Albert Cossery - A Splendid Conspiracy

To find himself in the shoes of a thinker was no easy task for Chawki; his only desire was to get out of them as quickly as possible. Smiling affably and pretending to take the conversation lightly, he asked:

“You’re interested in humanity’s moral evolution? My goodness; I would never have thought that of you!”

“You’re wrong not to take our friend seriously,” said Imtaz while stroking Ziza’s breasts — he still held her on his lap. “His theory on the matter is quite original. He maintains that spiritual progress can only occur in a world of leisure. What do you think about that?”

“A world of leisure, truly!” Chawki exclaimed. “I don’t understand. Please explain what you mean.”

“It’s quite simple,” said Medhat. “From the beginning man’s hardworking fate has made him unable to conceive of an ideal that is not material and does not correspond to his needs and his safety. All he thinks about is earning a living; this is what he is taught from childhood on. His only aim is to become cleverer and more of a bastard than everyone else. During his entire lifetime, he uses his ingenuity to provide food for himself and, once he has eaten his fill, to invent some sordid ambition for himself. When, then, does he have time to elevate his spirit and his mind? The tiniest thought along these lines is considered a criminal offense, immediately punishable by disapproval and starvation. Therefore, I venture to affirm that only people of leisure can attain a way of thinking that is truly civilized.”

“But what’s the solution, then?” Chawki inquired. “Humanity cannot remain idle; people need to work.”

“Too bad for them,” Medhat concluded. “That’s their problem. I’m just stating a permanent truth that historians and thinkers have always dodged because it is simple and has little market value.”

“I’d like to know,” said Teymour, glancing conspiratorially at Medhat, “if this truth applies to everyone. Are there no exceptions?”

“Ah, there are exceptions!” sighed Chawki. He was now listening intently to every rejoinder; his instinct warned him that some stealthy threat aimed his way was creeping into the conversation.

“Obviously,” answered Medhat. “Everyone is not sensitive to leisure in the same way.”

“I think so, too,” said Imtaz in his turn. “For example, the honorable Chawki, here present, has had leisure all his life; do you believe that this has improved him spiritually?”

“I cannot say,” declared Medhat. “It is for the honorable Chawki to reveal to us in all conscience if he has managed to take advantage of his leisure.”

“He’s a scoundrel!” cried Salma. “I wonder why you are even talking about him. All the leisure in heaven couldn’t change him; he’ll forever remain a scoundrel!”

“Quiet, Salma!” Medhat intervened. “Let him speak.”

Chawki was smiling inanely, twisting his moustache with a feverishness that revealed his unease. His fears were being borne out; one could not mention problems as explosive as the evolution of humanity without being splattered. He was long used to his former mistress’s hateful words and was not especially offended by her shouts and insults; the danger was coming from elsewhere. How was he to answer Medhat’s insidious question? He sensed that his pride was being attacked and he could not repress a sigh of fury.

“To tell the truth,” he confessed, “I don’t think I’m better than anyone else.”

“Hypocrite!” shouted Salma. “You dare compare yourself to others? Listen, oh friends, to this vile man!”

“My dear Chawki,” said Imtaz. “Your modesty does you credit. Nonetheless, allow us not to believe a word of what you say. You, no better than anyone else! Please! We all know the indulgence and fullness of your heart. You are man par excellence, a man whom this city perhaps does not deserve. Don’t try to belittle your reputation, for it’s the glory of us all.”

Chawki’s natural conceit obscured from him all the insolence and perfidy of this exaggerated panegyric. Unbelievably, he thought it would help soften the blow to Medhat’s theory caused by his admission if he pointed out a shortcoming that his good faith would not allow him to leave undisclosed.

“I don’t want to say anything against our friend Medhat’s perceptiveness. In my case, however, his theory cannot be tested for I have not benefited from all the leisure time you have so generously bestowed on me. One mustn’t forget that, despite my wealth, I am constrained by countless obligations.”

“Oh, poor man!” moaned Salma. “He has obligations, the poor thing! I know your filthy obligations, you desecrator of innocence, you!”

Chawki turned to her and patted her on the arm.

“Come now, dear, why are you getting angry? This has been a most fascinating conversation and it’s allowing me to admire these boys’ intelligence. We are not here to be sad. Let’s be happy. A bit of music will cheer us up; let’s turn on the phonograph.”

The young girls greeted these words, marked by a certain slavish restraint, with an immense burst of laughter; although they had not once penetrated the ambiguous meanings of this transcendent discussion, Chawki’s frightened face and air of stoicism had amused them as much as a puppet show, if not more. Chawki, titillated by this girlish laughter, was keeping a rapt eye on them. He let his gaze wander over one, then the other, as if to encourage them in their mirth, swearing to himself that at the first opportunity he would demand certain liberties from them to which his social status, if not the nobility of his face, entitled him. In the meantime, he engaged in an affected little habit he had, which he imagined vastly increased the stateliness of his person and which consisted of breathing in through the nose several times, pinching his nostrils, and lifting his head haughtily. Alas, he had to stop this enormously persuasive exercise prematurely; a small detail that his eyes — fixed solely on the bait of the young girls — had missed until now had just produced a shock in his mind. Samaraï’s absence, although in no way unusual, nonetheless caused Chawki to be assailed by disturbing thoughts. Had the veterinary student, disappointed by Salma’s systematic rejection, returned to the capital alone? This was unwelcome news, destroying Chawki’s hopes based on the young man’s steadfast devotion. He had always considered Samaraï to be a gift from the gods; his arrival in this city and his unbridled passion for Salma were in effect a godsend, delighting Chawki in his miserliness. If Salma were to leave with her lover, Chawki would be spared the lavish monthly payments he made to the young woman and, at the same time, be released from any responsibility in her future misadventures; he would be rid of her forever. For some time now he had been hoping that this relationship would lead Salma to a clearer understanding of reality and of her future, but it seemed that a recent quarrel had separated the lovers. Why had that imbecile Samaraï given up so easily? It would be years before another crackpot of his kind would appear in this town. Chawki did not dare ask about the student because he did not want to show Salma that he had any interest in the matter; she already suspected him of finding something to his advantage in the situation. Suddenly he became glum and even Boula of the wondrous haunches seemed to be plotting against his purse strings.

Imatz’s myopia prevented him from noticing Chawki’s flushed features; however, he could clearly make out the shimmering glow of the jewels that adorned his rings.

“I see, my dear Chawki, that you have not taken my advice. Believe me, it’s worth bearing in mind.”

“Ah!” said Chawki. “I’m sorry, but what advice is it you’re talking about? I don’t recall any advice.”