Albert Cossery - A Splendid Conspiracy

“As you can see, she’s a serious girl who doesn’t waste her time,” added Medhat.

“She’s first in her class,” said Teymour, going Medhat one better.

“I don’t know how to thank you,” said Chawki, curbing the arrogant inflection of his voice. “It’s all too splendid!”

“Nothing’s too good for a friend like you,” said Imtaz, bowing. “And now, go on; she’s waiting for you.”

Just then the girl turned her head in their direction and smiled impishly and tenderly, which had a tremendous effect on Chawki. As he entered the bedroom he felt as if a mysterious magician were ushering him in to an eternity of debauchery.

it was only ten o’clock in the morning and, apart from a handful of open shops and a few street peddlers hawking their wares in voices that were still shaky, the city remained sunk in drowsiness. In its futile attempt to dry the streets that were damp from the previous day’s rain, a hazy sun was making the water that had collected in the potholes glisten. Medhat walked falteringly, his mind still dull with sleep; he was fundamentally allergic to this entire early morning atmosphere. As he headed for Salma’s, he wondered what emergency required him to call on her at such an ungodly hour. The little servant girl who had come to pull him out of bed had urged him to go see her mistress straight away; Salma had even ordered her to “take him by the hand” should he put up any resistance. Medhat smiled at this expression of pure formality, knowing that the little servant, a girl of about twelve, had a distinct fondness for him, as if he were some fashionable new sweetmeat. She had wanted to carry out her mission to the letter and had tried to grab his hand, but he’d called her, jestingly, a vile seductress and urged her to be off without waiting for him. The girl looked at him disdainfully, then went on her way, slightly saddened by her defeat. Medhat knew it was all an act, and that at the next opportunity she would be even more flirtatious. At heart, she amused him quite a bit and he thought that in a year or two she would be ripe for a more serious game. He had a gift for spotting girls who had not yet reached puberty but who showed all the signs of precocious sensuality; he maintained adult relationships with them, keeping them in a state of emotional receptivity during the entire process of their transformation by serving them up an assortment of adoring glances, flattering remarks, and phony fits of jealousy until they reached a suitable age. Since female youth was a very perishable good, it seemed of real importance to lay the groundwork for the future.

Salma’s request was particularly worrisome because in all probability it had to do with some new dispute between her and that cursèd Samaraï; his crude and unrestrained passion was making him unbearable. Had he attempted to strangle her? Anything was possible from such an unenlightened person; he was practically a savage. Medhat had lost all interest in the veterinary student as soon as he realized how wrong he had been about him. His unfailing ability to size up people had been proved seriously flawed by this monster of ingratitude, this bleating lover who, not content simply to betray Medhat’s trust, was also behaving like a boor in a friend’s home. When Medhat met Samaraï for the first time, he thought he would be doing a good deed by leading this hopelessly stupid lackey of the bourgeoisie away from a mediocre and insipid fate. But it had turned out that Samaraï was fiercely determined to continue his studies and get his degree, demonstrating thereby his total lunacy. He was the sort of boy who was beyond redemption, wholly in thrall to the idiocy of the times, and Medhat had, as casually as always, struck him from his list of acquaintances.

Unfortunately, Medhat had committed an even more serious blunder and harmed another person by introducing Samaraï to Salma. The hardship she suffered from the intrusion of this individual in her life — with his retrograde ideas of love as tragedy — was of personal concern to Medhat, given that he was solely responsible for it. He should have known better; a man infatuated with diplomas was someone to be avoided like the plague. Medhat could not forgive himself for this mistake, for it affected an understanding and generous woman who alone was worth all the students in all the universities in the world.

This led him to think about Teymour and how he had judged him when he first returned from abroad. Contrary to Medhat’s hasty judgment, however, Teymour had revealed himself to be wonderfully clever; he had done nothing but amuse himself over there and his diploma was not a degrading document, but a forgery obtained in exchange for money in order to reassure his family. His admiration for Teymour increased at this thought and he recalled that, having found a place to live in the old city, Teymour was planning on holding a party soon. Medhat suddenly forgot the quarrels between Salma and her tortuous lover and began to consider whom among his female acquaintances he would choose to liven up the festivities.

Salma was waiting for him in the kitchen, seated with a cup of coffee in front of her.

“It took you a long time to get here, son of a dog!” she shouted as soon as she saw him. “I cannot count on anyone in this city. Especially not on you, the cause of all my woes!”

Medhat sat facing her, imperturbably calm; he was now certain that at the root of this summons lay some misdeed on the part of the veterinary student. He stretched out his legs, leaned back in his chair, relaxed, and waited patiently to hear the young woman’s grievances. The little servant girl, washing dishes at the sink, was pretending to ignore him. Medhat, too, had turned his gaze from her and seemed entirely uninterested in her presence in the kitchen. It was the slowest and most arousing game, this game of pretending to ignore each other.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, as if he knew nothing.

The hypocrisy of this question enraged Salma, who withdrew into hostile silence. She wanted to punish the young man for his impertinence by plunging him in the throes of uncertainty. But Medhat always encouraged this very feminine fondness for ambiguous situations because it gave him time to daydream about frivolous things while simulating the signs of restless expectation. In fact he could only consider Salma’s inconsolable distress with detachment, as an infinitesimal part of the general chaos with which he refused to compromise. With her disheveled hair, her make-up watered by tears, and the distraught fixedness of her reddened eyes, she looked like a witch in a trance. After a minute she seemed to recall that there was no point in laying claim to martyrdom with Medhat; tragedy amused him the same way a puppet show did.

Emerging from her silence, she cried:

“Where is he, that pimp?”

“Samaraï? What did he do now?”

“He disappeared four days ago, that’s what he did. What does he think, that louse? My house is not a hotel!”

“So he’s gone!” Medhat cried. “What good news!”

“He’s not gone; his suitcase is still here. He’s probably hanging around the city somewhere. He must have found another fool like me to put him up. You! You must know where he is.”

“On my honor, I know nothing,” Medhat said. “I haven’t seen him since the evening he quarreled with Chawki.”

“Is that true? Swear it!”

“I swear. And I can also tell you that I’m happy to be rid of him. He’s the type of person who needs to live in the capital. An ambitious man can only move in a world of other ambitious men. The capital is swarming with civil servants awaiting promotion. Believe me. He’s gone back to his quagmire.”

“I’m telling you, he hasn’t gone; he would never have left his suitcase behind. He’s not like you; his things matter a great deal to him. He takes pride in ownership. I’ve seen him sick with grief because he lost one of his handkerchiefs. Apparently it was a gift from his mother.”