Albert Cossery - A Splendid Conspiracy

Felfel raised her face to him; it retained its doubtful expression. She seemed to regard this as an outrageous whim.

“What will you do? Are you going to work?”

“Oh, no! I won’t do anything. We’ll just love each other and have a good time. That’s all I plan on doing.”

“A man as educated as you cannot remain idle,” said the young girl with childish gravity.

“You’re mistaken,” said Teymour jovially. “First of all, I’m not as educated as you think. My diploma, if you must know, is nothing more than a piece of paper.”

He was pleased at the idea that he did not have a real diploma and that he ran no risk of ever working in the sugar refinery, or anywhere else for that matter. And he wondered to what he owed the keen insight that had allowed him to grasp the true meaning of life. Having landed among millions of slaves, by what good fortune had he come to be conscious of the possibility of escaping the common condition? It would have taken almost nothing for him to have fallen into the fatal trap laid out to men since the beginning of time by the bloodthirsty caste that got its power from imposture and deception. Only a miracle had saved him from this hell.

He shook his head as if to cast out a nightmare, then looked at the young girl staring at him uncomprehendingly, her eyes wide with surprise.

“You cannot understand,” he continued. “But it doesn’t matter; I’ll explain it to you later. For now, try to find me a place to live.”

“I’ll start tomorrow,” answered Felfel. “What kind of place are you looking for?”

“I trust your judgment. Let’s just say something worthy of a saltimbanque.”

“But you’re not a saltimbanque.”

“Yes I am; you just can’t tell. You’ll understand when you know me better. We are of the same race; that’s why I love you.”

“Do you know how to ride a bicycle?” asked Felfel, proud of her dexterity in this domain.

“I am the kind of performer who does not perform for crowds. There are a few of us in this city.”

“Here?”

“Yes. But don’t tell anyone. We don’t want to be recognized. People think we are dangerous conspirators, and we let them believe it because it amuses us.”

Felfel did not attempt to shed light on the meaning of these puzzling words. It was as if she expected Teymour to express himself in a language that was mysterious and incomprehensible to her; this was in perfect keeping with the image she had formed of the young man. All she had retained of his words was the spontaneous confession of his love for her. That was enough to fill her with happiness.

Teymour took the young girl’s face in his hands, contemplated it for a moment, then kissed her, this time on the mouth.

Felfel did not pull away. At this stage in the rite of love, her inexperience was obvious, but she was trying not to let it show by hanging on to Teymour’s neck as if it were a life-preserver. When he released her, she laughed a little embarrassedly, then turned her head away and gazed again at the river.

A large rowboat was passing close to the bank, overflowing with several generations of a family. They were piled up in the craft — women, old men, children — like people fleeing a catastrophe, wolfing down all sorts of foodstuffs with the voracity of castaways. The boatman was rowing steadily and vigorously, like a precise and well-oiled machine, and seemed to be ferrying his pitiful cargo toward some infernal goal. Suddenly they all stopped eating and stared open-mouthed and frozen, scandalized by the intertwined couple seated on the grass.

“People are so vile,” said Felfel, looking away from the craft. “I want to go far away so I never have to see them again.”

At the sight of this unsavory and fraudulent representation of humanity, Teymour began to laugh.

“Do you think they are any less vile anywhere else? They’re the same everywhere.”

“That’s not possible. Don’t tell me they are that vile everywhere. I couldn’t stand it.”

“But it’s the truth.”

“So there is no hope,” moaned Felfel.

“Why should that make you sad? Personally, I find them laughable.”

“They don’t make me laugh,” the young girl declared. “They actually scare me.”

She shivered with disgust, then seemed to remember something. Hesitantly, she picked up her bag from the grass and opened it. She took out a small square tin decorated with colored drawings, with a thin slit on one side: a piggybank. Then, lowering her eyes, she held it out to Teymour and said humbly:

“For you.”

Teymour took the piggybank and shook it, listening. The chink of small silver coins could be heard inside. Felfel was suddenly ashamed; she did not dare raise her eyes to the young man.

