Albert Cossery - Proud Beggars

In giving Set Amina authorization to reopen her business, Nour El Dine had been guided by the hope — on the strength of the axiom that a criminal always returns to the scene of the crime — that he would discover the individual he was after. With this aim, he had assigned one of his best agents to investigate at the house, passing himself off for a rich, provincial businessman. Since the reopening, this man appeared each evening, drunk and behaving like a real peasant reveling in the pleasures of the capital. All the same, at the last moment he would refrain from accompanying any of the girls into their bedroom, and this weird behavior made the others suspicious. What’s more, the questions he asked were not well calculated to hide his identity. By now everyone knew he was a plainclothes policeman. Set Amina herself had spotted him right off, but she played blind. What else could she do? Just now, seated on the couch in her usual pose, she was watching the policeman toy with little Akila, caressing her thighs under her dress without making up his mind to consummate. Outraged by this behavior that was causing her most popular girl to waste time, she was now complaining to an old admirer sitting beside her on the couch, who was speaking to her adoringly about the time when she was still a desirable prostitute.

“You see! They want to ruin me!” she said. “Is that man never going to leave?”

“Calm down, woman! Policeman or not, he’s still a customer.”

“Him, a customer! May sickness rid me of such customers.”

“Be quiet. He could hear you.”

“Let him hear me! After all, I am the mistress in my house.”

She finally finished her complaining, leaned her cheek against her hand in the classic pose of those overwhelmed with sadness, and gave no further thought to the policeman.

Young Arnaba’s ghost was not haunting Gohar. Comfortably settled in one of the rattan chairs, he was busy lining up numbers on the checkered page of a schoolbook with a yellow cover. He had joyfully resumed his work as accountant and man of letters in the service of a shameless hussy. The house accounting was rudimentary and demanded no intellectual concentration. From time to time, Gohar lifted his head and let this mélange of lust and sterile words seep into his mind. Instead of alarming him, the continual presence of the plainclothes policeman gave him an absurd sense of security. The man amused him: he was making a fool of himself with his insidious questions. Did he not realize that everyone had guessed his true identity long ago? Gohar enjoyed being witness to a police inquiry whose innumerable circumlocutions were an attempt to discover and entrap him. He was not sadistic, just completely indifferent to the result of the investigation. All the efforts being deployed for his capture seemed disproportionate to the insignificance of the crime.

Gohar was less worried about his own arrest than about the dangers to which Yeghen was going to expose himself by helping him. The absolute sincerity of Yeghen’s devotion and his generous offer of aid had touched him. Yeghen was capable of concocting the shadiest of schemes to procure money for Gohar’s trip. Was he about to compromise himself by taking some illegal, and perhaps useless, action? Gohar would have liked to prevent that, and now he was filled with remorse. Should he not have dissuaded Yeghen, shown him the futility of any effort to save him? He had been weak in the face of Yeghen’s manifest kindness. And, besides, had not Yeghen offered him his life? Could you really refuse the help of a man who had put his life at your service? That would have been tactless, an insult to friendship.

What if escape were truly possible, if he really could leave for Syria? He imagined vast fields of hashish and saw himself cultivating the magnificent plant with the same hands that had strangled a young prostitute. Diabolical dream! — it lasted but an instant.

“Gohar Effendi!”

It was the plainclothes policeman summoning him. While continuing to fondle young Akila, he had turned toward Gohar as if to solicit an opinion of the utmost importance.

“I’m listening,” said Gohar.

The few customers scattered throughout the waiting room pricked up their ears. Everything that the plainclothes policeman said concerned them directly.

“Arnaba’s murder,” said the policeman, “reminds me of an old story that also took place in a whorehouse. I don’t know if you remember it. There was something strange about it that just came to me.”

The imbecile was going to talk to him about the crime again. Gohar coughed, took hold of his cane, then said with his usual courtesy, “Forgive me, but I don’t recall the incident.”

“It took place before the war. There was a lot of talk about it in the papers at the time. It concerned a prostitute stabbed to death with a knife. At the autopsy, the medical examiner stated that she was a virgin. The funny thing was that she had been plying her trade for almost twenty years. What do you say to that?”

“Unbelievable!”

“Isn’t it? I can’t stop thinking about it. A virgin whore! You can’t trust anybody, can you?”

“Even a whore’s ass holds surprises,” said Gohar. “It can astonish everyone.”

“Your philosophy enchants me. I see you are a man of the world.”

The policeman laughed coarsely, embraced his companion, and kissed her on the mouth like a wild beast. Akila, who was a sly little thing, excited him so much that he was panting visibly. Soon he could no longer resist and agreed to follow her into her room.

“See you later, Gohar Effendi!”

“At your service!”

“The wretch finally made up his mind!” Set Amina exulted. “At least he won’t enjoy himself at my place without paying.”

Gohar resumed his calculations, but he was touched by grace. Once again, tragedy was revealing its ridiculous side. Wasn’t there a peculiar drama in a murdered whore’s corpse turning out to be that of a virgin? Gohar had solved the enigma. Take this laughable world seriously? That had been his folly — long years of folly.

“I knew I would find you here, Master! I have something very serious to tell you.”

An extraordinary-looking El Kordi had appeared in the waiting room: his tarboosh was pulled down over his ears and the lower part of his face was covered with a handkerchief that he held firmly as if to stanch the blood from a wound.

“What’s wrong, my son? Are you injured?”

Now that he was sheltered from the vile stares of his tormentors, El Kordi removed the handkerchief, put it in his pocket, and sat down next to Gohar.

“No, I’m fine,” he said, leaning forward. “I’m simply trying not to be noticed.”

“Why the mystery?”

“I’ve been found out, Master! They know I’m a revolutionary.”

“Who?”

“The police, of course! They’re tailing me. I’m absolutely certain of it. Listen to me, Master. I took the streetcar to the European quarter this evening. It was incredibly crowded. I was completely crushed; I couldn’t move a finger. I was growing impatient when suddenly I noticed a man across from me watching me insistently. It was horrible. The man was one-eyed, and he was observing me with his bad eye. You can imagine my fright.”

“What makes you think he was a policeman? It may have been a one-eyed man and nothing more.”

“Let me finish. It’s a crazy story. When the ticket-taker came for our tickets, the man answered simply, no doubt from a stupid reflex, ‘Secret police.’”

“Very funny!” said Gohar. “I hope you broke out laughing.”

“How could I laugh, Master? I jumped off the moving streetcar right away.”

“But why were you going to the European quarter?” asked Gohar.