She waved the jasmine in the air like a fan, and the rank room began to smell sweet. Heykal sat at her feet, at the end of the bed. He seemed to be unaware of Urfy’s presence and was watching the old woman with peaceful joy.
“There’s nothing out there that you could possibly be missing,” he said. “You must believe me.”
Suddenly she shut her eyes—she seemed to have fallen into a state of intense meditation. With her head thrown back on the pillow, she pressed the bouquet of jasmine hard against her nostrils as if she was breathing in the scent of the world outside, the world of the living, and trying to remember it.
Urfy struggled against a feeling of unreality. He was standing behind Heykal, and over his shoulder he could see his mother stretched out on her bed like a corpse. He didn’t dare intervene in what seemed to him to be a gift from heaven. By what miracle was Heykal able to carry on such a conversation with his mother? He spoke to her naturally, as if she was sane, and the old lady responded in the same way, as if the sheer magic of his presence had made her disordered mind begin to function. Right then Urfy began to wonder if his mother was really crazy or if she had been playing a part. But he banished the question from his mind; what was most important for now was to see her emerging from the darkness to regain her dignity and good humor.
The old lady opened her eyes, lowered the bouquet, and asked, a little anxiously:
“How is humanity these days, prince? I remember it as being nasty.”
She seemed to be asking about a foreign country she had once visited in her youth but to which she’d never returned.
“It still is,” responded Heykal. “But human foolishness remains entertaining enough.”
“There’s no hatred in you. I could tell in my dream the other night. I didn’t see a single spark of meanness in your eyes when you were fighting the dragon. And yet he wanted to devour you, prince. I would never have gotten over it. Be careful.”
“I won’t let myself be eaten up. I’m not the type. I know how to defend myself, even without hatred. Don’t worry about me.”
She gripped his hand and brought it to her lips, like a woman crushed by her lover’s departure for a pointless war.
“Yes, defend yourself. And come back victorious!”
Heykal contemplated her, touched to previously unsuspected depths of his being by this emaciated but smooth face, unwrinkled even by age. He knew no face so transparent, so utterly without blemish. Even the face of the little girl in the tearoom now seemed to bear a stigma of impurity. Her animation had been founded on guile and will, born of unflinching determination to seduce a cunning adversary—already she displayed the tools of her femininity. But the peace of this moment was something else entirely. Saved! Yes, he was saved from the oppressive hypocrisy of men. Only opposite this madwoman, who had forgotten the torments of vanity and lucre, could he feel at peace with the world. For him she had become the incarnation of a human being free of rancor or ambition.
He could see that the old woman was also observing him with an expression of happiness, as if she couldn’t believe the marvelous peace she was feeling.
“We understand each other, don’t we, prince?”
“Yes,” said Heykal. “But it’s our secret and we mustn’t tell anyone.”
Then she leaped from the bed and began to skip and spin around in the narrow space between the bed and the dresser. Her dress flared away from her feeble body, revealing her skinny brown-spotted legs, as she began a melancholy chant that was nonetheless full of spirit and youth, and her voice was that of a young girl happily playing in the garden of her childhood.
Heykal didn’t make a move to stop this spontaneous outbreak of dancing. He was happy watching her, delighted; the scene seemed as beautiful to him as a supernatural vision.
Urfy blanched; for a moment, he’d wanted to intervene, to interrupt the charm of this wild dance that was leading his mother back into madness. But as he observed Heykal, something shifted. He understood that madness and its ways held nothing terrifying. He could live as easily with his mother as with any human being. Madness makes no difference. He seized onto this as if it were his salvation, and, looking at his mother, he began to smile.
The old lady abruptly stopped spinning. Gasping, she curled up on her bed, her features ecstatic.
“Little one,” she said, addressing her son. “Buy me a new dress. A dress with sequins. I want to look good the next time the prince comes to visit. He gives me flowers, and I receive them like a beggar. I must be beautiful.”
