Albert Cossery - The Jokers

Speaking of which, it had been two weeks now since Heykal’s letter — he’d called for the public to fund the erection of a statue of the governor — had been published in the papers. This letter had created consternation even among those who were most attached to the governor and his dictatorial ways. Already rumors were circulating that the central government did not look favorably on this popularity; doubts had arisen about a man capable of organizing such a successful propaganda campaign on his own behalf. Still, unwitting citizens — unaware of the direction things were heading — had been inspired to demonstrate their civic duty. Money had flowed from everywhere — like manna from heaven that nothing could prevent from falling. The list of donors grew longer with each morning’s paper. Karim himself wanted to take part and spent his last penny to support the statue, though his name hadn’t been mentioned. Now he bitterly regretted the donation, especially since his meager offering had received such a paltry response. Some readers — whether out of cynicism or naiveté—had written in to the journals to recommend a sculptor of their acquaintance or to indicate a preference as to the future placement of the statue. The craziness had now come to a head, and Heykal was only waiting to execute a new prank if this last one wasn’t sufficient to permanently discredit the governor. Karim was meeting with him this evening to discuss the whole question. The position of the governor had been dealt a solid blow, but unforeseen developments had to be kept in mind. Deep down, Karim hoped the governor would hang on for another month or two, long enough to be immortalized in a statue. How funny if things came to that — to see the governor on a pedestal! With only a little luck, it just might happen.

Night had fallen slowly and all at once the streetlamps came on above the cliff road, stretched like a string of gleaming pearls. But even though the air had become more breathable, cooler temperatures hadn’t arrived. The smell of grilled corn on the cob, emanating from the cart of a street vendor, filled the night. The road was gradually emptied of its strolling families; only the odd couple straggled by, retreating into shadowy corners to enjoy a quick, shameful spasm.

Karim, despairing of ever finding a girl, was about to leave when his eyes fell on the profile of a man leaning over the parapet at some distance to his left. The man turned quickly as if to hide his face from view. He was standing outside the pool of light made by the nearest streetlamp, but Karim, shocked, had recognized the furtive attitude and conspiratorial pose. The solitary man hiding in the shadows was Taher, his old friend from the revolutionary party; it had been a long time since he’d seen him, but he was certain he wasn’t mistaken. He’d identified him at a single glance; for Karim, Taher would be recognizable in the darkest of nights. His heart began to beat with emotion. He felt faint, moved by this miraculous, unexpected encounter with his old friend, but almost immediately a terrible suspicion seized him. The encounter was far from fortuitous; Taher must have been spying on him for a good while already. What for? Why didn’t he just come up and say hello? But to ask such questions was to not know Taher. He was a born conspirator, who loved detours and long, secret pursuits; he would never approach somebody without indulging in some mysterious behavior first. Karim decided to let him play his bizarre game. He had some time to kill before going to Heykal’s anyway.

He began to walk slowly, giving Taher the chance to spy on him at leisure. It tore at his heart to find himself in Taher’s company again; he had no desire to discuss social and political problems with him: their estrangement was permanent. And Taher must resent him for his defection — he might treat him harshly. Still, he couldn’t help but recall old memories. He and Taher had spent every minute plotting subversive actions; they were arrested together and taken to the same prison. He was the friend who had been closest to him in spirit, loved and admired for his noble sense of justice and his courage in the face of adversity. He was a smart boy from a family of poor workers who’d forgone food to give him an education. After successfully finishing school he’d refused to take a respectable job, devoting himself entirely to the revolution. His hatred of the powerful was nonnegotiable.

Suddenly Karim recalled a visual detail — something he’d noticed and forgotten. He’d seen that Taher was carrying a package under his arm, and now it came to him that his friend had had a habit of walking with a homemade bomb. Whenever someone asked him what he was planning to do with it, he’d snarl: “There’s no shortage of bastards — I’ll find somewhere to throw it!” Karim felt certain that Taher hadn’t abandoned his strange ways — the package he was carrying had to be a bomb — and he was scared now that he might be attacked. Taher was fully capable of throwing a bomb in his face without a shred of pity, even more so because he considered him a traitor. Karim knew his mentality and his revolutionary code of honor. Taher wouldn’t hesitate to throw a bomb at his own mother if she happened not to share his opinion about something. With growing unease, Karim looked for a way to escape his pursuer. Anxiously he inspected the long deserted road without finding a single dark corner to hide in. Just the corn-vendor’s cart on the sidewalk lit by the streetlamp. Hide behind the cart? Idiotic. It would roll away without him — the merchant was getting ready to close up shop, as if he’d had a premonition of impending disaster. Karim picked up his pace, feeling vaguely ridiculous and not daring to turn around to see if Taher was still following him. A coarse voice addressed him, stopping him dead.

“Hey, Karim! You don’t have to run away from me!”

Karim turned around, a forced smile on his lips. He was as nervous as a woman seeing an old lover she’s betrayed and abandoned. He opened his arms in a sign of welcome.

“Hello, Taher, my brother! What a happy coincidence. How are you?”

He wanted to embrace Taher, but his former friend flinched and made a point of pulling back.

“I’m doing very well,” replied Taher. “And you? Still having fun?”

“Yes, I’m all right. Believe me, I’m happy to see you. It’s been a long time since I’ve laid eyes on you.”

“I’m sorry,” said Taher, “but I was in prison. It was hard for me to make it out to the salons and cafés.”

Taher’s face, gaunt and creased from hardship and a lifetime of trouble, made his outcast state all too clear. His eyes glinted with a wild intransigence common to those who fight for a hopeless cause. He scrutinized Karim suspiciously but with a sense of suppressed tenderness, too, a feeling of sympathy for his comrade — a traitor to the cause, but someone who was still present in his memory. Basically he was as nervous as Karim, even though he was playing the roles of accuser and pitiless judge. His clothes were preposterous for a man in his straits. In every season, he wore a tight brown suit in quite decent condition, a shirt with a starched collar, and a dark tie — the austere outfit of a low-level office worker and a striking contrast to his starving revolutionary’s face; he was like two characters superimposed on each other. But that was Taher’s great principle: a real revolutionary must dress correctly! The bohemian attitude of some of his comrades made him beside himself with anger; he’d often attacked Karim for not wearing a tie.

Karim was at a loss for words at his friend’s news. Prison couldn’t have been fun for Taher, who took everything so hard. Karim felt a flash of guilt for standing there, the picture of health and happiness, in front of this man who had escaped from the deepest dungeons in order to accuse him and curse him. Despite himself, he couldn’t stop eyeing the package that Taher still held in his hand. He was ashamed of his fear, but it was stronger than he was; he trembled, thinking of the bomb. Taher noticed his nervousness with a withering sigh. Finally something had amused him.