Albert Cossery - A Splendid Conspiracy

“Hi.”

Imtaz raised his myopic eyes, recognized Teymour and said simply:

“Sit down.”

“Sorry I’m late,” said Teymour as he took a seat.

“Don’t be sorry. It was a pleasure for me to wait for you.”

He could not discern the kind of jubilation Teymour’s face betrayed, but the mere tone of his friend’s voice allowed him to recognize the joyfulness and unassailable good humor that now filled the young man’s appeased soul. Teymour felt freed for all time of those senseless regrets he had clung to when he first returned to this city. Imtaz was charmed by this change that he had, it’s true, been expecting without real concern; he had never doubted Teymour’s intelligence. The similarity of their fates made him consider Teymour to be another self. Hadn’t they both gone down the same long road before returning to this desolate spot only to discover that, for them, no place on earth was desolate? The way the young man was beaming with radiant good spirits, Imtaz noticed with a shiver, was the undeniable proof that he had been totally cured and that from now on he had the ability to survive in this pitiable world.

“I am happy to see that you are adjusting so easily to life among us,” said Imtaz, looking at Teymour with gentle warmth in his eyes that were, however, made vaguely pathetic by his nearsightedness.

“It’s thanks to your friendship.”

“Of which you are worthy. I knew it would be difficult for you to overcome certain prejudices that were preventing you from seeing an essential truth. But I never had reason to despair of your intelligence. Only an imbecile could be sad to be here, or anywhere else, for long.”

Teymour bowed his head ever so slightly as if to thank Imtaz for the great intelligence he imputed to him.

“I’d like to ask you a question,” said Teymour. “Do you ever miss your work as an actor?”

“Not at all,” answered Imtaz. “On the contrary; every day I congratulate myself for having abandoned everything. A job, any job, is enslavement.”

“And fame?”

“To tell the truth, I had absolutely no ambition. You have to have a very vile spirit to hope for fame in such a moronic world. Display your talent or become famous for whose benefit? Can you tell me?”

“That’s what I thought all those years I neglected my studies. I didn’t understand why or for whom I was supposed to become a chemical engineer. It seemed so idiotic.”

“We each followed a different path to wind up here in the end. Maybe that’s a good thing. But look at Medhat. He was more far-sighted than either of us. I don’t think he believed for one moment that he could find anywhere else a life more fascinating than the one he leads in this city. And that is why I respect him.”

“I admit he surprised me. Do you know, he never asked me what I did during my long absence? I was gone for six years and when we met again for the first time he greeted me as if he had seen me the previous day. Can you explain his attitude to me?”

“He thought you had really finished your studies and that you had become a slave with a degree, infatuated with some ludicrous learning. In other words, someone not to be associated with. But at the same time, he could not forget your old friendship and did not want to upset you with insensitive allusions.”

“You must be right. But now that he knows I have a fake diploma, he should trust me.”

“I suppose he’s afraid of making you nostalgic about that period of your life.”

“I’m not. I don’t have a single regret any more. I don’t think of the past, but of the future awaiting me here with all of you.”

“You don’t have to convince me. I know it. I’d even go so far as to say that this certainty is essential for my own joy.”

The man with the shaved head, all the while keeping his eyes on his paper, was leaning closer and closer to their table with the obvious intention of hearing a few snatches of their conversation. The little he had picked up seemed to have depressed him; these young men were engaged in philosophical considerations that went well beyond the scope of his role as secret agent. He could not with any decency draw up a report based on such nonsense. He leaned in a little more, hoping to grasp at least a few words revealing some germ of a conspiracy against the government, but he heard nothing; the alleged conspirators had stopped talking and seemed to be communicating through signs agreed on in advance. Frustrated and infuriated by this cowardly connivance, the man pushed his chest forward, listening for the least little whisper. He almost fell off his chair, caught himself, and began eagerly to read his paper again.

It was Teymour who saw the carriage drive up, the same one he had seen a month earlier that Wataniya used as publicity for her brothel. The same rachitic horse and the same sleepy driver on his seat led the antiquated vehicle jam-packed with chattering young girls exposing themselves in sequined dresses, cheap jewelry, and flashes of naked flesh. This time, the very young girl next to the driver was not offering herself up to the pleasures of an impromptu belly dance; she was sitting quietly on the lap of a person whom Teymour recognized at once as his friend Medhat. Medhat was in fact signaling his presence from afar, waving his hands erratically about as if he were inviting the people to thrill to his good fortune. When the carriage slowed down near the café, he extricated himself from the girl, patted her on the behind, then leapt to the ground with the lissomness and arrogance of a post-coital cat. The carriage continued on its way, causing as it passed a few boos from the impecunious customers; the moment was decidedly not favorable to lewd outbursts.

Medhat sat down at his friends’ table in great good spirits. He seemed a bit cocky about his performance and, not bothering with the usual greetings, he began to explore the terrace’s resources with a practiced eye, seeking out some event worthy of his sarcastic remarks. He was not disappointed. Rather than an event, fate had bestowed upon him an ideal victim in the person of the policeman sitting behind them in his favorite pose — the diligent reader, recognizable by his ancient, decaying newspaper.

“Don’t turn around,” Medhat said through closed lips in a feigned dramatic tone. “There’s a guy from the police watching us. We’re going to have a good laugh.”

The presence of a policeman in the vicinity had absolutely no effect on Imtaz’s serenity; he was used to remaining calm and even to believing that everything brewing outside of his extremely limited field of vision was improbable. Nonetheless, in order to play along with the conspiracy Medhat was hatching for the benefit of the policeman, he asked:

“What does he look like?”

“I’ll describe him to you some other time,” answered Medhat in a skillful whisper befitting a worthier cause. “Listen, I’ve clinched the deal with Wataniya. She’s agreed for tomorrow night. The girl will come to your house around 9:00. What time did you tell Chawki to come?

“At 10:00.”

“Good. We’ll have time to get the girl ready and teach him a lesson.”

“She didn’t ask to be paid in advance?” inquired Teymour, attempting to imitate Medhat’s whisper.

“Yes, but I managed to work it out with her. We’ll pay her tomorrow night, that is, with Chawki’s money.” Then, turning to Imtaz, he added: “How do you plan to proceed with that son of a bitch?”

“It’s already arranged. I’ve led him to believe that the girl is too proud to take money from him directly. He is to give it to me and I’ll take care of making her accept it as a gift from him.”

“That should leave us with a nice little profit. Still, we are going to have some additional expenses. We need to buy some clothes and accessories.”