Albert Cossery - A Splendid Conspiracy

“Lunch is ready,” she said.

Nuri seemed hardly to have outgrown childhood. Dressed becomingly in a cotton shift with a pattern of bright yellow flowers, her hair concealed beneath a black net kerchief, she was wearing with remarkable dignity an array of fake gold and colored-glass jewelry which gave her the appearance of a young sultana who had magically materialized inside a poor man’s home to bring it affluence and prosperity. All these trinkets were scarcely worth a few piasters and were gifts from Medhat, who loved to see her thus adorned with mock riches. She remained motionless, in an attitude of total submission, with her eyes lowered as if gratitude forbade her from looking her husband in the face. This behavior annoyed Medhat who had not yet managed to free her from the sense of her sin and her feeling of indebtedness to him. No matter how often he repeated that she owed him nothing, that he had married her because he was madly in love with her, she remained obstinate in her noxious gratitude. Medhat jumped to the foot of the bed, took the child in his arms and lifted him in the air several times. The child stopped moaning and smiled contentedly.

“I’m going to make him into a monkey trainer,” he said to the young woman. “What do you think of that?”

“Whatever you like,” answered Nuri. “You are the master.”

Medhat placed the child on the floor; then, as if he had just realized he was late for an important rendezvous, he raced toward the door.

“I’ve got to go,” he cried to the young woman. “Don’t wait lunch for me.”

He was practically running as he left the house. He had lost all this time waiting for Teymour, and now because of that renegade he would probably be too late for his meeting. He was hurrying, full of rancor against his childhood friend, when he saw him zigzagging along the alleyway, looking dazed, as if trying to find his way through a maze. The sight made Medhat’s heart skip a beat and for a second he stopped, wonderfully dumbfounded. All his love for Teymour came bursting forth at once. Teymour had not yet recognized him; he was coming toward Medhat, groping about like a blind man. Medhat took a deep breath and feigned total nonchalance. He went up to Teymour as if he had seen him the previous day, and, taking his arm and pulling him along, said:

“Ah, here you are at last! We will just make it!”

This cavalier greeting flabbergasted Teymour. He let himself be carried along by Medhat, appalled by his monstrous indifference. Medhat had not seen him in six years, and yet he was greeting him as if he had never left the country, not asking about his health, not even seeming surprised to see him again. Such behavior was insulting at the very least, but Teymour felt no anger whatsoever, so outrageous did this conduct seem.

“Where are you dragging me?”

“You’ll see,” answered Medhat. “We have to hurry. We’ll be late.”

Medhat had a mischievous smile and the feverishness of someone about to miss an extraordinary event. He wasn’t looking at Teymour. He was pulling him by the arm while guiding him across potholes and puddles. Teymour was too stunned to react to this pressure, this haste toward an unknown goal. He followed Medhat without the slightest resistance, his spirit obeying a kind of imperious fatalism. Medhat’s strange behavior made Teymour suspicious but, at the same time, it was somehow reassuring. Medhat had not changed in the least. He had always had a penchant for mystery and conspiracy — but still, what was keeping him from showing a minimum of civility toward a friend whom he was seeing again after such a long absence? This was the only thing that remained incomprehensible to Teymour, and he was angry at Medhat for having transformed a happy reunion into this ridiculous race through horrid back streets full of refuse and waste of all sorts.

The lecherous nanny goat was standing guard at the corner of an alley; she cast a languorous glance at Teymour, started to come toward him, then stopped, hesitant.

Without turning to his companion, Medhat asked:

“Have you met that goat?”

“I haven’t had the pleasure, but she followed me for a while on her own initiative. I had a hard time chasing her away.”

“Congratulations.”

“For what?”

“She’s our neighborhood whore. And you’ve already won her heart. She must have been very impressed by your lovely attire. Careful she doesn’t graze on your raincoat. She adores imported fabric.”

This first allusion to his stay abroad devastated Teymour; besides the facile irony, he perceived in it a note of contemptuous antagonism. Medhat seemed extremely amused by his helplessness and distress. He was pulling him along faster and faster as if they were threatened by some danger. The nanny goat dawdled at a distance.

They crossed the bridge at top speed and once again Teymour saw the square with its horrid houses and the peasant woman standing on her pedestal, arm stretched their way as if exposing them to public condemnation. Nothing had budged. Yet Teymour was no longer gripped by the anguish he had felt in the early morning when he had sat alone at the café terrace; it was as if Medhat’s presence had brought a tiny hint of optimism to his vision, a glimmer of faint joy. The square had lost its frightening appearance; in his eyes it had become simply mediocre, just like when he was young and he and Medhat had wandered through the city streets driven by their appetite for bawdy adventures without any concern for the setting of their exploits. It seemed to Teymour that he could breathe more easily, and that the immense weight bearing down on his chest had lifted for good, leaving behind a kind of touching curiosity about this city slumbering beneath its ugliness. And, oddly, he suddenly had a premonition of everything that was hidden beneath these despicable surfaces; for the first time he looked around him at the square, the houses, and the ridiculous statue with the delighted fascination of a man contemplating treasures once lost, now found again.

This abrupt change in his state of mind gave him the courage to stop and pull his arm from Medhat’s grip. Medhat turned and stared at him in amazement.

“What’s the matter? Come on, let’s go. We’re very late.”

“Late for what?”

“You’ll see. I don’t have time to explain. It’s a very important matter.”

“Can you at least tell me where we’re going?”

“To The Awakening. That’s all. What did you think?”

Teymour nodded and, resigned, followed Medhat to the café terrace. Almost all the tables were now occupied by lively customers in the middle of pointless, never-ending discussions, their laughter and colorful profanities audible all around. Teymour was very surprised by this; then he recalled that it was after noon and as a result the city’s residents could, without demeaning themselves, respond to the statue’s call. So, there was an hour of the day when the nation awoke. Teymour took comfort in this thought, and with the pitiful smile of someone recovering from a coma, but not yet fully conscious, on seeing his loved ones for the first time, he turned confidently toward his companion.

Once he had carefully inspected the terrace, Medhat exclaimed with a hint of scorn:

“The wretch! He’s not here yet! Come on, let’s sit down.”

They sat at an empty table at the terrace edge and ordered coffee without sugar as if they were at a wake. Medhat remained silent, but he was visibly irritated and continually shot furious glances toward a corner of the square where the mysterious character for whom he was waiting was no doubt expected to appear. He seemed to be paying no attention whatsoever to Teymour who, although burning to ask questions, refrained from doing so, knowing it was futile to try such a tactic with his friend. He had to bide his time and allow Medhat to reveal his secret when he tired of playing the conspirator. With the detachment of a disillusioned reveler (a most striking attitude, which he had perfected abroad), Teymour too began to watch that corner of the square. The importance Medhat attached to his meeting seemed huge, given the way he had raced here and his disappointment on not seeing the person he was looking for. What kind of man was he waiting for then, and for what reasons? Without knowing why, Teymour began to grow anxious about the unknown person’s tardiness.