This interminable street with closed shops was lugubrious and unsavory, with streetlamps lined up like a long funeral procession. Yeghen quickened his step. He was anxious to reach the Mirror Café, to enjoy a mint tea in that atmosphere of sweet words and joyful insouciance. Suddenly he had a kind of illumination and stopped in his tracks. The time! What time could it be? Was he still in time to see the girl? How could he have forgotten her? He panicked and almost began to run.
He had no way to find out the time; there was no one in sight on this deserted street. Yeghen felt desperate until he saw a man coming out of a porte cochere. He was a fine, corpulent man dressed in the European style and muffled up in a heavy, perfectly cut black coat. He looked like a man who would own a watch.
Yeghen slowed his steps and went up to him.
“Can you tell me the time, my Bey?”
The man nonchalantly took a large silver watch from his fob and consulted it.
“Six forty-five,” he said. “What time is your train?”
“It’s not a train,” said Yeghen. “I have a date with my mistress.”
The man looked closely at Yeghen, shook his head several times, and said, “Anything is possible, my dear man!”
“It’s more than possible,” Yeghen insisted. Without thanking the man, he continued on his way.
The swine! He had seemed to doubt he could have a date with his mistress. Yet it was the truth, or almost.
He was still in time to see her passing by; she never came home before seven o’clock. He stopped several paces from the house and stationed himself on the edge of the sidewalk in a dark spot between two streetlamps. It was a fairly busy street and several stores were still open; two or three strolling merchants with their handcarts full of fruit lit by smoky lanterns vaunted their wares in sepulchral voices. A café was nearby; despite the distance Yeghen could clearly hear the rattle of dice against wood: backgammon players. He waited, terribly excited, his head turned in the direction from which the girl would come.
Their first encounter had been purely by accident. That night, under the delightful influence of the drug, Yeghen was tramping through this same street when he saw her loom up like a superb apparition in the light of a streetlamp. Their eyes met, and he thought that he read a promise and an impulse in hers to which he was hardly accustomed. Her look was one of intelligence, able to appreciate mystery. Instead of a frightened beast’s retreat, it showed her assent before the vivid manifestation of his presence. Hers was the only woman’s gaze wherein Yeghen felt neither pity nor sarcasm, but the instinctive knowledge of human nature at its most horrible. He suspected her to be the daughter of a civil servant. She was perhaps sixteen and took piano lessons, as he could tell by the music books she carried under her arm. She paraded along like a princess visiting the poor neighborhoods. It is true that with her music books she clashed strangely with the surroundings. In this quarter, to take piano lessons was such a rare, incongruous thing that one risked antagonizing a crowd. Yeghen was surprised not to see the neighborhood children pursuing her with their taunts. No doubt it was her bearing, rather than her father’s position as a civil servant, that kept them at bay. He himself broke into a cold sweat each time he tried to accost her. He had finally decided to do it this very night, but in an indirect manner, to so speak. It involved a poem he had composed in her honor and that he wanted to give her in an elegant, original fashion.
Yeghen always used the same tactic: whenever he saw her coming from afar, he would begin to walk in her direction, so that the meeting would appear to be accidental. But was she fooled? Last time, she had smiled at him knowingly, as if to say that she’d understood his stratagem. He had concluded that she was now expecting more daring on his part. Yeghen couldn’t get over this conquest. “She feels no disgust seeing me,” he said to himself. “She’s truly a brave girl!” Or was she simply very myopic? To be more certain, he arranged it so they always met under a streetlamp. He wanted full light, so there could be no mistake. Thus, she was duly warned of his ugliness and couldn’t come later telling him that she hadn’t seen him well in the darkness of the night. Inside, Yeghen exulted each time she looked at him, his face in full view in the streetlamp’s light. She must think he believed himself handsome, and that by showing himself in full light, he was trying to conquer her by the charm of his appearance.
