8
LIT BY the flickering candle flame, Gohar’s face reflected ecstasy. Seated on the only chair in his room, his hands on his knees, he leaned his head against the door that separated him from his neighbor’s flat. What he was hearing was beyond anything he had ever hoped for. Amazement held him fast, his mind strangely receptive, conscious of being the only witness to an extraordinary event. This ecstatic state had already lasted for a while. His eyes closed, Gohar savored with inexpressible contentment the diverse phases of a domestic quarrel. Each of the words pronounced on the other side of the wall struck him like a sparkling truth, illuminating the shadows of his consciousness.
For several days, the flat of his dead neighbor had been occupied by new tenants. It was a couple made up of a man with no arms or legs, a beggar by trade, and his wife, a big, athletic-looking gossip, as imposing as a ten-story building. Each morning she would deposit her husband on a sidewalk in the European quarter, then return at nightfall to bring him back home. Gohar had met them once on the stairway. The woman was carrying the man on her shoulder as she might have carried a water jar. She had answered Gohar’s greeting in a loud, sepulchral voice, capable of freezing the blood in the veins of an especially brave man. She had a harsh look and the arrogance of a woman equipped with a man.
Gohar couldn’t believe his ears; the more he listened, the more trouble he had imagining the scene unfolding in the next room. The woman was creating a classic scene of jealousy with the limbless man. Gohar heard the man defend himself energetically. He denied the woman’s accusations, then abused her in turn, accusing her of debauchery, sorcery, and eating cadavers. Finally he began to moan and to demand his food. But the woman remained deaf to his famished cries and continued to assail him with insults and reproaches.
Gohar’s amazement was all the deeper since he had thought for a long time that nothing could surprise him. To be jealous of a basket case! Really, the possessive frenzy of women knew no limits. Gohar was grateful to women because of the enormous sum of stupidity that they brought to human relations. They were capable of making a jealous scene with a donkey, for no better reason than to make themselves interesting.
He was beginning to feel a lively interest in his new neighbors. Despite its sordid and pitiful side, this family spat opened incomparable perspectives on humanity to him. What a godsend! He rubbed his hands, blessing the miraculous accident that made him witness to the somber mystery of a couple without having to leave his room. He wouldn’t have traded his place for all the pleasures of creation.
The fraud was so obvious, so universal, that anyone, even a moron, could have detected it without effort. Gohar was still indignant at his own blindness. It had taken him many years, the monotony of an entire life devoted to study, before he judged the true worth of his teaching: a monumental swindle. For more than twenty years he had taught wicked nonsense, subjecting young minds to the yoke of an erroneous, woolly philosophy. How could he have taken himself seriously? Had he not understood what he read? Hadn’t his lectures ever struck him as being full of impudent hypocrisy? What an inconceivable failing. Yet everything should have put him on guard. The least history text, ancient or modern, that he had explicated for his students’ comprehension, overflowed with a million lies. History! Granted, you could misrepresent history. But geography! How could you lie about geography? Well, they had managed to pervert the harmony of the globe by tracing on it borders so fantastic and arbitrary that they changed from one year to another. What especially astounded Gohar was that he had never used his introductory remarks to alert his students to these changes. As if they were a matter of course; as if an official lie were of necessity true.
Such an accumulation of lies could only give birth to complete confusion. And the result was anguish in proportion to the world. Gohar now knew that this anguish was not metaphysical. He knew that it was not an inevitability of the human condition but that it was provoked by a deliberate will, the will of certain powers that had always fought against lucidity and simple reason. These powers considered straightforward ideas their deadliest enemies because they—the powers—could prosper only in obscurantism and chaos! They struggled with all their might to present facts under the most contradictory appearances, those most likely to support the notion of an absurd universe, with the sole aim of perpetuating their domination. Gohar rebelled with all of his soul against the concept of an absurd universe. Indeed, it was under the cloak of this so-called absurdity of the world that all crimes were perpetrated. The universe was not absurd; it was simply ruled by the most abominable gang of scoundrels that had ever soiled the surface of the planet. Actually, this world was cruelly simple, but the great thinkers to whom had fallen the task of explaining it to the uninitiated could not bring themselves to accept this for fear of being scorned as simpleminded. Besides, one ran too great a risk trying to explain things in a simple, objective manner. Unfortunate precedents showed that men had been sentenced to torture for having suggested an honest, rational explanation of certain phenomena. These precedents had served their purpose; they had had a salutary effect on later generations. No one had the courage to express clear, precise ideas anymore. Abstruse thought had become the only safeguard against tyranny.