She reached out and grasped the bouquet of jasmine. Her head fell back on the pillow and she slept deeply.
The two men watched for a moment, then left the room in silence.
Urfy was afraid to speak; never in his life had he been so happy. An enormous burden seemed to slide off his shoulders, leaving him free and invulnerable. He no longer stooped but held his head high as he followed Heykal to the front door.
Before parting they shook hands. They stood in the deserted, badly lit street in front of the basement door.
“You have a precious gift,” said Heykal. “Don’t ever give her up to those criminals!”
“Don’t worry,” responded Urfy. “I understand now. And forgive me, Heykal, my brother, that it took so long.”
Heykal walked off, then turned back to see Urfy still standing in front of the basement entrance. Once again he waved, with all the pomp and circumstance of a king departing for exile, leaving all that is most precious to him far behind.
12
IT WAS only a big cloud passing over the city, but it blotted out the sun so completely you would have thought a storm was brewing. The kite was a yellow streak against the dark background of sky, and it pitched back and forth, tossed by a gusty sea breeze. The long fringed tail wriggled and writhed like a snake sprung from the belly of the cloud into a maddening void. Karim grasped the string firmly, racing around the terrace, back and forth, maneuvering the kite to ever greater heights. It was a new kite, with an enormous tail, and he was testing it with fierce pleasure—he’d made it for Amar, the little prostitute who’d shown up again the night before. When he came home, he’d found her sitting on the steps of his building. She’d apologized for disturbing him, but Karim had lifted her in his arms and carried her to the bedroom. He made love to her all night, and in the morning he wanted to give her something. But what? He had no money, nothing of any value to express his gratitude. Then he thought he’d make a kite—not for financial consideration but as a pure disinterested work of art. He leaped out of bed and got started, choosing his materials with care, as if getting ready to build a palace for the woman of his dreams.
Now he was waiting for the kite to scale the heights, to anchor itself firmly in the sky, before calling the girl to come see. He was proud of himself; it was a triumph of kite-making and she was sure to admire his skill. Wasn’t it a marvelous gift—so pretty, this kite sailing through the stormy immensity of the sky like a shimmering sign of love? He smiled at his silly romanticism, carefully steering the heavy kite through the unpredictable dangers of the atmosphere. He was worried, fearing an accident; a moment’s distraction and his beautiful gift might split to pieces. For a moment he panicked, then sighed with relief; his task was done. High in the sky the kite hung still, solitary and regal; Karim could feel it vibrating at the end of its string. He stopped, out of breath, his bare chest glistening with sweat, and leaned on the parapet. For a long moment, he stood admiring his creation with childlike pride.
“Dear God! I can see you’re having fun!”
Karim gave a start, and the kite pitched lightly in the distance; he tugged on the string to steady it. He knew that voice, and without taking his eyes from the kite, he yelled out:
“Hello, Taher! Believe me, I’m not having fun, I’m hard at work!”
Taher strode onto the terrace. He wore his signature tight suit, starched collar, and tie. But this time he wasn’t barefoot; his shoes had new soles, very thick,
made to last a long time. They made an imposing sound on the terrace. The sound seemed to give Taher pleasure; with each step his self-confidence grew. He approached Karim and put his hand on the young man’s shoulder.
“Delighted to see you at work,” he said. “Your terrace is splendid, I have to admit. Listen, I have to apologize for the other night. Your friend Heykal knew what I meant, but you I need to talk to.”
“No need to talk,” said Karim.