The girl was late. Perhaps she’d already gone home or didn’t have a piano lesson today? Yeghen began to grow tired of the prolonged wait; he stood motionless in the shadows, surrendering to the biting cold and the hostile stares of passersby, who no doubt took him for a thief about to rob them. In fact, waiting around like this was very risky. In the nearby café the rattling of dice had stopped and the muddled sounds of conversations could now be heard, of which Yeghen could only make out bits and pieces. A sweet-potato vendor woke from his torpor and began to praise the quality of his merchandise in a loud voice; he used such voluptuous terms that one would have thought he was describing the charms of a prepubescent girl. Several people passed close to Yeghen, stopped a moment to look at him, then walked on shaking their heads.
He saw her coming from afar and sighed with relief. This prolonged waiting in a suspicious, middle-class neighborhood could end badly; he was glad it was over. He hesitated a moment, then began to walk, calculating his route so that the meeting would occur precisely under the streetlamp. With a profound awareness of his hideousness, Yeghen couldn’t aspire to attract the girl, yet he advanced with the joyous look of a man who was sure he was loved. Deep down, he was counting on his extravagant ugliness to command the girl’s admiration.
Damn! He had forgotten the poem that he’d meant for her. Where was it? He quickly rummaged through his pockets, took out several pieces of paper, and thought he’d found it. “I hope this is it,” he said to himself. If not, too bad—he didn’t have time to check. She’d already reached him like some ethereal being, an apparition born from hashish fumes, so near, so real, and yet so far.
With a light, precise step, she entered the diffused whiteness of the streetlamp, her head high, her eyes fixed straight ahead, dominating the street with a look of disdain that embraced the whole neighborhood. She was wearing a blue velour beret and a coat the same color fastened at the waist with a black leather belt. This European elegance accentuated the unusualness of her haughty gait. The music books that she held tightly under her arm gave her the air of a studious schoolgirl. Everything about her proclaimed naïve pride and total contempt for her surroundings.
She passed close to Yeghen without changing her step, pretending to ignore him completely. He almost came to a stop under the streetlamp; he showed his face in full light, his mouth twisted by a grin that was meant to be an engaging smile. But this time the ludicrous dumb show was lost on the young girl. She didn’t even deign to look at him.
Crushed by this behavior, Yeghen took several more steps, then turned around and ran after her. He felt ready to provoke a riot if necessary. How could she have dared to ignore him!
“You lost this, mademoiselle.”
She stopped, disconcerted, looking grave and a little frightened. The affair was growing complicated for her; she hadn’t thought he would have the courage to approach her. Instinctively, she held out her hand. Yeghen gave her the poem and went off quickly, without turning around.
This took place without incident; he had accomplished his move brilliantly. How would she react after reading the poem? Yeghen looked forward to their next meeting with great pleasure.
4
POLICE inspector Nour El Dine came into the waiting room, closing behind him the door to the bedroom where the coroner was still examining the corpse of the murdered prostitute. For a moment he stood still, his look severe and full of suspicion; then he surveyed the room with calculated slowness, as if searching for the guilty party. That was part of the routine: the killer was certainly not in the room. Nevertheless, under his icy gaze, all those present shrank into their chairs, and several
seconds of formidable silence followed. All the girls of the house were there, as well as three customers who’d placed themselves in this lethal situation of their own accord. They’d had no reason to suspect anything; they had knocked at the door as usual, and a policeman had taken them hostage. Since then, they hadn’t stopped complaining, repeating that they had things to do and that they were in a hurry. But their complaints had no effect on the dreadful policeman guarding the door. Now they were talking among themselves, discussing their respective positions in society, making it known that an error committed against their person could possibly unleash an international scandal.
“I will appeal to the government minister who’s a friend of mine,” said the shabbiest of them.
The two other men said nothing; they were outdone. They had nothing to top a minister. For a moment they thought of mentioning their relations with the king, but that seemed a little too strong. The best they could do was to speak vaguely of acquaintances in high places.
