The Jokers

by Albert Cossery

  Karim kept his eyes down and said nothing. He was aware that the entire interrogation would depend on his reply. He was searching for the right words when Hatim resumed:

  “Sit down. You have no idea how happy I am to see you.”

  Karim sat on the chair that the stool pigeon had just vacated and looked up at the officer with an expression of unquestionable sincerity.

  “I know I was wrong, Your Excellency! Can’t the police simply forget about me?”

  “Forget you!” exclaimed Hatim. “But you left such unforgettable memories! You wanted to destroy everything. You promised to have me hung once you and your friends were in power. Those were your very words, or am I mistaken?”

  “That was foolishness,” said Karim. “I was joking, Your Excellency! How could you have thought that I was serious?”

  “What are you talking about? Do you take me for an imbecile?”

  “No, God help me, Your Excellency! In a moment of madness I might have said such things. And things were different then. You forget, Your Excellency, that was during the old regime.”

  “And? Are you a revolutionary, yes or no? Can you explain to me in what way the new regime is more satisfactory than all the others?”

  “It’s hard to explain,” admitted Karim, crestfallen. “But you can feel it, there’s no doubt. With a good regime, even the air is different. For example, just now, walking in the street, it seemed to me that it was not so hot as it used to be.”

  “Ah! It’s not so hot now! That’s the sole benefit you find in the new regime?”

  “I am sure the new regime has brought other benefits, but perhaps I’m not aware of them, Your Excellency.”

  Now this was talking! Karim was almost proud of himself for coming up with that one. But the officer looked worried; the young man’s display of humility had thrown him off. Could he be joking? Unlikely. He knew Karim’s mentality very well; nothing about it indicated he’d go in for such trifles. Then what? It was a mystery, and for now he was stumped, but he meant to clear it up before going any further.

  Hatim had expected to do battle with a stubborn adversary, and he found himself facing a human worm. Notwithstanding his professional duties, he’d found occasion at every turn to admire the courage—the indomitable revolutionary spirit—that had driven the young man. And he’d been happy at the prospect of measuring himself against him once more. He’d learned a lot from these revolutionaries, things that had been very good for his career. Among higher-ups, Hatim was known for having studied the subject of subversion from every angle; he was considered a highly sophisticated officer, capable of combating the twisted theories of all the young madmen who wanted to overthrow the powers that be. In fact, his whole knowledge of such matters consisted of snippets torn out of political prisoners in the course of interrogation. So he resented Karim’s grotesque attitude. This son of a bitch wasn’t giving him anything positive to display in front of his superiors. Not as hot as it was under other regimes? He was making fun of him, for sure.

  Anger boiled up inside Hatim, but he contained it. He examined the young man with the concern of a psychiatrist trying to detect a glimmer of dawning sanity in a patient. But Karim refused to react. He stayed in character: humble, tragically pitiable. Hatim’s eyes widened; he was thoroughly disappointed. He viewed the prospect of accepting the young man’s repentance with genuine displeasure. And he still didn’t quite believe it—it was just too easy. Revolutionaries don’t change, at least not like this. Like cops, they were indifferent to regimes.

  He sighed deliberately to show that he wasn’t giving up yet. Then he opened the file in front of him and leafed through it with a shrewd, penetrating eye. As he read, his face became more pensive, more preoccupied, as if this hunt for a clue that would put the interrogation back on course had taken on some more dramatic importance. Suddenly he raised his head and stared at the young man, a passionate gleam in his eyes. He seemed to be on the track of a particularly serious offense. Karim pretended to shiver a little with fear, allowing himself the luxury of spoiling his adversary.

  “According to the report of the agent who visited you, it appears that you are working. You make kites. Is that right?”

  “It’s hard to make a living, Your Excellency. I do what I can.”

  “Well then, tell me a bit about these kites. What do they look like?”

  Hatim’s suspicious look—on top of this stupid question—was the height of bad melodrama. Karim hadn’t predicted this. Did the officer imagine he used the kites to photograph military targets? Why not? Anything’s possible in the realm of police fantasy.

