’s face. Karim was so happy to be caught up in the whole giant hoax that nothing else seemed to matter.
“There are things about him I don’t really understand,” said Urfy.
“Who are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about Heykal. Listen to me: these posters—I’m the first to recognize their destructive power. But I wonder if Heykal really wants to take down the governor. I wonder if, to be happy, Heykal doesn’t actually need the governor. What do you think?”
“What do we care if the governor’s taken down or not? That’s no business of ours. We just want to have fun—isn’t that right?”
“I’m sorry, Karim, my brother, but sometimes I just forget to laugh. It’s a weakness, I know, but I can’t help it.”
Though he wasn’t going to let himself think about it, Karim was fully aware of the troubles that weighed on the schoolmaster’s sensitive soul. To have a mother who’d gone crazy was hardly cause for celebration. Karim understood this so well, in fact, that he’d do anything to avoid the woman; she terrified him. When he came to see Urfy, he went out of his way not to cross her path. Now suddenly he felt she was there, spying on them, and he flinched as if at the approach of danger. Despite himself, he turned toward the door. He didn’t see anyone at first; then the crazy old lady materialized before his eyes. There she was, towering in the doorframe like a specter—an old lady reduced almost to a skeleton but with a mysterious, bewitching power. She looked haggard and disheveled. She’d stopped eating a long time ago and now only nibbled at bread crumbs while staunchly refusing anything of substance. Eyeing the empty classroom with its deserted seats, she deliberately ignored her son and the stranger who was with him. At first Karim was petrified; he thought he was seeing a ghost. But then, robotically, he rose and bowed deeply to the emaciated form in the doorway.
Urfy had remained calm. He gestured to Karim to keep still and looked up at the strange apparition, his myopic eyes moist with emotion.
Full of confidence, propelled by an ancient reflex of maternal authority, the old woman strode toward them. Karim thought of running, but it was too late. He no longer felt like laughing, that was sure.
“Where are the children?” asked the woman. “He’s the only one left,” she added, looking at Karim with suspicion.
“Mother,” said Urfy. “You don’t recognize my friend Karim?”
“Of course I recognize him. He’s a good student, he’ll succeed in life. Since the others have left, he’ll recite his lesson for me.”
She walked briskly to the platform and sat down at Urfy’s desk, resolute. With a bony hand she picked up the ruler, pointing it at Karim:
“Well then, young man! Recite your lesson!”
Karim was in hell. He glared at Urfy with the desperate look of a drowning man who loves life and dreads dying. But Urfy paid no attention to his distress—he had assumed an impenetrable mask and was following the scene with the cold assurance of a psychiatrist observing a hypothesis play out. The schoolmaster’s attitude troubled Karim. Was this some kind of revenge, leaving him at the mercy of a madwoman? Was Urfy expecting him to explode into laughter, as he usually did no matter the situation? Yes, it was a dare: that and nothing else.
Finally, at the end of what seemed to be an eternity, Urfy spoke in a matter-of-fact tone without any urgency:
“Mother, it’s time for you to go to bed.”
The old lady didn’t seem to hear; she was sticking to her idea.
“Come on, child! You’re holding us up!”
Karim realized that to escape from this trap, he’d have to play along with her game. Remembering a vaguely patriotic text that he’d learned in his childhood, he started to recite it in a hoarse voice, clearing his throat several times in the process.
The madwoman watched him with her demented eyes; she seemed to be enjoying his recitation. Despite her witchlike demeanor, she still projected the prim dignity of a schoolmistress on a mission.
“That’s very good,” she said when Karim had finished. “I congratulate you! You’ve made progress since the last time. I’ll tell your father that you are deserving of the money he spends on you.”
Karim bowed deeply from the waist several times, as if the congratulations of the old lady were too heavy for his humility to bear. Deep down, he felt intensely proud of his triumph over the circumstance. He grinned victoriously at Urfy, showing that he’d taken note of his challenge and had risen to it handsomely.
Just then, Urfy was seized by panic. All of a sudden he couldn’t see—he thought he’d been struck blind. It took him a moment to understand the reason for this sudden loss of sight: the tears he’d been struggling to repress now filled his eyes, and the lenses of his glasses were all fogged up. He removed them quickly and wiped them off with his handkerchief, his fingers shaking with panic. When he put them back on, he saw that the two protagonists of his nightmare were still in place, immobile, dumbstruck as if waiting for him—and him alone—to break off the session. He hurried to the podium, put his arm around his mother’s shoulders, and all but carried her to the door. The madwoman let him do as he pleased, oblivious now to everything; she didn’t even give a passing glance at Karim. He bowed one last time and didn’t straighten up until they had left the room.