Undoubtedly the most spectacular member of this gathering was Set Amina, the madam. She sat sunken on one end of the couch, a hand on her cheek, the very image of martyred innocence. She moaned tearfully, heaving heartrending sighs, and calling on God to witness her misfortune.
“What a black day! What have I done to Thee, O my God!”
After glancing several times around the room—such a stupid routine!—Nour El Dine walked toward her with a determined step. He looked weary and ready to imprison everyone.
“Stop the act, woman!” he said firmly.
Set Amina shut up like a charm. She swallowed her complaints and became humble and submissive. She was no fool: it was useless to antagonize the forces of authority. She realized the gravity of the situation; this time she risked having her house closed forever. A crime! It could mean the end of her career.
“Well,” resumed the inspector, “what do you have to tell me?”
“What can I tell you, Excellency! On my honor, I don’t know anything. I was out all afternoon with the girls doing errands. When we returned, I went into Arnaba’s bedroom to tell her to get ready. That’s when I saw her lying dead on her bed. I screamed and all the girls came to see what was wrong. May God preserve you from such a sight. I’m still all shook up.”
“That surprises me from you, woman! So, just like that, you desert the house and go for a stroll in town. How can that be? I thought you were more serious.”
“It was the girls’ day off. They’ve got to get out for a breath of air.”
“And why didn’t Arnaba go with you?”
“I don’t know, Excellency. She was capricious. Since she was new, I didn’t want to annoy her.”
“What time was it when you returned?”
“About six o’clock.”
“There was no one in the house besides Arnaba?”
“No, Excellency! There was no one!”
“Do you think it could have been a client?”
“What are you getting at? My clients are all good people. They couldn’t kill a fly.”
“But you could, you shameless woman! It wouldn’t surprise me if you were the murderer.”
At this direct accusation, Set Amina raised her arms to heaven in distress and looked like she was going to go back to her weeping, but the inspector stopped her in time.
“Tell me, do you know if she had money hidden in her room?”
“She didn’t have any money. I kept all her money.”
“You’re sure of that?”
“Completely, Excellency!”
“Very well, woman. I’ll take care of you later. And I advise you to stay calm.”
The police inspector wrinkled his brow and seemed deeply perplexed. His first findings had brought him up against a bizarre fact: the murder was not motivated by robbery—nothing was stolen. Nor was it the crime of a sadist. The medical examiner was positive: the prostitute’s body showed no traces of cruelty or defilement. She had simply been strangled in a neat and classical manner. It was a strange business. This was the first time Nour El Dine had been faced with the arduous task of solving the mystery of a motiveless crime. But such a crime in this milieu seemed unthinkable. A motiveless crime implied very sophisticated reasoning, an artful, cunning intelligence, and only an educated individual—perhaps only someone with a European culture—could carry it out. It was the kind of crime found in Western books. Again the inspector’s worried gaze swept over those present, looking for someone sufficiently intelligent to be a suspect. But none of those present answered this ideal description; they were far from offering the slightest resemblance to the imaginary murderer described in books. Nour El Dine felt so alone with this crime on his hands that he was frightened for an instant. He walked over to an armchair near the table, sat down, crossed his legs, then proceeded to light a cigarette.
A slave to routine, he would have to interrogate all these people. A pure waste, he knew in advance. What could he get from this assembly of pitiful men, who already were trembling at the idea of losing their honor? To measure his powers against such adversaries was a boring task. Nour El Dine felt sick with disgust; a mournful lassitude ravaged his soul and crippled all of his initiative. Actually, he was preoccupied with a problem of a sentimental and private nature. He had been called to this case at a crucial moment in his existence, a moment he had planned to devote to the most exigent of passions. His missed rendezvous with young Samir was taking on catastrophic proportions in his mind. He couldn’t stop thinking about it. Knowing the young man’s touchiness, Nour El Dine could not see how this disrespect would be forgiven. Samir would certainly be intractable at their next meeting. Would he even agree to another rendezvous? This agonizing question worked its way to the center of all his activities, giving him no respite. Even the sudden emergence of a motiveless crime in his drab universe could not relieve his uneasiness.
