Albert Cossery - Proud Beggars

“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.

Yet it was absurd to think of Gohar as a murderer. Yeghen still hesitated. However, there was no time to lose. He had been long acquainted with police methods. Gohar would never be able to defend himself if he underwent a rough interrogation. Besides, would he even want to defend himself?

“Actually, Master, I came to tell you to be careful.”

“Careful of what, my son?”

“You run a big risk by staying here,” said Yeghen.

“It’s useless to panic. The danger may not be as great as you think.”

Not for a second did he consider denying it. He did not even wonder how Yeghen had discovered he was the murderer.

“So you know,” he said after a moment.

“Master, I don’t understand. How did it happen?”

“I don’t know myself,” said Gohar. “I don’t know how to explain it to you. It always seems that someone else is acting in my place. But don’t think that I want to exonerate myself. Nothing can ever excuse violence. All I remember is that I needed drugs and that I went there looking for you. The girl Arnaba was alone. She asked me to write a letter for her and invited me into her room. For a long time, I was thinking only about the drugs and how to find you. Then, suddenly, I saw the girl’s bracelets and that unleashed the idea of murder in me. I had to take those bracelets.”

“But those bracelets were worthless,” said Yeghen.

“I knew that, my son. But at that moment they had acquired a great value in my eyes. And it is that moment that will count.”

“I’m the guilty one,” said Yeghen. “Forgive me, Master. I should have been there when you needed me. In any case, the point is not to explain an act. The point is to flee. That’s what you must do as fast as possible.”

“Why flee?”

“They mustn’t catch you. The inspector who came to see me is a demon. I know him, he won’t stop until he gets his hands on you. I want to help you, Master! Take my advice, I beg you. It’s still not too late.”

“My dear Yeghen, I appreciate your solicitude, but I don’t want to see you mixed up in this business at any cost. I will manage by myself.”

“You could never defend yourself against those men. Leave for Syria. The time is right.”

“How would I go?”

“I’ll find the money for the trip. Count on me.”

“Now you’re going to kill someone. This will never end.”

Yeghen stood up, looked at Gohar for a very long time, then went up to him, bent down, took his hand, and brought it to his lips.

“You’re the only person whom I love and respect in the world,” he said. “You can take my life.”

Gohar was moved; he smiled sadly.

“Let’s not get serious, my son. That would crown our misfortune. Besides, as you yourself said, there is the bomb. It will fix everything.”

In the next room, it was the woman who was now groaning; her cries sounded like those of a beast being slaughtered. But Gohar did not misinterpret them.

“You hear,” he said, “everything ends happily. They’re making love now.”

“You’re sure, Master? Ah, I would love to see that. That must be an incredible spectacle!”

“I didn’t know you were a voyeur,” said Gohar.

“In such a case, Master, everyone is a voyeur.”

They fell silent and remained motionless, astounded, listening to the succession of cries of pleasure in the next room.

After a while, a metal object tinkled; it was the basin in which the wife of the limbless man was washing herself after lovemaking.

STREETCAR number 13 jerked along toward the European quarter. The driver was losing his voice from cursing the lazy pedestrians who seemed to take the rails for a peaceful country road. The unfortunate ticket-taker was nowhere to be seen, lost in the crush of passengers. He could only be heard shouting loudly for them to make room for him. That was all he could hope for. At each stop, regulations required him to get off to check on the cars, and he was always nearly left behind. As for making the passengers pay, that was out of the question.

El Kordi bitterly regretted letting himself be tempted by this barbarous mode of locomotion. He would have liked to escape from this uncomfortable streetcar that was progressing so ludicrously. But now it was too late: all the exits were blocked by clusters of people hanging on to the doors. El Kordi forced himself to be patient; there was nothing to do but wait. His tarboosh had suffered rough treatment in the jostling to get on, and now it hung grotesquely on his head, without his being able to move to straighten it. He found himself wedged between a sleepy civil servant with glasses and a large woman in a faded melaya , who smelled of onions and whose leg systematically rubbed against his. Despite its dubious nature, this touch began to excite El Kordi, making him forget his uncomfortable position somewhat. With an effort, he twisted his neck to see how old the woman was before becoming more excited, but what he glimpsed made him shiver, and he shriveled into his corner, completely put off. The fat thing was more than sixty years old, and she was smiling at him lewdly, revealing her toothless mouth. For a moment she continued her sordid behavior, but El Kordi remained unmoved.

It was after six in the evening and the throng of passengers continued to grow. The old woman had finally moved her leg, but she still reeked of rancid onions. El Kordi wanted to vomit. He closed his eyes and let himself be lulled by the strident sound of the bell, which the crazed conductor rang without interruption. It was not for the pleasure of a ride that he found himself on this packed streetcar bound for the European quarter. El Kordi had something else in mind. Ever since he had posed as the killer of young Arnaba in his mistress’s eyes, he felt obliged to commit some startling feat to compensate for the lie. Perhaps it would not be a violent crime, but it had seemed to him that he could easily indulge in a robbery. This evening he was planning to carry out a daring project that had been obsessing him for several days. El Kordi often passed a jewelry store, the most luxurious in the city, on Avenue Fouad, and he thought he was smart enough to steal a valuable jewel without getting caught. However, he was still hesitating about the method to use. Despite his nausea, he tried to remember all of the facts about jewelry-store robberies that he had read in magazines or detective novels, but still could not decide on the best method. What was the best method? El Kordi wanted to be innovative in this area. A revolutionary such as himself couldn’t very well operate like a common burglar. His self-respect demanded it. But no new method came to mind.