Albert Cossery - The Jokers

When he was released, in possession of some cash — and, more important, of a flair for business — he hurried to put on a suit and good shoes and to don a tarboosh. Then, having rented himself an office, he embarked on a number of legal and quasi-legal operations, always with success. He now owned several buildings, along with beautiful land in the most fertile regions, and he continued to conduct his affairs while exerting himself as little as possible. He limited his activities to talking on the telephone with people he never saw. Despite his prosperity, despite his fancy exterior and elegant airs, he retained his peasant manners and his common speech. He only liked vagabonds and only enjoyed the company of unemployed eccentrics whose time was their own. His easy rise to riches had opened his eyes to the fraudulence of the world: he understood that such a thing could not be possible except among madmen and thieves.

His office was made in the image of his rugged spirit. Situated in a back alley of the port, it was striking for its complete lack of paperwork, account books, and the other nonsense businesses employ to create confusion with an imposing appearance. All you could see was a table dominated by an old-fashioned telephone, two wicker armchairs, and a few wooden crates stacked in a corner against the wall, covered in dust.

When Karim showed up just before noon, Khaled Omar was in the middle of a phone call. He waved to his visitor with his free hand, to indicate that his conversation was nearing an end. Karim sat down in one of the wicker chairs and admired the businessman’s technique. Slouched in his swivel chair, Khaled Omar listened to his interlocutor, punctuating the conversation with a nod of the head or a curt word. From time to time he let out a sigh, as if to make it clear that he was sacrificing precious time. There wasn’t a scrap of paper or a pencil on the table. He kept everything in his head.

Khaled Omar put down the receiver and swiveled to face Karim; thunderous laughter burst out as if from the depths of his being. It was the laugh of an ecstatic animal, irrational and physical to the core.

“So, my young friend! How’s your health? Do you know what that fellow on the phone was asking me?”

“No,” said Karim.

“Well, he wanted me to get him a tiger!”

“A tiger? Probably wants to sic it on his mother-in-law. That’s pretty funny!”

“Not at all. He’s dead serious.”

“You don’t mean to tell me you have a tiger to sell him?”

“Why not? I’ll find him one.”

Khaled Omar grabbed the fat amber pipe of a hookah that was on the floor by his feet and lifted it to his lips; he wore rings on every finger. He took a few puffs, exhaling a cloud of dense smoke through his nostrils before continuing:

“You see, my young friend, there was a time when I was always scavenging for a crust of bread and never finding anything, and I started to think bread had never existed except in my imagination, that bakers themselves were mythical creatures. And look at me now: I know where to find a tiger. I know who to call to bring me a tiger, on a leash or in a cage. Isn’t that extraordinary?”

He burst into laughter again.

“It’s hard to believe!” exclaimed Karim.

“It’s very simple,” Omar said. “You have to penetrate the right circle. Everything a man desires exists, in fantastic quantities, in a well-guarded stockpile somewhere. Have you ever seen a ton of rice? Neither have I. And yet I’ve sold millions of tons of it. That’s the beauty of business. You don’t see it; everything happens behind the scenes. I might as well be selling the wind — that’s what’s so entertaining.”

“You’re a sensational man, brother Khaled — let me kiss your cheeks! To think I might never have met you…”

Khaled Omar looked at his visitor with visible pleasure. The friendship that united him with the younger man dated back to his time in prison. Karim was only twenty; he’d been arrested as a “dangerous political element” and incarcerated alongside ordinary criminals. Their first few encounters were fairly painful. When the future businessman heard from Karim’s own mouth that he was in jail for political reasons, he laughed in his face: he couldn’t help but take him for a pathetic fool. Khaled Omar, a simple, primitive man, couldn’t comprehend someone risking his freedom for a motive as essentially abstract as a political cause. In his view, that was pure stupidity. He had nothing to regret about his own imprisonment; yes, he had risked his freedom, but for a tangible end — in this case, a wallet stuffed with cash. Plus he found Karim’s whole image ridiculous: these political activists who played the martyr made him sick. But despite all that, he developed a brotherly feeling for the young idealist and helped him out in jail.

“Can I offer you something? A coffee, maybe?”

“Yes,” said Karim. “I’d love a coffee.”

Khaled Omar stood up, walked around the desk, and went to open the window. A loud murmur rose from the alley, where there was a daily market. The sound of the vendors proclaiming the succulence of their goods broke into the room, rattling it like an earthquake. The businessman yelled down to a coffee vendor across the alley, cutting through the din with his thunderous voice:

“Two coffees! Hey, Achour!”

“Two coffees!” the vendor’s voice echoed back.

Khaled Omar quickly closed the window and returned to his seat behind the desk. He seemed amused, as if he’d just remembered a funny story.

“Congratulations on your bogus beggar. What a riot, this morning, when the police found him.”

“Tell me, are they talking about it around town?”

“First, the news went around that a cop had slit some old beggar’s throat. People were outraged. But in the end, they found out it was a hoax. The police are still at a loss, though. They’re trying to hush up the incident in the papers — they think it’s a stunt organized by beggars to protest the governor’s orders.”

“Let them think what they want. We’re not done laughing yet. Listen, I came here to tell you that I’ve set up a meeting with Heykal. Tonight, around eight o’clock, on the terrace of the Globe Café. He wanted me to tell you that he’s looking forward to it very much.”

“You know that I’ve wanted this meeting for a long time,” Khaled Omar said, a barely perceptible tremor in his voice. “Everything you’ve told me about him fills me with fellow feeling — I love him like a brother already. He should know he can count on me for anything he wants to undertake; my humble fortune is at his disposal.”

“I’ve told him all that. He feels close to you, too — he already knows you better than I do. He’s often spoken of you as a man dear to his heart. And all that without ever having met you. He’s sure you won’t disappoint him.”

“What’s he planning? Has he told you anything?”

“No,” Karim admitted. “I assume he wants to speak with you first. He needs your help. I’m sure tonight he’ll bring you up to date with his projects.”

“Are you going to keep sending in your letters to the editor? That was a piece of diabolical genius! I’m still staggered!”

Of late the newspapers’ sycophantic treatment of the governor had exceeded every precedent in the history of baseness and servility. If you believed the press, the whole city was singing the odious man’s praises; his initiatives and his commitment to their success were the sole topics of conversation. Even his militaristic side was singled out for praise, as if the city were a battleground on which the governor, a former general, was staging a victorious war. This was the situation that Heykal had resolved to exploit. His plan consisted of joining the most staunch celebrants and acolytes in their folly, one-upping them with even more outrageous flattery. So he had his people write letters that were so laudatory of the governor’s actions that none of the papers could possibly refuse to publish them: they were sure they were serving the glory of their master.