He wasn’t alone for long. Urfy returned right away, deeply troubled.
“Please excuse me,” he said, in a quiet voice. “I’m terribly, terribly sorry!”
Now that the danger was past, Karim was as jovial as ever.
“No harm done,” he remarked cheerfully. He was going to add “It was a real pleasure,” but restrained himself in time.
“It’s my fault,” Urfy went on. “I should confine her to her room, but I don’t have the heart to do it.”
“Don’t feel bad,” said Karim. “You know, for me it was a magnificent surprise! I never could recite that lesson when I was a kid, and look how it came back all of a sudden! It’s amazing, don’t you think?”
Urfy didn’t feel like responding; all he said was:
“Shall we go?”
7
EMERGING from the basement into the blazing street, they felt a blast of intense heat and immediately began to sweat. Karim took off his jacket and draped it over his arm; then he unbuttoned his collar and rolled up his sleeves, taking on a sporty look. Urfy didn’t follow his friend’s sartorial lead; too many of his students’ parents were around for him to indulge in such informality. Keeping their distance from each other—the slightest touch would be unbearable in this atmosphere—they walked toward the port. On the way they passed an infinity of empty side streets where, inside the rare open shops, you could see the owners taking their siestas in their chairs, handkerchiefs draped across their faces to ward off flies. They looked so much like corpses that Karim had to look away with a shudder. Farther on, half-naked children played in the puddles left by the municipal sprinklers; they splashed around happily and peppered Karim with insults as unoriginal as the minds of their mothers. The young man sighed: this generation had no talent for invective, a weakness he attributed to the new regime. But the heat distracted him from this distressing thought. In a hurry to escape from the furnace he picked up his pace, dragging Urfy in his wake.
Twenty minutes into this feverish walk they started to feel a slight breeze, a sign they were nearing the sea. Between buildings they glimpsed long ocean liners, anchored and at rest. Karim stopped in front of a run-down yellow building, took a key from his pocket, and opened the padlock on the immense double-hung gate.
“Come in,” he said to Urfy.
The warehouse Khaled Omar had loaned them contained immense amounts of all kinds of merchandise; countless crates and sacks were stacked against the walls and rose from the dirt floor to the ceilin
g. They’d had to clear the middle of the space to set up the manual press, whose metal frame gleamed faintly in the dim light. The cleared area was not very big, and Urfy got the impression that the crates might all come tumbling down onto his head. He picked his way carefully, eyes focused on the one small, grilled window that let in a stingy stream of light. After the blinding glare of the street, this was all he had to guide himself by in the darkness. When he reached the window, he saw that someone had set up a table and two chairs. On the table were trays full of lead type. Taking a seat, he mopped his forehead with his handkerchief and gazed with wonder at the great metal machine enthroned there like a fantastic beast in a jungle of merchandise.
Karim bustled around the press like a child getting ready to show off a complicated toy. He turned toward Urfy.
“Superb, isn’t it?” he said with the pride of ownership. “It’s almost new. Khaled Omar has demonstrated his sincerity; he spared no expense.”
“Yes,” said Urfy. “Will you tell me what you need me to do?”
“In a minute, we’ll start setting type. I’ll explain how it works; it’s not hard. But first let’s turn on some lights—I can’t see anything in here.”
He went to flip the switch. Two bare lightbulbs suspended from the ceiling projected a harsh light into the room, reintroducing a dim hint of the blazing heat outside.
“Let’s get started,” said Karim, going over to the table and sitting down in the other chair.
“At your service,” Urfy said.
By nine that evening, when Heykal arrived with Khaled Omar, more than five hundred posters bearing the portrait of the governor in full military dress were piled on the floor of the warehouse. The businessman wore a bottle-green suit and a dazzling red tie, and smelled more strongly than ever of violets. He walked up to Karim and took the young man in his arms, kissing him on both cheeks and showering him with congratulations. At the late hour his exclamations rang out and echoed throughout the silent port.
The Jokers Page 7
