Albert Cossery - The Jokers

“Where are you going with this? I’m not following.”

Taher took his time before responding. He looked at Karim’s tense features, his hand gripping the kite string. And then he said, quickly:

“It’s very simple. I’ll be here with a bomb and I’ll throw it at his car. There’s no better location.”

“So we’re back to that!” cried Karim, turning to Taher with horror in his eyes. “I was sure there would be a bomb somewhere in this!”

The neglected kite lurched violently and plunged several meters, like a crashing plane. Karim sprinted across the terrace, forgetting Taher, forgetting the insane plan he’d just been told, thinking of nothing but saving his kite from catastrophe. He gestured wildly, waving his arms in one direction and then another; then, with one quick, precise motion he set the kite back on course. He stood in the middle of the terrace, proud of this demonstration of his skills in aerial navigation.

“Bravo!” Taher called out. “I can’t believe your incredible escape! It was amazing, I swear!”

Taher’s flattery was so blatantly charged with ulterior motives that Karim felt disgusted. Without turning around he responded:

“My dear Taher, you know I’ll never participate in such a violent act. My terrace is not a slaughterhouse.”

“You can’t refuse me,” Taher said, and he came closer. “Plus, it’s not just me you’d be refusing but all of our old friends. You know I speak for them, too.”

Karim smiled to himself. With his tight suit, starched collar, and tie, Taher claimed to be a humble agent; he wanted Karim to know that an entire organization — the whole people, even — stood behind him, speaking through his very mouth. He wanted to impress him with the vast extent of his decision. Did he take him for a fool? Karim pitied his naiveté; he was certain that Taher had spoken to nobody about his plan. He knew him all too well: his taste for mystery and the insufferable obsession that led him to think of himself as entirely alone in the fight against injustice and oppression. Not ambition but something worse drove him, a sense that the sufferings of humanity were all his own. He planned to commit an act of unprecedented violence that would send him straight to the gallows, and he was marching toward it like a blind man toward an abyss — as if he’d been marked from birth for this and had no choice but to see it through. Of course he had no idea that the governor had already been defeated, that he was about to kill a man who was, for all intents and purposes, dead.

“Listen closely,” said Karim. “The governor is out. He’ll be gone in a matter of hours; the prime minister has demanded his resignation. Soon he’ll be nothing but a memory. I have this from a reliable source.”

“Don’t give me your stories,” Taher retorted suspiciously. “Your sources are a joke. You want me to believe that your posters brought him down?”

“Yes, our posters. I know it’s hard for you to accept. But I’m begging you, give up your plan.”

“Never. The decision is made: we will strike hard. The tyrant will die, mark my words. And you’re going to help us.”

He didn’t say it, but he’d thought up the whole scene solely in order to wash off the filth that Heykal, with his quirks and jokes, had covered him with. Heykal, that impudent destroyer of revolutions. That the police suspected him , Taher, of being the author of such a travesty gnawed at him like a poison. How was he to continue his work as a militant? The false imputation paralyzed his every thought. He had to prove to the authorities that he hadn’t renounced his methods, that he was still a force to be reckoned with; above all he couldn’t allow them to sleep peacefully in the blissful confidence that they were up against a bunch of juvenile delinquents. He wanted to shake them up with an act of brutality that would make them understand that the posters, and that whole business about the governor’s statue, had nothing to do with his ideas about overthrowing power. After this attack, they’d be forced to admit their mistake. How else was he to save the honor of his party in the eyes of the police — for Taher, in his own bloodthirsty way, was vain.

“You’d better not count on me,” Karim said, beginning to reel in the kite by tugging on the string and winding it around his wrist. “I’ll never agree to your scheme.”

“It is not my scheme!” Taher cried out, furiously. “We’re talking about the people! Don’t you love the people anymore?”

“I don’t love my own mother,” replied Karim, annoyed. “Why do I have to love the people?”

“You’re acting like an idiot. Admit that you’re afraid.”

“Of course I’m afraid. What do you think? I like my life!”

“This is what you call a life?” said Taher, pointing to the kite.

“It might seem strange to you,” said Karim, smiling. “But for me, flying a kite is enough to make me happy. The governor does not interest me, apart from the fact that his foolishness makes me laugh. Why would I want him dead? I hate funerals.”

He continued to wind the string around his wrist, slowly bringing the kite down. Taher watched with fierce, cold hatred. This insolence of Karim’s was suffocating him; to conquer his indignation, he remained focused on his terrible mission. His one reason for living and for dying was now the attack on the governor. There was no humiliation and no indignity that he would not undergo to attain his glorious goal. To insist and to persuade — that was his role as a militant; and he was prepared to throw himself at Karim’s feet and beg for his assistance, turncoat and traitor though he was. Karim no longer meant anything to him, he’d torn him out of his heart for good; he was just a tool that Taher had to make use of in order to settle his score with the governor.

The kite was descending upon them, like an enormous wounded bird, resplendent in the sun. Karim brought it down skillfully, then ran over to pick it up and stash it in the corner of the terrace.

Just then, Taher caught glimpse of something: what was this, a mirage? some sort of vision perfectly designed to seduce him and squash all his vengeful zeal? He stood there, shocked and furious, staring at the girl who was in the doorway of Karim’s bedroom. It was Amar, the little prostitute, who’d come out in search of her lover but, seeing a stranger on the terrace, had then retreated. She was as shocked as he was. She’d taken a bath and appeared cool and elegant, and her young body, glimpsed through the thin fabric of her dress, made her uncannily desirable. Taher averted his eyes with disgust, as if from the very image of debauchery and corruption.

“You live with a woman now!” he thundered at his friend.

“She’s my mistress,” said Karim. “Come on, let me introduce you.”

“I don’t want to. She must have heard our conversation!”

“Don’t worry about that. She won’t denounce you. She’s one of the governor’s victims. His ordinances prevent her from soliciting.”

“This kind of victim means nothing to me! She means nothing — she’s just the trash of our oppressive social system!”

“What!” roared Karim. “You think she’s trash! But she has the most beautiful breasts in the world! I’d be perfectly happy with trash like this.”

Only a second earlier, Taher had still held out a faint hope of convincing Karim, but after seeing this girl with all her vestal allure he knew it was hopeless — the man was a slave to lust. The girl controlled him with sex. He was a wreck drifting in the cesspool of the regime. Not even as a doormat could he serve the revolution.

“I’m going,” he said. “Not that I’ve wasted my time. You’ve shown me just how low a man can sink.”