It was not his thirst for martyrdom that had driven Gohar to renounce the errors of his long past. He had not left the university where he taught and his bourgeois apartment in the European quarter with any intention of propagating a new doctrine. He saw himself as neither a reformer nor a prophet. He had simply fled from the anguish that oppressed him more and more each day. This anguish had washed over entire continents. Where would it stop? Here it was now, battering with its devastating waves the banks of this islet of peace where Gohar had found refuge. He wondered how long the native quarter would resist this poisoned wind. For years, no doubt, perhaps for a whole century. To be illiterate! What an opportunity to survive in a world doomed to massacre! Gohar had arrived at this fundamental conclusion: bloodthirsty power had no hold on individuals who didn’t read the newspapers. Anguish could not reach these people. Miraculously, the native quarter was the only inviolate place in the country where a healthy life animated by simple reason flourished. Everywhere else the most unbelievable madness reigned. However, all danger of contagion had not been expelled: there was the radio. The invention of the radio seemed to Gohar the worst manifestation of the devil. The ravages of this little box that could be seen everywhere seemed to him more destructive than all of the explosives combined.
It was a long time before he realized that silence now reigned in the next flat. He was disappointed, irritated almost. He listened, straining for the slightest sound, anxious to know how the quarrel had ended. He had gained one thing at any rate: what was taking place in the next room was far more instructive than all he had taught for years. That jealous scene proclaimed an undeniable truth: the primacy of the male. Despite his mutilations, the man with no limbs had managed to inspire passion, to give birth to carnal desire by nothing but his masculine presence. Nothing but his sex organ! But the hope of the entire world was contained in that sex organ.
The candle flame was about to die, then it flickered back to life and lit the bareness of the room with new light. Gohar blinked, looked around as if he had just awakened, and once again admired the poverty of his place. No trace of the great shipwreck remained. Only the old newspapers that served as his mattress had suffered from the incident; they were now just a heap of dirty, wet paper. He had not thought yet of replacing them with others. He promised himself that next time he would remember to ask for some from El Kordi, his only acquaintance who bought the paper.
It seemed strange to worry about the arrangement of his bed, as if nothing had changed, as if there had not been the young prostitute’s murder. Did that change anything, fundamentally? After all, it had only been an accident. He wondered what would have become of him, and what his behavior would have been, if he had committed this crime in the distant past when he was stuck i
n honors and respectability! Most certainly he would have considered himself a monster and would have let himself be consumed with remorse, while at present, nothing had any importance. Even a crime left him indifferent. Wasn’t this appreciable progress, a sign that he was on the right track? This murder had cut the last bonds that still attached him to his past lies. Happy deliverance! He was no longer a slave to ridiculous pangs of conscience. His newly acquired certainty that all tragedy was laughable prevented him from condemning his act. Quite simply, he declined to dramatize things.
In the next flat, the man again began to complain; he demanded his food in a more and more tearful tone. But the woman’s voice was no longer to be heard. What was she doing? Gohar imagined her busy eating in the face of her husband reduced to powerlessness.
He gave a start: someone had just knocked at his door.
“Who’s there?”
“It’s me, Master.”
It was Yeghen’s voice. Even through the door, he felt his gaiety.
“Enter, my son. Welcome!”
