“Actually,” he said, “I came here to ask you some questions.”
“I’m listening,” said Gohar. “Ask me all the questions you want.”
“It’s about that murder in the whorehouse,” said Nour El Dine, sitting back down in his chair.
“I know,” said Gohar. “I was expecting your visit. Speak, and I will answer you. While we wait, I’ll make you some coffee. Pardon me for having neglected to offer you something to drink.”
“I don’t want anything,” said Nour El Dine. “Don’t trouble yourself for me.”
Gohar lit the spirit burner anyway and began to prepare the coffee. As he poured the water in the coffeepot, he observed Nour El Dine in silence. He was curious to know how the resolution would take place. But the police inspector asked no questions. He seemed to be lost in some distant dream.
It was Gohar who asked, “Do you suspect someone?”
“Frankly, I must say that I suspect you,” answered Nour El Dine with an anxious look in his eyes.
“Well, I congratulate you, Excellency,” said Gohar. “You have seen things clearly. I am the murderer.”
This sudden confession had the effect of a catastrophe on Nour El Dine. He shook his head firmly, at the same time thrashing his hands in front of his eyes in a gesture of negation, of refusal.
“What a farce!” he cried. “Oh, no, it’s too childish, Gohar Effendi! Your young friend El Kordi already confessed. What’s gotten into you all that you all want to confess? By any chance, do you also want to reform the world?”
“God forbid!” said Gohar. “You are wrong, Excellency, to compare me to that young man. El Kordi thinks like you; he too believes that things are more complicated than they are!”
The coffee was ready; Gohar poured the contents of the coffeepot into two chipped cups, then held one out to Nour El Dine.
“I’m at your disposal,” he said. “What do you plan to do?”
“I don’t plan to do anything for the moment. I can’t arrest you on the basis of a simple confession. I need proof. Tomorrow I’ll make a decision. I must first question someone; everything depends on that interrogation.”
Suddenly a song rose up; it was coming from the next flat. In a hoarse voice, the man with no limbs was crazily singing a joyous song.
“Faster, coachman, faster!
Take me to Zouzou’s house!”
“Incredible!—he’s singing!”
“Why shouldn’t he sing?” said Gohar. “He has every reason to be cheerful.”
“Yes, no doubt. Still, I would like to understand.”
Nour El Dine brought the cup to his lips and drank a mouthful of coffee. The coffee was bitter, as bitter as his life.
The sun was shining above the peaks of the minarets when Yeghen stopped, undecided, at the edge of the square. He knew that soon, in the police station, all would be injustice and gloom. Yet he was not afraid. His indecision had nothing to do with a fear of torture. He was simply possessed by a boyish desire to prolong his walk among the crowd. He loved to stroll about, always expecting the unpredictable. He had taken his drugs beforehand, so he felt calm and clearheaded. The thought of confronting the authorities even made him oddly elated.
Yeghen had been expecting this summons. For a long time, he suspected that Nour El Dine, the police inspector, had dark plans for him. But what exactly did he know? Did he take him for the killer, or did he only suspect Yeghen of knowing the murderer’s identity? In any case, Nour El Din was hoping for some confession from him. Yeghen had no illusions about the manner in which the inspector planned to question him. Torture had become one of the favored methods in the life of civilized society. Nothing could be done against stomach cancer, and even less against the terror instituted by men to oppress other men. Yeghen put police brutality in the same category as incurable illnesses and natural cataclysms.
The police station was located on the other side of the square. It was a one-story white stone building with bars on the windows. Instead of crossing the square, Yeghen took the sidewalk to the left; he had decided to stroll a little more. It was eleven in the morning and the square was swarming with a multitude of people whose busy appearance fooled no one. Yeghen admired this perpetual stagnation amid the disorder and illusory movement. To a sharp eye, it was readily apparent that nothing urgent or sensational was taking place. Despite the noise of streetcars, automobile horns, and the strident voices of strolling merchants, Yeghen had the impression of a world where words and gestures were measured according to an eternal life. Frenzy was banished from this crowd that moved in eternity—it seemed animated by a wise joy that no torture, no oppression could extinguish.
With lucid detachment, Yeghen thought about the suffering awaiting him. It was not the first time he had undergone an interrogation; the brutality of policemen held no secrets for him. But up to now he had experienced it for minor offenses involving drug trafficking. This time, it was something else; it was a murder. The question was, would the policemen hit him harder than usual. No, Yeghen told himself. For a small drug deal or for a major crime, the force of the blows would be roughly the same. So he didn’t have to fear any weakness on his part. He knew he would never pronounce Gohar’s name. It was not a question of courage or of sacrifice for friendship’s sake. To betray his friends, or even his own mother, seemed insignificant compared to the innumerable crimes committed throughout the world. No, in this case it was not only to save Gohar but also to demonstrate to Nour El Dine the ludicrous role of the police. Nour El Dine was the personification of an absurd justice. Yeghen had to prove the grotesquery of the situation to him. With this to look forward to, he felt joyous and began to laugh.