  “They’re small kites, Your Excellency. Completely humble. What did you think they were?”

  “Don’t worry about what I think. But tell me what they’re for.”

  “For entertaining children, nothing more.”

  Hatim didn’t seem convinced, and Karim was choking painfully from holding back an enormous outburst of laughter. The officer continued to stare suspiciously; he didn’t believe the simple story. These kites had to have some secret purpose, but the terrain was tricky and he hesitated to go too far; there might be traps, and he risked losing ground. He moved his hand as if to swat a fly; it was how he dealt with thorny cases.

  “Let’s forget about that for now,” he said. “And tell me what you think of the situation in general. Speak frankly.”

  “I think that everything is going well, Your Excellency. Really, I don’t see anything going badly. My impression is that the people are content; they’re the picture of perfect happiness.”

  “Well, let me inform you that you’re too optimistic. There are still plenty of bastards out there, bitter people who continue to complain. It seems they’re not content with the new regime, either. What do we have to do to make them happy, I ask you?”

  “I don’t know, Your Excellency. I don’t bother with politics anymore. I’m about to get married.”

  These last words had a catastrophic effect on Hatim.

  “You’re going to get married?” he asked, his face twisted in disgust.

  “Yes, Your Excellency,” responded Karim, in the voice of a man who was about to commit suicide.

  Hatim snapped his file shut; he seemed to banish the young man from his universe. Already his gaze was distant as he said:

  “Well, for the moment you may stay where you are. But watch out: the slightest prank and I’ll make you vacate your apartment.”

  Karim was about to thank him when a door opened and the governor himself appeared. Hatim rose, followed by Karim and the whole ensemble of characters who’d been prostrate on the benches. For a few seconds, the governor remained on the threshold of his office, surveying the room with bulging eyes; then he began to walk, trotting on bent legs as if riding a horse. He was just passing by, when Karim—as if moved by a sudden impulse—intercepted him, seizing his hand and kissing it while murmuring a few unintelligible words. Karim returned to his place, panting shamelessly with excitement, as if crushed by the weight of an undeserved blessing. The governor wasn’t the least bit offended nor did he break his pace; he was accustomed to such signs of veneration. Superb on his invisible horse, he trotted on, until at last he left the room.

  Karim’s unsettling act had left Hatim totally distraught. Expecting an attack, he’d tried to stop it, but what he’d seen instead was far worse: it was the world turned upside down. This Karim, whom he thought he knew so well, had suddenly become incomprehensible to him. He stared with horrified eyes, as if at a monster. Karim, for his part, was in seventh heaven. He’d risked everything for this simple pleasure: leaving Hatim thunderstruck, with irrefutable proof of his repentance. And there was no doubt he’d succeeded in this exploit.

  Hatim signaled for Karim to sit back down.

  “By God!” said Hatim. “You surprise me more and more.”

  “Why, Your Excellency?”

  “It’s hard for me to believe that you would come to this: kissing the governor’s hand!�
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  “That’s not in the least surprising,” said Karim. “The governor is our father, a father to all of us; at least, that’s how I see it.”

  Hatim thought for a second. His interest in the young man intensified. In the horrifying light of the immeasurable degradation here spread before his eyes, he began to see an escape from the private calvary of dutiful public servant. Maybe all was not yet lost.

  “So since that’s the way it is, maybe we can collaborate. You wouldn’t like it, would you, if your father—as you put it—were the object of vicious attacks?”

  “Of course not. But what can I do?”

  “I’d like to know your opinion of certain posters that have recently appeared on the walls of the city.”

  “What posters?” Karim asked innocently.

  “Allow me to enlighten you,” said Hatim. “These posters feature the governor’s portrait and praise him in glorious terms, too glorious to be sincere. Have you seen them?”