Yeghen half opened the door, stuck his head through first, then his whole body, turning around in a skillful ballet movement. Advancing toward Gohar, he bowed to the ground, straightened up, bowed again two or three times, then stood still, as if waiting for an order. There was something besides mere clowning around in his greeting. One felt that Yeghen actually put respect and seriousness into it, but Gohar did not notice this nuance. Yeghen’s buffoonery always amused him; he was used to it.
Receiving no orders, Yeghen finally spoke, “I hope I’m not disturbing you, Master!”
“Not at all. It’s a real pleasure. Here, sit down.”
Gohar moved to stand and give up his chair, but Yeghen ardently protested against this gesture of courtesy. One might have thought he was afraid of disturbing an idol.
“Not on your life. I am your humble servant. I’m going to sit on the floor.”
Watching Gohar, he stepped back to the wall, then sat on the floor with his legs drawn up under him. His manners were excessively bizarre, as if motivated by a kind of complicity even unto death. It seemed that Gohar had suddenly become a fabulous personage owed other considerations than those of simple friendship.
“You must be wondering what brings me here, Master!”
“I hope that it’s only the pleasure of seeing me,” said Gohar.
“Certainly. But there’s something else.”
“May Allah protect us! What is it?”
Yeghen suddenly lost his serious look and laughed.
“Well, the powers of hell are on my trail, Master! I received a visit this afternoon from a police inspector. I wonder how he knew my address; I had just moved into the hotel. I swear it’s magic.”
“I assume he didn’t find anything, since you are here,” said Gohar.
“He wasn’t after drugs. That was my first thought as well. But no, he soon told me he was looking for a killer. He suspects me of having murdered young Arnaba! To tell you the truth, I’m relieved that he spoke to me first.”
Gohar showed no sign of agitation. He did not even need to pretend. Let the police do their job; it was in the rules. It did not concern him at all.
“Why do they especially suspect you, my son?”
“You know how it goes. They must have assumed the killer was a client of the brothel. And since they already know me, they came directly to me. You also know that my reputation with them isn’t too good. They thought they were on the right track. Unfortunately for them, they have no evidence against me.”
“What did you tell the police inspector?”
This question delighted Yeghen; he seemed to have been expecting it.
“Oh! He tried to impress me, but I made fun of him.”
“You made fun of him!”
“Exactly, Master! He threatened me with the worst punishments, but I knew it was all for show. They can’t do anything to me. So to repay his kindness, I told him about the bomb.”
“What bomb, my son?”
“The bomb, Master. You know, the one that can destroy a whole city with one blast.”
Gohar had let Yeghen tell the whole story of his meeting with the police inspector without flinching, as if it were a picturesque anecdote. But now he no longer understood. Was his companion under the influence of drugs? He had not grasped the connection between the inspector’s threats and Yeghen’s answer. Had Yeghen perhaps taken up arms trafficking? It was not impossible.
“Explain that to me, my son! What’s the bomb got to do with it?”
“It’s very simple, Master! I tried to make him understand that compared with the gigantic menace of the bomb, his own threats were laughable. But that’s not all. He took this story so much to heart that he grew pale. Fear made him sick. He was truly comic to look at. Finally I felt sorry for him. I reassured him, saying that a bomb cost so much that they wouldn’t waste their time dropping it here, on a heap of crumbling hovels.”
Gohar shook his head at so much naïveté.
“You’re mistaken, my son. Believe me, they would even drop it on their own mothers. That gang of bastards doesn’t respect anything.”
“You believe that, Master?”
“It’s the only thing I do believe.”
“But then, they’re crazy!”
“Oh no! Don’t allow them extenuating circumstances. They’re not crazy. On the contrary, they’re very lucid. That’s what makes them so dangerous.”
For a moment Yeghen seemed sad, as if someone had just destroyed his last illusion. How could he have been so naïve as to think that these miserable surroundings were safe from the bomb? Gohar was never mistaken in his judgments about humanity. Those bastards who had made the bomb would stop at nothing. It was clear as could be.
“Tell me, Master. Is there any chance of this filthy bomb going off in their hands?”
“No, I don’t think so. They’re too careful and clever to let that happen.”