Yeghen entered the police station. He found himself in a big room with whitewashed walls containing only a desk, behind which sat a sergeant. This man was reading his newspaper with a rather comically laborious look. Yeghen approached him, took out his subpoena, and waited. The sergeant stopped reading and raised his head.
“What is it?”
He looked at Yeghen as if he suspected him of the worst misdeeds. Yeghen knew this look. His ugliness always exposed him to criminal prosecution; he represented the very image of the alleged killer for these obtuse souls. He smiled and handed his summons to the sergeant. The man took the piece of paper, glanced at it, then said, “Wait here! Don’t move.”
“I’m not going to flee,” said Yeghen.
The sergeant pressed a button while watching him with a sullen look. After a moment, a bull-like policeman appeared and saluted according to regulations.
“At your command, Sergeant.”
“Take this man to the inspector.”
The policeman saluted again, then motioned for Yeghen to follow him.
“Come on.”
Yeghen followed the policeman along a narrow corridor. Contemplating the massive shoulders of his guide, he felt his will waver. To fall into the hands of a torturer like that meant certain death. The policeman stopped at a door and knocked. A voice answered from within. The policeman opened the door and pushed Yeghen ahead of him.
“Sir! The sergeant told me to bring you this man.”
“Very well,” said Nour El Dine. “You may go.”
The inspector was seated behind his desk with the collar of his tunic open, his features glum and tense. He had not shaved and seemed not to have slept all night. His eyes burned feverishly, and the look he gave Yeghen was that of a man come to the end of a tragedy.
“Approach. I am glad to see you.”
“Greetings, Inspector,” said Yeghen.
“You are late,” Nour El Dine returned. “For that alone you deserve a week in prison.”
“Excuse me, Excellency! I don’t have an alarm clock.”
“Stop the jokes. I’m not in a mood to joke. I warn you, this time it is serious. You won’t get out of here alive.”
Without being invited, Yeghen took a chair and sat down.
“I’ve already made my will,” he said.
>
Nour El Dine was quiet; he tried to control the rage that was choking him. From his first words, Yeghen had shown him the insanity of this interrogation. These people never took anything seriously. Nour El Dine felt much more comfortable with the vagabonds, the rabble born to commit sordid offenses. At least you could frighten them. But these disreputable intellectuals were forever breaking down all sense of authority in him. Nour El Dine considered himself a reasonable being; that is, he believed in the existence of the government and in the speeches pronounced by ministers. He had blind faith in the institutions of the civilized world. The attitude of Yeghen and his fellow men always disconcerted him; they appeared not to realize that there was a government. They were not against the government; they simply were not aware of it.
“I will no longer tolerate your stupid jokes. You are here to be interrogated about a murder!”
Yeghen smiled smugly.
“Your servant, Excellency!”
He sat huddled on his chair, ready for any eventuality. He knew that all this would end in blows because he would not say anything. Through the bars of the closed window he saw the animation of the square and heard the muffled noise of traffic. So life continued outdoors.
“Very well,” said the inspector, “let’s start at the beginning. But I warn you one more time that this is serious, and that I want precise answers. I know you are aware of many things.”
“Me?” said Yeghen. “Really, Inspector, you honor me too much.”
“Tell me: Were you at Set Amina’s the day of the murder?”
Yeghen pretended to reflect.
“To tell you the truth, Excellency, I was sleeping.”
“Where were you when Arnaba was assassinated?”
“I just told you, Excellency, I was sleeping.”
Nour El Dine kept his composure; his face serious, he was silent for a moment. There was no doubt that Yeghen was playing dumb.
“I know for a fact that you were at the brothel on that day. Who did you meet there?”
“I was sleeping, Excellency.”
“No one came while you were asleep?”
“How should I know, Excellency, since I was asleep?”
“By Allah! Do you sleep all the time, you son of a bitch!”
“Excuse me, Inspector, but I didn’t know that sleeping was against the law.”
“Well, I’m going to wake you up.”
Nour El Dine was overwhelmed; the stupidity of such a defense went beyond his understanding. The wretch was sleeping! He must have taken drugs before coming. He knew Yeghen was capable of hanging on to this unshakable position until the end.
“I’ll give you five minutes to think it over. After that, I know how to make you talk.”
Yeghen was about to answer that he was sleeping, but he realized the inspector hadn’t asked him any questions, and he was silent. In five minutes the torture would begin. He set about thinking of frivolous things.
