Albert Cossery - A Splendid Conspiracy

“What do you say to that? It was so simple, and yet nobody thought of it. Believe me, all those vanished notables went to Wataniya’s. Most of them are rich hicks who come to the city to sell their crops or their cattle and who have a lot of cash on them, not to mention jewelry — gold rings and watch chains. Their first thought, once they’ve taken care of business, is to go have a good time in a brothel. And then it’s child’s play for Wataniya and her colossus of a husband to kill them and bury them in the empty lots that surround the house. I’m sure my reasoning is flawless.”

“Fine,” said Teymour, “but what are we going to do?”

“If you ask me, we’re not going to do anything.”

“You mean we’re going to keep this to ourselves?”

“Naturally. It’s none of our business. If bastards are killing other bastards, what does that have to do with us? You don’t realize how lucky we are! We are going to sit back and quietly watch the slaughter of notables. Could there possibly be a more delightful spectacle?”

“In that case, I’m afraid it is our business. You’ll see that it will not take long for Hillali to accuse us of Samaraï’s disappearance. Samaraï was a friend of ours and he went around with us the whole time he was here. We will be questioned and possibly imprisoned.”

“If he makes that mistake, he’ll look ridiculous. We didn’t kill anyone. And first he’ll need to find the corpse. Without a corpse he cannot begin the slightest proceedings against us. He is so obsessed with his political conspiracies that he’ll never think of Wataniya’s brothel. I wouldn’t have thought of it myself if Rezk hadn’t mentioned that he’d seen Samaraï go into the brothel with his entire inheritance in his pocket. That detail opened my eyes.”

“Poor Samaraï. It’s as if he were an innocent victim chosen by fate.”

“I don’t agree. Samaraï had a slave mentality. And slaves are not innocent. They collaborate in running this vast universal dupery. Deep down he only got what he deserved.”

“He wasn’t a bad guy.”

“An ambitious guy is not a good guy for long. By getting his degree, Samaraï wanted to succeed in finding a place in this society we abhor. In a few years he would have become worse than everyone else. A self-important man about town.”

“Perhaps,” said Teymour, recalling Medhat’s suspicion toward him, Teymour, when he had seen him come home with his diploma. “And that’s what you thought of me when I returned from abroad.”

“Not exactly. I trusted you. The friend I had known before could never stoop so low.”

From the alleyway could be heard the harsh voice of a gossipmonger scolding her children with the hot-tempered extremism of poverty. Medhat listened to her enumerating the fatal illnesses that she wished on them and was dumbfounded by her knowledge in this field. There were some he had never even heard of, for they were new. “She must listen to the radio,” he thought. Then he turned back to Teymour and said:

“I never discussed it with you, but I want you to know that I was greatly relieved when I learned the truth about your exemplary conduct during those years of absence. You don’t know how impatiently I waited for you to return. I cherished the hope that you would come back as pure and intransigent as you were before you left. I did not want to lose you.”

“You doubted my strength of character. And yet you knew me better than anyone. How could I have fallen short of your expectations?”

“Stronger men than you have been appropriated by power. I was right to fear for you.”

“I didn’t go over there to learn anything. I already knew everything I wanted to know. But it was essential for me to realize that deceit is rife everywhere.”

Medhat got out of his chair and took a few steps around the room. His agitation had subsided and he was reflecting calmly on their decision to keep their startling discovery to themselves. He had calculated all the risks, and even the possibility of their going to prison seemed a rather tempting experience.

“Even if we had to go to prison, I wouldn’t mind. On the contrary, it would be a change from our routine. You can meet fantastic sorts in prison.”

“I think we should tell Imtaz. I believe he’d share our view.”

“We’ll go to his house shortly. Then, tonight I intend to go to Wataniya’s. I want to kiss her hand and thank her for everything she has done and will do in this city.”

“Why would you want to kiss that horrible woman’s hand?”

“Wouldn’t you kiss the hand that rids you of the plague?”

“But this plague is endless. It would take more than those miserable assassinations. At this rate, it will take millions of years to get rid of it.”

“Patience, my dear Teymour. I agree that it’s a small-scale enterprise. But the bastards don’t get along among themselves and they’ll soon be killing each other from one end of the planet to another using vast and violent means. Still, we should not look down on those who are taking the initiative to begin the slaughter with their own meager means. The tiniest bomb that explodes somewhere should delight us, for behind the noise it makes when it explodes, even if barely audible, lies the laughter of a distant friend.”

The afternoon was coming to an end and the gloomy winter dusk was stealing over the city as they set off for the former actor’s house. Crossing the iron bridge, they were suddenly overcome with uncontrollable laughter and they began to run, turning in circles and chasing one another, filled with wonder at their freedom and as if intoxicated by the immensity of their fearsome secret. Soon, in the corner of the square, they came across a band of schoolboys kicking a ball around, and they heaped curses on them for participating in this stupid game that had been promoted as the ultimate social activity by government propaganda and that was responsible for a large portion of the mental deficiency of the people. Now the statue of the peasant woman in her stylized dress towered before them and, as night fell, her raised arm no longer seemed to be asking the nation to awaken from slavery; rather, it seemed to call down her anathema upon the infamous powers that extended far, very far throughout the world.

The original title of this work is Un complot de saltimbanques . “Saltimbanque” is a lovely word, and Cossery, who carefully chose all his words, used it in this book in a variety of ways. The literal translation would be something along the lines of “street artist” or “street entertainer”; you can see images of saltimbanques in Picasso’s “rose period” painting from 1905 entitled Family of Saltimbanques . The description of this painting that appears on the National Art Gallery’s website reads in part:

“From late 1904 to the beginning of 1906, Picasso’s work centered on a single theme: the saltimbanque , or itinerant circus performer. The theme of the circus and the circus performer had a long tradition in art and in literature, and had become especially prominent in French art of the late nineteenth century. Circus performers were regarded as social outsiders, poor but independent. As such, they provided a telling symbol for the alienation of avant-garde artists such as Picasso. Indeed, it has been suggested that the Family of Saltimbanques serves as an autobiographical statement, a covert group portrait of Picasso and his circle.”

Except in the title, then, which was chosen by the publisher, I have retained the word in French wherever Cossery uses it. It existed in English at one point as “saltimbank,” but whereas the Romance languages have kept it, it seems sadly to have fallen out of favor in English, like a trapeze artist tumbling from her trapeze, without a net.