He didn’t look at Taher, keeping his eyes on the kite. The fat cloud had drifted off and now the sun reappeared, blurry, as if enfeebled by a long absence. Its rays glanced off the yellow framework of the kite, which sparkled in the sky like a trail of gold. Karim was ecstatic to be holding all this gold at the end of a string, but his ecstasy was tempered by more realistic concerns. Taher’s presence on the terrace was not particularly to his liking; on the contrary, it was seriously worrying for him. Taher was putting him in a difficult, perhaps even a dangerous situation. The presence of a patented revolutionary in his home could cause no end of trouble, for no doubt the police were following his old friend’s every movement. If by a stroke of bad luck they found out about this visit, they’d cause problems for him, the cruelest of which would be to make him move out. They would drive him out; no question of it. But what to do? He couldn’t forbid Taher to enter his home; that would be improper and completely incompatible with his character. He had a highly developed sense of hospitality, and whatever might happen, he knew he could never bring himself to show his old friend the door.
Taher seemed annoyed by the offhandedness of his reception; he supposed Karim had no time for anything except his kite.
“Forget the kite and look at me,” he said.
“It took me an hour to get it so high,” said Karim, with eyes still lifted up. “Don’t you think it’s beautiful?”
“I’m in no mood to marvel at a kite. Who do you think I am? Come on, stop fooling around, I have serious things to discuss.”
“God, what have I done!” lamented Karim. “There are a million men in this city, and you have to come to me with serious things to discuss! Can’t you just enjoy yourself? Look at this kite, what a marvel!”
“The only reason I came to you is because this is your terrace,” Taher remarked enigmatically.
“My terrace! You want to buy it?”
“Don’t be ridiculous. I just want to make use of it this evening between nine and ten o’clock. That’s all I ask.”
“To do what? To sleep with a woman? If that’s what you want, I’m happy to let you use my bedroom.”
Without responding, Taher lifted his head to look at the kite, which remained perfectly still in the sky. He’d almost exhausted his patience for capturing Karim’s attention; to make him understand his plan would be even more complicated. This fool thinks he’s an engineer because he can fly a kite! Such degeneracy was beyond remedy, and Taher realized he was up against what he hated most: a joker and his wiles. How was he going to reach him? How could he penetrate his conscience when he was so proud to reject both dignity and honor, those treasures of the soul that even the most miserable beggar held fast beneath his rags? There Karim stood like a dim-witted child, mesmerized by his kite, while the people were suffering and the city stank with the sickness of their pain. Taher wanted to cry, to scream, to lash out, but he contained his rage: he was the people’s proxy, the military wing of their revenge. Duty commanded that he forget his bitterness for now. He must focus on the reason he was here.
“Did you know that there’s a big gala going on tonight at the casino?” he said in a soft, almost friendly tone, as if he hoped Karim would accompany him to the party.
“I didn’t, in fact. I’m not as social as you think.”
“It’s not about being social. I abhor social events, as you well know. But the governor is going; he’s the host of the party.”
“So?” Karim asked, suddenly worried at this mention of the governor.
“He’ll pass by in his car, with his motorcycle escorts—right down there on the cliff road. It’s the only possible route. I’ve studied it.”
“Where are you going with this? I’m not following.”
Taher took his time before responding. He looked at Karim’s tense features, his hand gripping the kite string. And then he said, quickly:
“It’s very simple. I’ll be here with a bomb and I’ll throw it at his car. There’s no better location.”
“So we’re back to that!” cried Karim, turning to Taher with horror in his eyes. “I was sure there would be a bomb somewhere in this!”
The neglected kite lurched violently and plunged several meters, like a crashing plane. Karim sprinted across the terrace, forgetting Taher, forgetting the insane plan he’d just been told, thinking of nothing but saving his kite from catastrophe. He gestured wildly, waving his arms in one direction and then another; then, with one quick, precise motion he set the kite back on course. He stood in the middle of the terrace, proud of this demonstration of his skills in aerial navigation.
“Bravo!” Taher called out. “I can’t believe your incredible escape! It was amazing, I swear!”
Taher’s flattery was so blatantly charged with ulterior motives that Karim felt disgusted. Without turning around he responded:
“My dear Taher, you know I’ll never participate in such a violent act. My terrace is not a slaughterhouse.”
