Albert Cossery - Proud Beggars

“You’ll see,” he said. “You will be eternally grateful to me. Your husband will never be able to resist you. It will be impossible for him to go on living without this perfume.”

“He’ll just have to come to you to buy more.”

“By the Prophet! I won’t sell it to him.”

The woman left carrying her vial of perfume, and the man turned to Yeghen.

“It’s agreed,” he said. “The price suits me. I’ll take the merchandise.”

“I’ll bring it to you as soon as possible. I don’t know when. I expect it soon.”

“I hope it’s good quality.”

“The best,” said Yeghen. “You know I’m an expert. I’ll see you later.”

Leaving the perfume stall, Yeghen headed for the Mirror Café. He was a little anxious because the man seemed wary. It had not been easy to persuade him. The trick had become too well known among drug dealers; Yeghen had already tried it many times, and he always came out ahead. In fact, it was the simplest of swindles. It involved concluding a deal for a certain quantity of heroin, and then, when the time came, giving the buyer a packet containing sodium sulfate bought in a pharmacy. Since the transaction had to be done in all haste — given the circumstances — the buyer was prevented from appraising the goods. When he discovered the fraud, it was already too late. All he could do was curse the thief, without daring to complain to anyone.

It had been a long time since Yeghen had had recourse to this dishonest dealing. Not because of any scruples of conscience but because his bad reputation made him suspect to all the dealers in town. It was very difficult for him to find new victims. The man to whom he had finally addressed himself was one of the rare dealers he had never fleeced and with whom he had the best of relations. Still, the risk was great because the man was also a police informer. He could be setting a trap for him. But Yeghen was resolved to run this risk; he knew no other way to obtain the money that would allow Gohar to leave for Syria and escape the consequences of his crime.

At the Mirror Café, he found Gohar sitting with El Kordi; the two men weren’t speaking. Looking more dismal than ever, El Kordi seemed to be contemplating some terrible revenge. As for Gohar, he was sucking a hashish ball with tranquil happiness, his gaze lost among the crowd of drinkers who filled the meandering terrace; from time to time he took the glass placed before him and drank a mouthful of warm tea. Yeghen sat down with them without saying anything; he also had no desire to speak. He reflected on the swindle he had just set up; if everything went as planned he would soon have the money that he had promised Gohar for his trip. To save Gohar from prison, and perhaps even from the gallows, had become a kind of sacred mission for him. All these last days, he had thought only of how to help him. His astonishment at Gohar’s crime had remained as strong as ever; the mystery continued to intrigue him. How had Gohar come to that? What absurd chain of circumstances had driven him to commit the only act for which he was not at all made? Gohar was the least violent of men, so how to imagine that he had attacked an inoffensive little prostitute, the most pitiful of all creatures? Yeghen would have liked to ask Gohar for more ample details about the incredible scene that had unfolded between him and his victim, but a kind of modesty, or delicate discretion, held him back. Why did he need to know? Didn’t true friendship rise to the occasion without asking for explanations?

The radio suddenly burst out like a storm, sweeping over the terrace with a wave of deafening music. The squall shook Gohar; he seemed to notice Yeghen’s presence. A pale smile lit his face.

“You look exhausted,” he said. “What’s wrong? Are you ill?”

“Oh, it’s nothing,” answered Yeghen. “I’m just tired. I haven’t slept in a bed for I don’t know how long.”

“You left your hotel?”

“Yes, Master! It was too dangerous; the police knew my address. And I didn’t have money to go elsewhere. No hotel will give me credit.”

“Can I do something for you? My room is at your disposal.”

“Thank you, Master! Tonight I have money. I intend to give myself a royal bed.”

“You think they won’t find you?”

“I need them to leave me alone for a few days, long enough to take care of some business that affects us both. Once that business is in order, I don’t care what they do to me. They have nothing on me.”

“Why don’t you let destiny follow its course?” said Gohar. “What are you afraid of?”

“What am I afraid of, Master! I am afraid of losing you! I’m sorry to be so selfish. I know you make light of what may happen to you. But think of me: I cannot bear the idea of losing you.”

“But if I leave for Syria, you’ll lose me just as much, my son!”

“No, Master! I only need to know that you are alive, though far from me, to not lose you.”

How could he tell him clearly that he feared the worst sentence for him: death. Gohar’s spirit would doubtless survive through the years; his memory would certainly remain, as durable as thousand-year-old rocks. But where would be the joy? What memory could render the sweetness of a word, the treasures of humanity contained in a fraternal gesture? No, Yeghen needed a living Gohar — even a Gohar who was far away; and all he would have to do to be eternally happy would be to picture him with certainty existing somewhere in the world.

El Kordi shook his head and seemed to thrust his imaginary torments far away. He looked at his two companions as if he had only just noticed them. A feverish light burned in his eyes.

“What are you talking about?” he asked anxiously. “Are you really going to Syria, Master? So you’re leaving us on our own! I beg you, take me with you. Yes, I want to go too. Let’s go right away. I have my coach; the horses are chafing at the bit. What are you waiting for, Master?”

“What’s wrong with him?” asked Yeghen. “I swear, he’s delirious!”

“I think he had a fight with his mistress,” said Gohar. “It will pass in a moment. Don’t worry.”

“I know how to calm him down,” said Yeghen. “My dear El Kordi, listen to me. On my way I noticed a little cigarette-butt scavenger who is a real marvel. She can’t be far away.”

Yeghen leaned toward El Kordi and began to converse with him in a low voice. But suddenly he was struck dumb; he had just recognized someone in the crowd.

“Watch out!” he said. “Here comes the inspector who’s investigating the murder. Be especially discreet; don’t say anything.”

“I’ll say what I please,” said El Kordi. “I’m not afraid of anyone.”

Gohar looked as if he didn’t understand; he tranquilly took his glass and drank a mouthful of tea. El Kordi sat up in his chair and struck a very dignified pose. He looked as though he were preparing to enter a decisive battle.

Nour El Dine was near their table; he seemed not to have seen them.

“Peace be with you, Inspector,” said Yeghen with a sarcastic smile. “Please honor us with your company.”

Nour El Dine frowned; his features hardened. Assuredly, this encounter was catching him unawares. He was not alone: Samir accompanied him. For several seconds he seemed to hesitate, then he smiled affably.

“What a pleasant surprise,” he said. “I would be delighted to meet your friends. But it seems I have already had the pleasure of meeting this young man. Haven’t we already met?” he added, addressing El Kordi.

“In a way,” answered El Kordi with haughty stiffness. “I am truly flattered that you remember me, Excellency!”

“How could I forget you! I never forget an intelligent man. Our conversation the other day left me with a high opinion of you. I’ve often thought about that day. But we’ll talk about it later. Let me first present my young nephew. He’s a law student with a great future.”