Albert Cossery - The Jokers

“What do you mean, which governor?” exploded Karim. “The governor of this city!”

“This city is governed?” said the driver. “Don’t tell me that, young man; I won’t believe you.”

“No wonder things are falling to pieces!” cried Karim. “You and your kind are turning us into a bunch of savages!”

The craziness had reached its peak, but Karim wasn’t capable of stopping the mechanism he’d set off. A familiar demon goaded him to push things even further, to see just how far this absurd conversation could be taken. On top of that, he was reluctant to leave the cool shade and launch out into the torrid atmosphere of the avenue and the hassle of a police interrogation.

“I’m leaving,” he said with conviction. But he didn’t leave. He was waiting for something — as if expecting some dazzling beam of light revealing the secrets of humanity to emerge from the situation.

“Wait, effendi,” said the barber, as he clipped big tufts of fur from the donkey. “I’ll be finished soon. It’ll be your turn in a minute.”

“I will not follow a donkey,” responded Karim proudly. “You don’t seem to have any idea whom you’re speaking to!”

The barber thought for a moment, clippers in suspense, his features twisted in apprehension. Intrigued, he asked:

“Well, who are you, effendi?”

“I’m not going to waste my time telling you,” Karim flippantly responded. “Go on and take care of that donkey — that’s your kind of customer!”

“Did I just hear you insulting my donkey?” cried the driver, wild-eyed. “Who do you think you are to insult someone who works for a living?”

The word was out: a worker! So as far as this pathetic bunch was concerned, the donkey had the right to be respected, not as an animal but for its noble status as a worker. For a few seconds, Karim was blinded by the sheer deliciousness of this — a recompense at last for his long wait. He turned his back on the two men and hurled himself deliberately into the furnace: all was well with the world.

He had to resist further experimentation. After the scene at the barber’s he was running late, and he’d have to hurry to get to city hall at the appointed hour. He felt cheerful, full of optimism — in good enough shape, in any case, to confront the sadistic, power-hungry officers who would be assigned to his interrogation. Moved by this feeling of joy, he broke into a trot, making his way with difficulty through the careless crowd clogging the avenue.

He stopped, out of breath, to examine the big white building topped by a flag — city hall and the seat of the governor. It was a long time since he’d been here. He hesitated before crossing the threshold, remembering his brash attitude on previous visits, when he’d been a reckless and arrogant revolutionary. He felt ashamed recalling his former foolishness. How could he have failed to understand that they were stronger than he was, that all his bluster only played into their hands, hurting his cause by putting him on the same level as his enemies? Happily, things had taken a new turn since that far-off time; he would shock them silly. He lowered his head and tried to look humble and timid, then entered through the monumental double doors, which opened wide like a trap ready to snap up its prey. He shivered, and a cold sweat ran down his back — it was not fear but the effect of suddenly coming into the cool air of the great building. He tried to shrink away even more, camouflaging himself as a citizen without ideas or ambitions, a creature who submitted to fate and trembled before every kind of authority. In this character he was no different from the other people who filled the vast room on the ground floor, coming and going like figures in a nightmare, eyes fixedly staring as they shuttled from one office to another, delivered into the caprice of the vindictive machine. Karim acted like someone who was familiar with the place; without bothering to ask directions he headed straight to the flight of wide stone stairs and climbed to the second floor. An orderly, seated behind a table, was reading his newspaper without moving a muscle on his face; probably he couldn’t read and was only pretending. Karim handed him his summons. The man took it, gave it a sideways glance, and murmured:

“Follow me.”

Karim followed him silently, staying in character as a poor, harmless wretch. The orderly opened a door, let Karim in, and closed it behind him softly, as if to avoid waking a sleeper. Karim noticed the typical smell of an interrogation room: an undefinable scent, mental more than olfactory, as if human absurdity emitted a nauseating stench. People of all types and from all over waited on benches along the walls, their expressions frozen with resignation so excessive that it looked put on. They seemed to have been there forever, covered in dust, their clothes all worn out; they were like sculptures from another era that had just been dug up. Karim gazed at them briefly, stupefied, like someone viewing a catacomb and its relics for the first time. He pulled his handkerchief from his pocket and mopped the sweat off his forehead to prove to himself that he was still alive, but already he knew the sinister truth: all these people were playing the same game he was. If they were mute and looked lifeless, it was in the hopeless hope that they would be taken for dead. This, of all possible attitudes, was the one that was least exposed to tyranny’s talons. Karim admired their act of dissimulation and, only too happy to get a close-up look at these models of humanity, found an open spot on one of the benches and sat down, mimicking their pitiful posture. For a moment he stayed there, neutrally still, playing dead in this disparate gathering of mute victims; then, with an abundance of circumspection, he risked a glance toward the back of the room. Seated behind his desk, a uniformed security officer was exhaustively interrogating a bleary-eyed man with the look of a piecemeal skeleton, apparently a spy from some miserable desert country. Just behind them, two policemen with military mustaches stood at attention. Karim recognized the officer: it was Hatim, the one who’d taken care of him back in the day. This discovery surprised and irked him at the same time; he thought the new regime would have had the good sense to change their policemen. How naive! And yet he should have known: the simple truth, enduring and unchallenged, was that the power of the police outlasted every regime.

From the back of the room he heard Hatim’s voice, scathing and angry; the officer seemed to be having some serious problems with an informant. Karim heard the latter let out a long sigh in response to his torturer’s repeated interrogations, as if advanced tuberculosis prevented him from articulating a single word. Hatim made a strange face in front of this mute, emaciated stool pigeon. To keep from bursting into laughter, Karim had to remember his own situation — it was far from stellar. He was going to have to revise all his plans. How could he play his game with Hatim, who knew all about him? Hatim wouldn’t walk right into his trap. Karim’s moral and physical transformation — even after all these years — would make him highly suspicious. Perhaps he should refine his act, introduce a modicum of dignity, the kind of dignity that Hatim, in his barbaric cruelty, would relish breaking. Karim decided to offer him this paltry gift as a sign of his esteem.

Hatim suddenly seemed to have had enough of his stool pigeon; with a furious gesture he turned him over to one of the guards. For a moment he appeared to relax and breathe more easily, as if set free; then he started scrutinizing the people seated on the benches. He seemed to be looking for somebody specific and kept shaking his head with a disappointed frown. Suddenly a spark lit up in his eyes; he’d just recognized Karim in this heap of human garbage. His nostrils flared, a thin smile fluttered on his lips, and he seemed to bloom with renewed vigor and aggression.