“You can’t refuse me,” Taher said, and he came closer. “Plus, it’s not just me you’d be refusing but all of our old friends. You know I speak for them, too.”
Karim smiled to himself. With his tight suit, starched collar, and tie, Taher claimed to be a humble agent; he wanted Karim to know that an entire organization—the whole people, even—stood behind him, speaking through his very mouth. He wanted to impress him with the vast extent of his decision. Did he take him for a fool? Karim pitied his naiveté; he was certain that Taher had spoken to nobody about his plan. He knew him all too well: his taste for mystery and the insufferable obsession that led him to think of himself as entirely alone in the fight against injustice and oppression. Not ambition but something worse drove him, a sense that the sufferings of humanity were all his own. He planned to commit an act of unprecedented violence that would send him straight to the gallows, and he was marching toward it like a blind man toward an abyss—as if he’d been marked from birth for this and had no choice but to see it through. Of course he had no idea that the governor had already been defeated, that he was about to kill a man who was, for all intents and purposes, dead.
“Listen closely,” said Karim. “The governor is out. He’ll be gone in a matter of hours; the prime minister has demanded his resignation. Soon he’ll be nothing but a memory. I have this from a reliable source.”
“Don’t give me your stories,” Taher retorted suspiciously. “Your sources are a joke. You want me to believe that your posters brought him down?”
“Yes, our posters. I know it’s hard for you to accept. But I’m begging you, give up your plan.”
“Never. The decision is made: we will strike hard. The tyrant will die, mark my words. And you’re going to help us.”
He didn’t say it, but he’d thought up the whole scene solely in order to wash off the filth that Heykal, with his quirks and jokes, had covered him with. Heykal, that impudent destroyer of revolutions. That the police suspected him, Taher, of being the author of such a travesty gnawed at him like a poison. How was he to continue his work as a militant? The false imputation paralyzed his every thought. He had to prove to the authorities that he hadn’t renounced his methods, that he was still a force to be reckoned with; above all he couldn’t allow them to sleep peacefully in the blissful confidence that they were up against a bunch of juvenile delinquents. He wanted to shake them up with an act of brutality that would make them understand that the posters, and that whole business about the governor’s statue, had nothing to do with his ideas about overthrowing power. After this attack, they
’d be forced to admit their mistake. How else was he to save the honor of his party in the eyes of the police—for Taher, in his own bloodthirsty way, was vain.
“You’d better not count on me,” Karim said, beginning to reel in the kite by tugging on the string and winding it around his wrist. “I’ll never agree to your scheme.”
“It is not my scheme!” Taher cried out, furiously. “We’re talking about the people! Don’t you love the people anymore?”
“I don’t love my own mother,” replied Karim, annoyed. “Why do I have to love the people?”
“You’re acting like an idiot. Admit that you’re afraid.”
“Of course I’m afraid. What do you think? I like my life!”
“This is what you call a life?” said Taher, pointing to the kite.
“It might seem strange to you,” said Karim, smiling. “But for me, flying a kite is enough to make me happy. The governor does not interest me, apart from the fact that his foolishness makes me laugh. Why would I want him dead? I hate funerals.”
He continued to wind the string around his wrist, slowly bringing the kite down. Taher watched with fierce, cold hatred. This insolence of Karim’s was suffocating him; to conquer his indignation, he remained focused on his terrible mission. His one reason for living and for dying was now the attack on the governor. There was no humiliation and no indignity that he would not undergo to attain his glorious goal. To insist and to persuade—that was his role as a militant; and he was prepared to throw himself at Karim’s feet and beg for his assistance, turncoat and traitor though he was. Karim no longer meant anything to him, he’d torn him out of his heart for good; he was just a tool that Taher had to make use of in order to settle his score with the governor.
The kite was descending upon them, like an enormous wounded bird, resplendent in the sun. Karim brought it down skillfully, then ran over to pick it up and stash it in the corner of the terrace.
The Jokers Page 15