Despite appearances, Inspector Nour El Dine was a passionate admirer of beauty. The work he was obliged to do among the rabble had become odious, and to a certain extent exhausting. To be reduced to wallowing forever in the mud of the poor quarter in the company of petty delinquents and dumb criminals—savages all—offended his aesthetic sense and made him very unhappy. But he believed in his work; he had complete faith in the noble task of the police. He would have liked to handle only exceptional crimes, perpetrated by intelligent murderers with subtle minds. Instead, he was in constant contact with awful, uneducated beings.
What man would not have become embittered on seeing his ideal so ridiculed? The tyranny of destiny! Nour El Dine felt as if he were suffocating; he opened the top button of his jacket, freeing his neck which was bruised by the stiff collar. This gesture, so contrary to prescribed behavior, brought him a sense of calm. Reluctantly, his thoughts returned to the interrogation. The girls all had a perfect alibi. It was useless to question them; they were stupid, illiterate drudges who would only complicate his job. That left the three customers whose insignificance was more than obvious. As a matter of pure routine, he would check their identity then send them home. He was certain that none of them was the killer. Nour El Dine was more and more convinced—perhaps because he so heartily wished it—that the murderer had to be a man from another sphere, an intellectual with advanced ideas, something like an anarchist. The prospect of pitting himself against such a murderer gave him renewed vitality. He only hoped he wasn’t wrong.
The customer who prided himself on his friendship with the minister suddenly began to shout, “You can’t do this to me. You don’t know who I am.” Nour El Dine looked at him contemptuously; he knew the type. Besides, he’d had enough of this business, he wanted to finish as quickly as possible. The real inquiry would begin tomorrow. With a little luck he might be able to see young Samir before the night was over. But this ray of hope had no effect on his sadness; he remained somber, his features contracted in a severe, imposing expression.
The door to the bedroom where the dead girl’s body lay opened, admitting a fifty-year-old
man with a grayish face and a long nose topped with spectacles. He was wearing a dirty, rumpled tarboosh. It was the police reporter.
“At your service, Excellency.”
“Sit there,” said the inspector.
The clerk sat down; he took from his briefcase various papers that he spread out on the table, then an indelible pencil whose point he licked several times. Blue marks could be seen on his pale lips.
“Who is first?” he asked.
“We’ll wait a little longer,” Nour El Dine answered, clearly displeased by the question. “Has the examiner finished with the body?”
“He won’t be long now.”
“I should hope not.”
After this brief exchange, Nour El Dine resumed his mask of exasperation; staring at the ceiling, he smoked his cigarette with the air of a man determined to flee the servitude of his arduous job. All the others present were staring at him; the policemen’s indifferent yet somehow threatening attitude made them suspicious. They didn’t know what lay behind it. The girls were all huddled on the couch under the illusory protection of Set Amina. They were terrified by the whole affair; at the same time, they were overwhelmed with curiosity about the investigation of a crime so close to them. Only Naila seemed really touched by the drama. Her sickness made her more fragile, more vulnerable than her companions. She didn’t have to stretch her imagination to see herself in place of the victim. She felt sorry for herself; in her sickly despair she identified with the dead girl and told herself she’d be better off killed than continuing this wretched life, with only a slow and ignominious death to look forward to. All these thoughts made her look distraught; without makeup her face had a waxy pallor; her eyes were fixed and feverish. From time to time a dry cough shook her whole body. The girl named Salima, sitting next to her on the couch, had put her arm around her shoulders and tried to calm her. As for Akila, the youngest girl of the house, after a moment’s prostration she had regained her composure and was only thinking of work. Despite the presence of the police and of her colleague’s dead body in the next room, she kept ogling from afar the three customers held hostage. But they had something else in mind; Akila’s winks and engaging smiles reminded them of a black reality that they wanted to forget. No doubt, it would be a long time before they would venture into a house of pleasure again.
Proud Beggars Page 6
