Albert Cossery - A Splendid Conspiracy

What if this meeting were a prelude to a real conspiracy? There was nothing implausible about this rather absurd hypothesis. Teymour had learned from his father about the rumors surrounding Medhat because of his contacts with the sugar refinery workers. People claimed that it was at Medhat’s secret directives that the majority of the strikes were being fomented. Marrying the daughter of a worker had given these rumors serious foundation; it was intimated that there were political motives behind Medhat’s having married beneath his station. All this small-town gossip seemed terribly overblown to Teymour. He thought he knew Medhat well enough to ignore all this nonsense. But what was happening at the moment confused and distressed him. Could it be that Medhat, by sheer chance, had discovered a new form of amusement in eminently dangerous intrigues? It wasn’t impossible. Once he started down the path of some entertaining adventure, Medhat could not be stopped, even if that path led to troubles of the worst kind. The problem, however, was that Teymour did not envision himself having returned to his home town to stir up strikes. He hadn’t foreseen the possibility of such a calamity.

These thoughts led him to observe his friend’s behavior with suspicion. Medhat still seemed in the grip of some inner agitation, but the nature of his feverishness had changed; now it was like the impatience of a lover worried about his mistress’s delay. With furtive gestures he smoothed his eyebrows, straightened his tie, ran his hands through his hair like a common womanizer getting ready to pounce on his prey. Once he’d finished this perfunctory primping, he sat bolt upright in his chair and struck a flattering pose, legs crossed, head thrown back, a vague, love-struck look in his eyes. While Teymour was wondering about the meaning of this little game, he saw a group of young schoolgirls file in front of the terrace, one uglier than the next, decked out in yellow canvas smocks with their schoolbags slung across their shoulders like beggars’ pouches. They made up a pathetic cross-section of the female race, and Teymour wondered in horror if it were to dazzle these ugly young girls that Medhat had pulled out his full bag of seducer’s tricks. He was in the process of being highly offended by this patent lack of taste when suddenly Medhat seemed ready to leap from his chair; he gripped Teymour’s arm and whispered in an overexcited voice:

“Look! Here they come!”

“They” were two splendid fifteen or sixteen year-old girls, braids rolled on top of their heads like tiaras, their dignified style and bearing in sharp contrast to the abject esthetic of their peers. Their schoolbooks wedged under their arms, holding each other’s hands with fingers interlaced, they walked with slow, studied steps and the obvious desire not to be confused with the rest of the herd. The harmonious lines of their lithe, slender bodies could be seen clearly beneath the rough cloth of their stylishly cut smocks. Laughing and talking to each other in hushed voices, the girls passed in front of the terrace without deigning even to glance their way, despite Medhat’s clever gesticulations to attract their attention.

“Did you see that?” cried Medhat when the girls had gone by. “Oh, if only that son of a bitch had been here!”

“Who on earth are you talking about?” Teymour inquired.

“Why, Imtaz, of course! He was supposed to meet me here.”

“The actor Imtaz?”

“In the flesh.”

“What’s he doing here? I thought he was winning fame and fortune in the capital.”

“Not at all. He came back to live among us almost three years ago.”

“I find that very surprising. Do you know why he came back?”

“It seems there was a scandal of some sort, something that occurred on stage during a performance. I don’t know exactly what it was all about.”

Teymour remained thoughtful. This actor, Imtaz, although a few years older, had been part of their crowd for a little while before leaving for the capital, where he was destined for a stunning career. He was a wonderful fellow, with the beauty of a thoroughbred and a natural talent for acting. As a teenager Teymour had admired him wildly and had been very happy to learn about his success from the newspapers. He had long thought of him as the only person who had managed to escape the pernicious atmosphere of this city. Never would he have expected to see him return home, and now Medhat was telling him he had come back amid some murky scandal. So, even Imtaz’s enterprise had failed; this homecoming, shameful and without fame, connected him to Teymour’s own demise.

“I don’t know why Imtaz’s absence upsets you so much.”

“But that’s obvious,” said Medhat. “Have you forgotten that he’s a very famous actor? The magazines these young ladies buy were filled with his picture for years. He doesn’t need to try to seduce them; all he needs to do his show his face. It saves us a terrific amount of time. Girls drop like flies when they see him. Listen; let me give you an example of his irresistible power over feminine hearts. Recently a movie in which he played a hunter lost in the desert was shown here. After several exploits, the hunter is bitten by a snake. Well, believe me, when that happened, loads of girls fainted in the theater. We had to call an ambulance.”

“And you think you’re going to sleep with those girls? Sheltered the way they must be, I can’t believe you’d be able to corrupt them.”

“Oh, don’t you worry about that,” Medhat said confidently. “They’ll do whatever we want. I’ve only been on their trail for a short time. Today I was supposed to show them to Imtaz. The bastard promised to be here at noon. He must still be sleeping.”

“But who are those girls?” Teymour wanted to know.

“Sisters. They belong to one of the best families in the city.”

“So it’s going to be even harder than I thought! Upper-class girls! They’re practically untouchable!”

“You’re behind the times. We’re in the heart of modernism here. The daughters of upper-class families are the first to demand their emancipation. It was bound to happen. In every evolving society, social progress always begins with the liberation of women’s asses. And since that’s the only progress that will benefit us in any way, I have nothing against it.”

Medhat was speaking in a serious voice, but it was to impress Teymour and to make him understand that his city was not inhabited by ignorant peasants. This arrogant young man had best accept, and the sooner the better, the reality of his situation and abandon his belief that love’s base acts are solely the privilege of those living abroad. He scrutinized Teymour’s face, trying to discern his reactions. But Teymour’s face expressed neither surprise nor doubt; these stories of seduced girls, even if totally untrue, could only enchant him. And he had just been granted a comforting certainty: Medhat had remained as frivolous as in the past. What madness could have made him think, even for a moment, that Medhat was indulging in political conspiracies? He let out a quick laugh, as if at himself.

A timid sun had begun peeking through the clouds and now it flooded the square with a shimmering light beneath which the face of the peasant woman on her pedestal seemed older, distraught. Men crossed the terrace, going in and out of the café, giving the impression of carrying out superhuman tasks. Street sellers yoked to their carts appeared here and there on the square, singing — with the songs of prophets announcing the delights of paradise — the praises of their slim offerings. Their meager bustling was starting to spread.

“Do you have a place to take these girls?” Teymour asked.

“We have several,” answered Medhat. “That’s not the problem; the problem lies in being discreet. We are being watched. You have no idea what’s going on in this city.”