Albert Cossery: The Jokers

“How do you get by? Do you work?”

“Of course,” said Karim. “I’m in manufacturing.”

“Manufacturing of what?”

“I manufacture kites.”

“You’re pulling my leg.”

“I wouldn’t dare, Your Excellency! It’s the truth. There’s nothing extraordinary about it. You’ve just never thought of it. Look, I’ll show you some samples of my work.”

He got up quickly and walked over to the corner where the kites were stored. He chose two of different shape and color, and holding one in each hand he lifted them up so the policeman could admire them at leisure.

“Look. You see these kites; I made them. There are no others like them, not even abroad. I have orders from every corner of the world. Soon I’m going to have to take on some help.”

The policeman, who still didn’t want to believe this story, stared at the two kites like objects in a dream. As much as he wanted to write a positive report, he knew he could never demonstrate that the manufacture of kites constituted honest work. And yet, he thought, these kites — someone made them; they didn’t grow on trees. But how could he tell his superiors that a former revolutionary, a subversive spirit, had devoted himself to such a pursuit, without drawing any suspicion to himself?

“It’s not serious,” he said. “If I put this in my report, I’ll be the one accused of making fun of the authorities.”

“But why? There’s nothing bad about it. It’s a modest living, of course, but it gives joy to thousands of children who play with kites. How can you hold it against me, Your Excellency, that I’m interested in making children happy? Today’s children are tomorrow’s heroes, right? I understand that to a casual observer these kites seem like a childish pastime. But when you think about it, you begin to understand that in practicing this peaceful sport, the children acquire a robust constitution and a healthy view of society, which helps to turn them into good, law-abiding citizens. In other words, as you can’t help but see, I labor in the national interest.”

The policeman listened to this long outburst with growing discomfort; this young man surprised him more and more. If he wasn’t a revolutionary, he had to be, at the very least, quite mad. The policeman thought about his report; he foresaw problems.

“If I may,” broke in Karim after a silence.

“Please.”

“Do you have children?”

Now he was asking personal questions. What next? Was his wife pretty?

“Yes, I have children. May God preserve them.”

“How old are they?”

“The oldest is thirteen.”

“What a marvelous coincidence! Would you permit me to offer them one of these kites? It would be an honor as well as a pleasure.”

The policeman resisted, but politely, not making a fuss.

“If I’m not mistaken, this is an attempt to bribe an officer of the law. I will be obliged to mention it in my report.”

“To bribe you!” exclaimed Karim. “May the sky fall on my head! Your Excellency, you’ve hurt my feelings. Believe me, I love children. So much so that whenever I see one, tears spring to my eyes. I don’t understand how you could misconstrue my offer as an attempted bribe. It was an impulsive gesture; my intentions were noble and pure. I’ll be insulted if you reject my humble offering.”

And, once again, his eyes filled with tears!

This was a terrible test of the will. The whole investigation was disconcerting — it was so out of the ordinary. Could the young man be in earnest? The policeman thought it was possible. Those proud, stubborn revolutionaries would never talk like this, let alone break down and cry. That was evidence enough that he wasn’t mistaken. But strangely this certitude — he didn’t know why — made him sad. What would happen to the world if all the revolutionaries repented and reformed? It seemed to him that a light, somewhere, would go out.

Karim had put one of the kites back on the pile; he held the other out to the policeman, in a beseeching gesture. His face wore an expression of intolerable moral suffering.

“You can’t do this to me!”

The officer’s compassionate character made him vulnerable. He felt vaguely guilty of impoliteness. The most basic civility demanded that he not refuse a gift offered with such fervor.

Perhaps it was the very meagerness of the gift that finally convinced him to accept. He coughed to clear his voice.

“Well, then, thank you. But I’ll take the smallest one.”

“I am your servant,” Karim blurted out. “You do me unspeakable honor.”

Taking the policeman by the arm, he invited him to choose. The policeman, after a moment of hesitation, chose the smallest kite he could find; he hadn’t forgotten the issue of transport. He saw himself lugging the cumbersome toy home, unable to hide his burden.

“With my compliments,” said Karim. “I hope that the children enjoy it.”

“For their sake, thank you,” the policeman said, as he turned toward the door. “I must write my report. You’ll receive a summons shortly.”

“Your visit has comforted me enormously,” Karim replied. “I felt alone and abandoned. Believe me, I’m so grateful.”

He escorted the policeman onto the terrace and to the door of the stairway, bowing continually. For several minutes he continued to maintain an attitude of artificial deference, then, all at once, he burst into laughter.

He couldn’t stop laughing. The cliff road had become a strategic route! Ah! The sick bastards! They had strategic routes now! What presumption! They’d make use of anything to enhance their prestige. But to make him move for so stupid a reason! That was the limit! It was of the utmost importance that he respond to this threat. He wouldn’t let himself be evicted; he wouldn’t give them the pleasure. First of all, he had to do something about this miserable policeman before he had a chance to write his report. Karim felt sure he’d brought him around, but you never knew. He’d ended up taking a kite; why wouldn’t he take more? Karim decided to turn the whole business over to Khaled Omar, the businessman. Khaled Omar, thanks to his contacts at every level of society, would be able to get to the policeman — or his superiors! Khaled Omar could afford to bribe an army of bureaucrats. Karim collected his materials and brought them back into the room. He dressed hastily. It was time to go visit his rich friend.

Outside the house, he paused briefly, contemplating the strategic route with a malicious glint in his eye. He felt a strong desire to piss on it.

Khaled Omar, an illiterate man, had made his professional debut where some businessmen finish their careers: in prison. A few short years ago he had been a penniless drifter — perpetually hungry, sleeping on the streets, living off thievery and handouts. But Providence, for mysterious reasons, had planned a glorious future for him. Caught red-handed picking a wallet from someone’s pocket, he was arrested and given a sentence of eighteen months. This unhappy circumstance was the prelude to his ascent into prosperity, for it was behind prison bars that he discovered his vocation and his star began to rise. Freed from the dread of starvation, no longer worried about his survival, his frustrated but now awakening spirit began to notice a host of things he’d never had the chance to appreciate. Looking around him, he was fascinated by the prevailing economic phenomena of a society condemned to isolation. The black market inside the prison made a powerful impression on him. At first he couldn’t participate; he had nothing to sell and nothing with which to buy anything. So he bought on credit and sold his new acquisitions at a profit. The simplicity of this operation astounded him. For the first time in his life he’d made money without expending the slightest effort. In no time, he became a shrewd speculator. He had an innate sense of the laws of supply and demand, and by the end of six months he controlled every transaction and regulated prices at will. He provided the prisoners with supplies of all kinds: cigarettes, drugs, sometimes even women. The jailers, practical men, supported his enterprise; he made it worth their while. By the end, he’d turned prison smuggling into a veritable branch of the national economy.