Albert Cossery - The Jokers

Karim’s unsettling act had left Hatim totally distraught. Expecting an attack, he’d tried to stop it, but what he’d seen instead was far worse: it was the world turned upside down. This Karim, whom he thought he knew so well, had suddenly become incomprehensible to him. He stared with horrified eyes, as if at a monster. Karim, for his part, was in seventh heaven. He’d risked everything for this simple pleasure: leaving Hatim thunderstruck, with irrefutable proof of his repentance. And there was no doubt he’d succeeded in this exploit.

Hatim signaled for Karim to sit back down.

“By God!” said Hatim. “You surprise me more and more.”

“Why, Your Excellency?”

“It’s hard for me to believe that you would come to this: kissing the governor’s hand!”

“That’s not in the least surprising,” said Karim. “The governor is our father, a father to all of us; at least, that’s how I see it.”

Hatim thought for a second. His interest in the young man intensified. In the horrifying light of the immeasurable degradation here spread before his eyes, he began to see an escape from the private calvary of dutiful public servant. Maybe all was not yet lost.

“So since that’s the way it is, maybe we can collaborate. You wouldn’t like it, would you, if your father — as you put it — were the object of vicious attacks?”

“Of course not. But what can I do?”

“I’d like to know your opinion of certain posters that have recently appeared on the walls of the city.”

“What posters?” Karim asked innocently.

“Allow me to enlighten you,” said Hatim. “These posters feature the governor’s portrait and praise him in glorious terms, too glorious to be sincere. Have you seen them?”

“Those posters, Your Excellency? Those are beautiful posters! Every time I see one, I stop to read it. I’ve learned the text by heart, in fact. Would you like me to recite it?”

“Save yourself the trouble. Instead can you tell me who’s behind them? Who’s printing them? Who’s putting them up on walls all over the city?”

“But, Your Excellency, I assumed it was the government. The posters say nothing but good about our kind governor!”

“You’re mistaken. The government didn’t print these posters! Don’t you think it’s your old comrades who made them?”

“What a thought!” exclaimed Karim. “I don’t know what to say! Why would my old comrades sing the praises of the governor?”

“Maybe they’ve gone mad. I’m trying to understand.”

He was extremely unhappy to reveal to Karim the awkward position the posters had put him in. But the slightest clue could mean an unhoped-for release; if he tracked down the creators of this poisonous panegyric that had the entire police force on alert, his reputation as an astute officer would be beyond all suspicion. In twenty years of working with political offenses he’d never seen anything like this — a problem so serious, and at the same time so delicate, so out of the ordinary, that there was no mention of it in any of the police manuals. Hatim wondered if this wasn’t the beginning of a new revolutionary era — he might have to revise his investigatory technique. A new way of doing things had been born, and there he sat like an idiot, unaware of the birthplace or the identity of the instigators. He was overcome by panic.

“So you know nothing?”

It wasn’t a question so much as a last attempt to seize a bit of the truth. He waited for Karim’s reply without much hope.

“Nothing, Your Excellency,” Karim responded glumly. He gazed at Hatim with an empty, defeated expression.

A painful feeling of failure took hold of Hatim, darkening his already formidable features. The interrogation was ending in weakness and defeat. He had extracted nothing from this repentant revolutionary on his way to the altar, who made kites for the amusement of a bunch of brats. Was it possible to sink lower? He was surprised to feel a sort of regret — in this case particularly absurd. Could he really feel pity for a failed revolutionary? There were plenty of others, all sorts of people seeking revenge, happy to sow the seeds of disorder along the way. And yet something had died: a tiny spark in the raging fire that wanted to set the world ablaze.

He leaned his elbows on his desk, covered his forehead with his hands, and said, without looking at Karim:

“You may leave now.”

Karim got up, made a low bow, turned on his heel, and fled. As he left, he nodded right and left to his unhappy successors. But they paid no attention. Quietly closing the door behind him, as he’d seen the orderly do, he left the room.

A little ways down the avenue, which was now nearly deserted, he stopped in the shade of a tree and turned back to survey the distance he’d traversed from city hall. The big white building had vanished like a mirage behind the haze of heat. Karim felt like he was emerging from a dream.

Karim was relaxing. He leaned against the stone parapet that ran along the cliff road and studied the languid asses of the women strolling by, so plainly visible beneath their light dresses. How different they all were! They came in every shape and size. In the veiled gray light of dusk, these amazing asses took on a life of their own, promising him sensuous delights. The owners of the asses were, for the most part, so ugly that even a sex maniac would run screaming, but Karim barely noticed; he seldom looked at a woman’s face. Most of the women were accompanied by plain fat men dressed for the summer heat, men who wore striped cotton pajama pants and had their shirtsleeves rolled up as they munched on watermelon seeds while watching over their wives and daughters and keeping an eye on Karim, glaring at him like a peasant guarding his cows from a cattle thief. It made Karim snicker to see their sullen distrust. Every evening it was the same: families out on a ritual stroll looking for cool air, eager to breathe the sea breeze after the stifling heat of the day. And for Karim this procession of wistful asses was his daily break; he would come down from his terrace to lean against the parapet and wait for opportunity to strike. From time to time he’d be lucky enough to find a woman out on her own, looking for adventure, and he’d accost her in a direct and primitive way. Karim was as unforthcoming with women as he was with the police. He never said an intelligent word for fear of scaring them off; one dumb remark about the weather and the deal was done.

But tonight, nothing; prey was scarce. During the hour he’d been there, he hadn’t seen a single potential victim. All the women who went by were accompanied, or else they were bitter nannies dragging little kids in their wake. Karim was getting annoyed. A pair of lovers, fingers entwined as if for dear life, passed in front of him with an expression of affected ecstasy. Karim mechanically followed the young woman’s ass with his eyes and was stabbed by a sudden memory — not just a memory of conquest, because he vaguely remembered the girl’s face: that sweet little prostitute he’d picked up one night and never seen again, even though he’d invited her to consider his apartment her home. He’d conducted himself with munificence! True, at this moment he didn’t really want to see her again; the invitation had been tossed out at a critical moment in order to mollify her and to invite some discretion when it came to the money business. Perhaps she hadn’t been fooled and had understood that he didn’t have any. A wave of pity swept over him and — how extraordinary! — the face of the little prostitute took shape in his mind, like a face he’d always known, as familiar as the face of his own mother. Suddenly he regretted having been so stingy with the poor girl. Where was she now? He wanted to go look for her. The police must have picked her up and scared her off the street. Another victim of the accursed governor.