  “Those posters, Your Excellency? Those are beautiful posters! Every time I see one, I stop to read it. I’ve learned the text by heart, in fact. Would you like me to recite it?”

  “Save yourself the trouble. Instead can you tell me who’s behind them? Who’s printing them? Who’s putting them up on walls all over the city?”

  “But, Your Excellency, I assumed it was the government. The posters say nothing but good about our kind governor!”

  “You’re mistaken. The government didn’t print these posters! Don’t you think it’s your old comrades who made them?”

  “What a thought!” exclaimed Karim. “I don’t know what to say! Why would my old comrades sing the praises of the governor?”

  “Maybe they’ve gone mad. I’m trying to understand.”

  He was extremely unhappy to reveal to Karim the awkward position the posters had put him in. But the slightest clue could mean an unhoped-for release; if he tracked down the creators of this poisonous panegyric that had the entire police force on alert, his reputation as an astute officer would be beyond all suspicion. In twenty years of working with political offenses he’d never seen anything like this—a problem so serious, and at the same time so delicate, so out of the ordinary, that there was no mention of it in any of the police manuals. Hatim wondered if this wasn’t the beginning of a new revolutionary era—he might have to revise his investigatory technique. A new way of doing things had been born, and there he sat like an idiot, unaware of the birthplace or the identity of the instigators. He was overcome by panic.

  “So you know nothing?”

  It wasn’t a question so much as a last attempt to seize a bit of the truth. He waited for Karim’s reply without much hope.

  “Nothing, Your Excellency,” Karim responded glumly. He gazed at Hatim with an empty, defeated expression.

  A painful feeling of failure took hold of Hatim, darkening his already formidable features. The interrogation was ending in weakness and defeat. He had extracted nothing from this repentant revolutionary on his way to the altar, who made kites for the amusement of a bunch of brats. Was it possible to sink lower? He was surprised to feel a sort of regret—in this case particularly absurd. Could he really feel pity for a failed revolutionary? There were plenty of others, all sorts of people seeking revenge, happy to sow the seeds of disorder along the way. And yet something had died: a tiny spark in the raging fire that wanted to set the world ablaze.

  He leaned his elbows on his desk, covered his forehead with his hands, and said, without looking at Karim:

  “You may leave now.”

  Karim got up, made a low bow, turned on his heel, and fled. As he left, he nodded right and left to his unhappy successors. But they paid no attention. Quietly closing the door behind him, as he’d seen the orderly do, he left the room.

  A little ways down the avenue, which was now nearly deserted, he stopped in the shade of a tree and turned back to survey the distance he’d traversed from city hall. The big white building had vanished like a mirage behind the haze of heat. Karim felt like he was emerging from a dream.

  10

  KARIM was relaxing. He leaned against the stone parapet that ran along the cliff road and studied the languid asses of the women strolling by, so plainly visible beneath their light dresses. How different they all were! They came in every shape and size. In the veiled gray light of dusk, these amazing asses took on a life of their own, promising him sensuous delights. The owners of the asses were, for the most part, so ugly that even a sex maniac would run screaming, but Karim barely noticed; he seldom looked at a woman’s face. Most of the women were accompanied by plain fat men dressed for the summer heat, men who wore striped cotton pajama pants and had their shirtsleeves rolled up as they munched on watermelon seeds while watching over their wives and daughters and keeping an eye on Karim, glaring at him like a peasant guarding his cows from a cattle thief. It made Karim snicker to see their sullen distrust. Every evening it was the same: families out on a ritual stroll looking for cool air, eager to breathe the sea breeze after the stifling heat of the day. And for Karim this procession of wistful asses was his daily break; he would come down from his terrace to lean against the parapet and wait for opportunity to strike. From time to time he’d be lucky enough to find a woman out on her own, looking for adventure, and he’d accost her in a direct and primitive way. Karim was as unforthcoming with women as he was with the police. He never said an intelligent word for fear of scaring them off; one dumb remark about the weather and the deal was done.

