Albert Cossery - Proud Beggars

“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.”