“My word! You’re rich!” quipped Teymour.

“Don’t make fun of me. That’s my life savings. I know it’s nothing for you, but I’m giving it to you anyway.”

Teymour raised her chin and made her look him in the eye. He was terribly moved by the girl’s unexpected gift. What was it that made all of them want to give him things? First Imtaz had given him his dead father’s watch, and now this poor girl was offering him this piggybank with all her savings inside. He felt his eyes filling with tears.

“Why are you giving this to me?”

“In case we go away together. I don’t want to be a burden to you.”

“But I don’t need it. And in any case, we’re not going anywhere.”

“I would really be happy if you’d keep it.”

“No, put it back in your bag,” said Teymour, returning the piggybank to her. “Who knows. Maybe I’ll ask you for it one day.”

Felfel clapped her hands exuberantly; by saying that he might one day accept her money, Teymour had definitively become her accomplice. She threw her arms around the young man’s neck and kissed him several times on the forehead and cheeks. Then she jumped up and said:

“I’ve got to go home. Can I drop you on the square?”

“I’d rather walk,” answered Teymour.

They strolled up the path holding hands. Felfel seemed delighted by her afternoon. She went to get her bicycle, straddled it, then turned to smile at Teymour one last time as she pedaled away. Teymour watched her ride off until she disappeared at the bend of a lane. His heart was filled with emotion and he walked along the cliff road with the free and lively movements of a saltimbanque.

Imtaz walked around the terrace following an itinerary familiar from long ago, without attempting to make out the vague figures seated at the various café tables. This was how he always proceeded when he was to meet someone, for his short-sightedness did not allow him to recognize in a single glance the person he was looking for. He risked making a blunder. Whereas, in this way, he gave the person who was waiting for him the chance to catch sight of him and call out. Not having been hailed by anyone, he realized he was the first to arrive and went to sit at a table on the outer edge of the terrace, his haughty and magnificent profile offered as bait to the passing women. A few moments later, a stout man with a shaved head and a mouth topped by a flowing moustache, eyes hidden behind dark glasses, came to sit discreetly at the table next to his. He took a tattered newspaper several months old out of his jacket pocket and as if his life depended on it pretended to be interested in the news. From time to time, without moving his head, he cast a sideways glance at the actor, then went back to skimming his moth-eaten paper. It must have been very painful for him to read the same news items over and over for his glum face expressed to those around him an enormous, unforgiving sorrow. Imtaz had no idea of his neighbor’s little ruses. In the solitude of his murky vision, he was reviewing in his mind the details of a dirty trick he was about to play on Chawki, the fabulously wealthy landlord. Having given in to Chawki’s repeated entreaties, he had finally promised to provide him the next evening with something to satisfy his most sexually stimulating fantasy: the young daughter of a good family, preferably a schoolgirl with ink-stained fingers, with whom to sleep. But this generous act was not entirely without an ulterior motive; it entailed a grandiose practical joke that had been Medhat’s idea. This idle, inquisitive young man had discovered, among the new recruits of Wataniya’s brothel, a young whore just barely fifteen who, scrubbed clean and dressed in a schoolgirl’s smock, would be able to make any certified sociologist believe she came from an honorable, even aristocratic, family. Despite his miserliness, Chawki was capable of spending a fortune when it came to paying the price of his sexual follies. No doubt he would shell out a huge sum to sleep with this girl with ink-stained fingers doing her homework beneath the light of a lamp. Imtaz could already picture the scene and was allowing himself to be mesmerized by the work he was about to create, like a playwright developing his characters under the influence of drugs. What particularly appealed to him about this prank was the fact that, in addition to the wicked pleasures it concealed, it would also bind Chawki even more tightly to their little group. By seducing a minor, Chawki would be forever compromised and could no longer refuse to participate in other base acts with them. This was a goldmine from which precious nuggets could be carefully extracted without the slightest use of blackmail. Of course, the blackmail would be tacit, a sort of unsigned contract.