“Too bad,” said Yeghen, disappointed. “I’d love to have it explode in their hands while they’re manipulating it. That would be the biggest joke of the century. I’d love to laugh a little, Master.”
“Don’t you laugh enough already? If you ask me, this century’s pranks outdo all the others.”
“You’re right. I shouldn’t complain.”
Yeghen was quiet. This digression on the bomb and its devastating effects had not made him forget another danger, even more serious than the bomb because if its imminence. He continued staring at Gohar, as if he were afraid to see him disappear. Seated in his chair, his face lit by the candle flame, dominating the empty room like an impassive divinity, Gohar seemed immune to all surprises. But Yeghen was very aware of the precariousness of this situation. He might lose this man and he felt his heart melt with tenderness at the idea. His friendship for Gohar was the only justification for his life. He would have to do everything he could to save him and what he represented.
Suddenly there was a long moan on the other side of the wall. Again the limbless man was begging for food. He seemed utterly exhausted; his groans were like those of a newborn babe.
“What’s that?” asked Yeghen.
“My new neighbors,” said Gohar. “The man has no arms or legs; as for the woman, she’s an implacable harpy. Every day she carries him on her shoulder and deposits him on some corner in the European quarter where he devotes himself to begging. She retrieves him in the evening. He’s completely at her mercy. Without her he can’t do anything.”
“That’s him groaning like that?”
“Yes, he’s demanding his food.”
“Why won’t she give him anything to eat?”
“My dear Yeghen, if I told you, you wouldn’t believe me. She just threw a jealous fit. Now she’s sulking.”
“It’s not possible! A jealous scene with a limbless man! Why? Did he cheat on her?”
“Everything is possible, my son. As for how he cheated on her, I don’t know,” Gohar admitted. “But you c
an expect anything from women. Even a man with no limbs excites them, as long as he’s capable of making love.”
“I still can’t believe it. In any case, she’s taking a cruel revenge. Starving a cripple! Tell me, can’t we do something for him? You can’t leave him like that, Master! I’d like to break that woman’s jaw.”
“May Allah preserve you from that, my son. You don’t know this woman. A real battle-ax. She is ten times stronger than you. She’d make short work of you.”
This description of the man’s companion quieted Yeghen’s inclination to heroism.
For a moment they remained silent, listening to the limbless man who was still begging and groaning. Finally this pathetic complaint had a strange effect on Yeghen: he himself felt like he was starving.
“Really, Master, don’t you think we can do anything for him?”
“No, that would only make things worse. Besides, she’ll give him food in the end. You must realize that a man like him is a gold mine for her; she would never let him die of hunger.”
“But he’s suffering.”
“That’s true. But deep down, I think this scene pleases him. In his state, he no doubt feels supreme pride. My dear Yeghen, how would you feel if you made a woman this jealous?”
“I must admit I’ve never made a woman jealous, Master. And what’s more, I’ve got all my limbs. Perhaps that is a mistake.”
“You see, soon you’ll be envying the poor fellow.”
Gohar’s tranquil assurance and the naturally cynical tone of his words plunged Yeghen into admiring astonishment. Indifferent to his own fate and the danger in store for him, Gohar was taking an interest in the conjugal quarrels of his strange neighbors. He was cheerfully accepting the consequences of his own bloody adventure. Yeghen had been waiting for Gohar to confess his crime since he had come into the room, but nothing had happened. Why? Did he not think of Yeghen as someone to whom he could tell all? Yeghen found Gohar’s mistrust of him baffling. But what if he were mistaken? What if Gohar were not the killer? The suspicion that he was had come to Yeghen that afternoon as he was walking through the streets with the police inspector. Busy looking around and greeting friends, he was only half listening to the inspector’s threats when he remembered a fact of capital importance: Gohar had offered his condolences for his mother’s death. Now Yeghen remembered having mentioned her fictitious death only to Arnaba, the young prostitute, and she had been killed immediately after. Therefore, Gohar had been the last person to have seen her alive.
Proud Beggars Page 13