  But tonight, nothing; prey was scarce. During the hour he’d been there, he hadn’t seen a single potential victim. All the women who went by were accompanied, or else they were bitter nannies dragging little kids in their wake. Karim was getting annoyed. A pair of lovers, fingers entwined as if for dear life, passed in front of him with an expression of affected ecstasy. Karim mechanically followed the young woman’s ass with his eyes and was stabbed by a sudden memory—not just a memory of conquest, because he vaguely remembered the girl’s face: that sweet little prostitute he’d picked up one night and never seen again, even though he’d invited her to consider his apartment her home. He’d conducted himself with munificence! True, at this moment he didn’t really want to see her again; the invitation had been tossed out at a critical moment in order to mollify her and to invite some discretion when it came to the money business. Perhaps she hadn’t been fooled and had understood that he didn’t have any. A wave of pity swept over him and—how extraordinary!—the face of the little prostitute took shape in his mind, like a face he’d always known, as familiar as the face of his own mother. Suddenly he regretted having been so stingy with the poor girl. Where was she now? He wanted to go look for her. The police must have picked her up and scared her off the street. Another victim of the accursed governor.

  Speaking of which, it had been two weeks now since Heykal’s letter—he’d called for the public to fund the erection of a statue of the governor—had been published in the papers. This letter had created consternation even among those who were most attached to the governor and his dictatorial ways. Already rumors were circulating that the central government did not look favorably on this popularity; doubts had arisen about a man capable of organizing such a successful propaganda campaign on his own behalf. Still, unwitting citizens—unaware of the direction things were heading—had been inspired to demonstrate their civic duty. Money had flowed from everywhere—like manna from heaven that nothing could prevent from falling. The list of donors grew longer with each morning’s paper. Karim himself wanted to take part and spent his last penny to support the statue, though his name hadn’t been mentioned. Now he bitterly regretted the donation, especially since his meager offering had received such a paltry response. Some readers—whether out of cynicism or naiveté—had written in to the journals to recommend a sculptor of their acquaintance or to indicate a preference as to the future placement of the statue. The craziness had now come to a head, and Heykal was only waiting to execute a
new prank if this last one wasn’t sufficient to permanently discredit the governor. Karim was meeting with him this evening to discuss the whole question. The position of the governor had been dealt a solid blow, but unforeseen developments had to be kept in mind. Deep down, Karim hoped the governor would hang on for another month or two, long enough to be immortalized in a statue. How funny if things came to that—to see the governor on a pedestal! With only a little luck, it just might happen.

  Night had fallen slowly and all at once the streetlamps came on above the cliff road, stretched like a string of gleaming pearls. But even though the air had become more breathable, cooler temperatures hadn’t arrived. The smell of grilled corn on the cob, emanating from the cart of a street vendor, filled the night. The road was gradually emptied of its strolling families; only the odd couple straggled by, retreating into shadowy corners to enjoy a quick, shameful spasm.

  Karim, despairing of ever finding a girl, was about to leave when his eyes fell on the profile of a man leaning over the parapet at some distance to his left. The man turned quickly as if to hide his face from view. He was standing outside the pool of light made by the nearest streetlamp, but Karim, shocked, had recognized the furtive attitude and conspiratorial pose. The solitary man hiding in the shadows was Taher, his old friend from the revolutionary party; it had been a long time since he’d seen him, but he was certain he wasn’t mistaken. He’d identified him at a single glance; for Karim, Taher would be recognizable in the darkest of nights. His heart began to beat with emotion. He felt faint, moved by this miraculous, unexpected encounter with his old friend, but almost immediately a terrible suspicion seized him. The encounter was far from fortuitous; Taher must have been spying on him for a good while already. What for? Why didn’t he just come up and say hello? But to ask such questions was to not know Taher. He was a born conspirator, who loved detours and long, secret pursuits; he would never approach somebody without indulging in some mysterious behavior first. Karim decided to let him play his bizarre game. He had some time to kill before going to Heykal’s anyway.