Albert Cossery: The Jokers

Amar opened the door onto the sun-drenched terrace, and the light entered the room.

“Leave it open,” Karim said.

Hearing the outer door close behind the girl, Karim felt relieved of a heavy weight. Finally he could breathe freely! He jumped out of bed, tied the drawstring of his pajamas, and went out onto the terrace. For the week or so in which he’d occupied this room, where he enjoyed a superb view of the sea (a nice change from his previous place, so dark and airless, a real hovel in a rough neighborhood), he’d woken up each morning in good spirits. Every day the first thing he did was to go out on the terrace and revel in the spectacle afforded by his privileged position. He still hadn’t gotten over the novelty of it: even reading the paper, until now the most essential ingredient of his happiness (proving as it did that the universe was fertile with insanity of all kinds), now came second to this daily tour of the horizon. Like an explorer looking down from the top of a mountain, Karim gazed from his sixth floor onto the city, its multiple haunts filled with cretins and crooks going about their business. The thought of a whole society given over to sheer bloody-minded rapacity gave him limitless pleasure. More and more, he thought of his new residence as an observatory, in which his sense of humor could be nurtured and blossom freely.

He leaned on the brick parapet that surrounded the terrace and stared out at the sea. It extended brilliantly, like a mirror, all the way to the far-off point where the horizon was veiled in haze. The city stretched out to the left and right, with its gleaming modern buildings projecting a false image of a flourishing city. Almost no one would suspect the immensity of the slums, filled with disgusting hovels and ancient filth, that lay hidden behind the façade. Karim felt the heat of the sun on his bare chest; he took a deep breath, then leaned over to look at the paved road that ran beneath the cliff, continuing along the shore for several kilometers. It was a wide two-lane avenue with a sidewalk where in the evening pedestrians came to breathe the sea air and snack on watermelon seeds. Cars sped by furiously, looking from a distance like malfunctioning mechanical toys. Sometimes, to Karim’s delight, the driver of a horse cart dozing in his seat added a human note to the infernal race toward annihilation. But it was increasingly rare to see anyone taking a break. The police were cracking down on the lazy and the carefree, judging such attitudes to be crimes against the nation. An entire civilization, an entire way of life, easygoing and debonair, was about to disappear. On the sidewalk, there were only a few people, all walking by at a rapid pace, racing to God knows where. Something in the landscape had changed: not the least sign of a bum sleeping in the sun; not a single body sprawled out or squatting on the street. Begging had been driven underground. And where had the beggars gone? It was unlikely they were all working in factories. Where, then?

It was such a pity! The absence of beggars on the cliff road was a sign of changing times. This idiot governor, with his absurd ideas, had succeeded in fundamentally altering the city. Karim wondered what had become of the dummy he’d dumped off in the middle of the European Quarter last night. Had they discovered him yet? He wished he’d been there when the police had apprehended the bogus beggar; he’d missed out on a good laugh. Maybe there’d be something about it in the papers. But there was no counting on it. The papers were all in the governor’s pay; they’d never dare to publish a story that might turn him into a laughingstock for kids. So what? The governor himself would hear about this farcical attack on his orders. His thick skull would shatter to pieces — he’d never expect them to come after him in such an unusual fashion. Up to now, he’d been happy to arrest the odd member of the underground revolutionary party, an easy target over the years for whatever governor happened to be in power. Having thus made a show of strength, and having resolved, in the manner of his glorious predecessors, the problem of opposition in the laboring classes, the governor believed his interests to be safe from any damaging propaganda. He was familiar with only one kind of subversive spirit: those scattered individuals who, intransigent in their hatred, sought glory through action and were willing to lay down their lives for the sake of the right and the good. Men who took themselves seriously, in other words, like him. How could he have suspected that the city was also home to a new, budding breed of revolutionary, scathing and funny, for whom he and his kind all over the world were nothing but puppets pulled by strings, their words and gestures nothing but the grotesque convulsions of a buffoon. Karim could see that terrible things lay in store for the governor. He’d find himself overwhelmed by a new kind of insurrection and wouldn’t know how to react. There’d been entertainment value in the bogus beggar, but that was only a trifle compared to the immense, crazy plot that was now under way. Karim knew that his friend and accomplice, the incomparable Heykal, was currently working on a secret plan of such subtlety and scope that it would destroy the governor’s authority for good. To tell the truth, Karim wasn’t sure just what was being plotted; Heykal had been mysterious about the details of his jolly conspiracy. But now Karim had proof that the launch of the secret offensive was imminent: Heykal had finally decided to meet with Khaled Omar, the businessman, and he had asked Karim to take a message to Omar arranging a meeting that very night. That this meeting was taking place showed that Heykal had developed a plan of attack and that he required material assistance in its execution; Khaled Omar’s fortune and generosity of spirit could be invaluable to the cause. Tonight, then, would bring news: at last, Heykal would unveil his plans. The meeting was to take place in a café in the European Quarter, and Heykal had requested to speak to the businessman alone; clearly, he wanted to ply his charms in private. Karim wasn’t worried about how things would turn out. Heykal exerted an irresistible influence over everyone he met; Khaled Omar would certainly be convinced. There really was no resisting Heykal.

It was still too early to visit the businessman; he didn’t get to his office before late morning. Killing time, Karim wandered around the terrace, dreaming of all the trials he and his friends had cooked up for the wretched governor. And yet, the memory of the young prostitute he’d tricked with his declarations of undying love continued to trouble him. He swore that if he saw her again, he’d offer her money or a present of some kind. Soothed by this altruistic thought, he went back inside and headed straight to the corner where there was a pile of kites of all sizes and colors, some still unfinished. For several months, Karim’s favorite activity had been making kites, which he sold to a candy seller who had a shop nearby and a loyal clientele of children. In an era of propeller planes, young Karim found it wildly appealing to resist the nefarious progress of a world infatuated with the mechanical by making kites — such superbly frivolous toys. He felt a reassuring sense of joy whenever he saw them in the sky — lightweight, peaceful constructions taunting the ponderous planes, those crude machines devoid of poetry.

He rummaged briefly through the pile of kites and finished by digging up one that was still in a skeletal state, but whose frame, made from reeds that he’d trimmed down and cinched together with string, suggested a kite of astonishing size. He grabbed a pair of scissors, some rolls of colored paper, and a dish, in which he mixed flour and water to form a paste. Returning to the terrace with this assortment of materials, he laid the frame of the kite on the flagstone floor, crouched down, and set to work with the focus and intensity of an expert building a rocket to the moon.