Nour El Dine looked at his watch, then sat back in his chair and waited. This interrogation was turning into a joke. It would only serve to further shake his own confidence in authority and justice. He was now convinced that Yeghen would not say anything; he would keep his secret even under torture. As this attitude did not tally with his character, it was rather disturbing. Nour El Dine was certain that Yeghen knew who the murderer was. So why was he keeping quiet? The murderer could not pay him to keep quiet; the crime had brought nothing to its perpetrator. It was not a question of honor either. Nour El Dine was sufficiently aware of Yeghen’s past to know that he never bothered about certain prejudices.
He asked, “You’re not afraid of a beating?”
“No,” answered Yeghen.
“That’s not possible.”
“Beatings are minor incidents in the life of a man like me, Inspector! Minor incidents.”
“You have no dignity.”
Yeghen laughed.
“You remind me of my mother,” he said. “My mother always tells me that my father was an honorable man and that I am the shame of the family.”
“You have no emotions? You feel nothing?”
“Yes, Excellency! At this moment I feel an immense astonishment.”
“What kind of astonishment?”
“I am astonished that a man like you spends his time playing such unsatisfying games.”
“How would you like me to spend my time?”
“Go for a walk,” Yeghen answered.
Nour El Dine became livid.
“I see there is nothing to be done,” he said. “You asked for it.”
The door opened, admitting two policemen who looked at Yeghen, then slowly approached him.
“You going to talk now?”
Yeghen didn’t answer. Nour El Dine signaled to the policemen. One of them went behind Yeghen while the other stood in front of him, ready to strike.
Yeghen watched this whole scene like an uninvolved spectator. He told himself only that he had been wrong to claim the inspector was not playing an enjoyable game. For them, this must be very enjoyable. After all, these men had their own amusements. He felt neither hatred nor disdain for them. He felt very calm and he closed his eyes.
The first punch nearly took off his head; he felt an atrocious pain that was immediately neutralized by a second blow, then by all those that followed. Then the pain grew and formed a compact, measureless block. Yeghen found himself plunged to the bottom of a black gulf filled with flashing lights. Sometimes Nour El Dine’s voice reached him, still asking, “You going to talk, you son of a bitch?”
Suddenly, in the tumult of his brain, he heard a distant noise. This noise reminded him of something and he tried to understand what it was. He was a long time trying. The canon blast at noon! It was noon and the canon had just boomed. He opened his eyes and shouted, “Gentlemen, it is noon!”
The policeman who was lifting his arm to knock him on the head stopped, amazed.
“So what?” he asked.
“Well then! I think that it’s time to eat,” said Yeghen in a weak voice. “I’m hungry.”
Nour El Dine buried his head in his hands; he wanted to scream.
“Throw him out,” he said. “I don’t want to see him anymore.”
The policemen grabbed Yeghen and took him away. Nour El Dine remained alone, prey to the most profound consternation. Then he remembered that it was noon and he stood up to go to lunch.
Leaving the police station, Nour El Dine thought that Gohar was no doubt the murderer. But what did that matter to him now? He had decided to hand in his resignation and to live henceforth as a beggar. A beggar, that was easy—but proud? Where would he find pride? There was nothing left in him but an infinite weariness, an immense need for peace—simply for peace.
THIS IS A NEW YORK REVIEW BOOK
PUBLISHED BY THE NEW YORK REVIEW OF BOOKS
435 Hudson Street, New York, NY 10014
www.nyrb.com
Grateful acknowledgment is made to Seamus Cooney who collaborated on the final revision of this translation and whose scholarly diligence has resulted in a more accurate English text.—Thomas W. Cushing, 1981
Copyright © 1955, 1981 by Albert Cossery
Translation copyright © 1981 by Thomas W. Cushing
All rights reserved.
Cover image: Youssef Nabil, Ahmed in Djellabah, New York, 2004
Courtesy of the artist and Yossi Milo Gallery, New York
Cover design: Katy Homans
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Cossery, Albert, 1913–2008.
[Mendiants et orgueilleux. English]
Proud beggars / by Albert Cossery ; introduction and revisions by Alyson Waters ; translated by Thomas W. Cushing.
p. cm. — (New York Review Books classics)
ISBN 978-1-59017-442-5 (pbk.)
I. Cushing, Thomas W. II. Title.
PQ2605.O725M413 2011
843’.912—dc22
2011024373
e
ISBN 978-1-59017-463-0
v1.0
For a complete list of books in the NYRB Classics series, visit www.nyrb.com or write to:
Catalog Requests, NYRB, 435 Hudson Street, New York, NY 10014
Proud Beggars Page 19
