Albert Cossery - A Splendid Conspiracy

“So what is going on?”

“Believe it or not, people are disappearing!”

“What do you mean?”

“Listen to me. In the last few months, four people, most of them prominent citizens, have vanished from one day to the next without a trace. What do you think of that?”

“You’re joking.”

“On my honor, it’s the truth. You can read about it yourself in the papers. Even the newspapers in the capital are talking about it.”

“I’m stunned,” Teymour admitted. “But what are the police doing about it?”

Medhat looked around to be sure no one was spying on them.

“The police,” he whispered, “are completely out of their depth. They think these are political crimes.”

“And that’s why they’re watching you?”

“They’re watching everyone, but especially us.”

“What makes them think you’re involved in political activities?”

“Nothing. But how can I prove it? It’s a complete melodrama. I wanted to warn you. We are all suspects.”

“Even me? But I just got here!”

“You can bet they’ve already got their eye on you.”

Teymour looked at his companion in astonishment, not knowing if he should be worried or ecstatic about this extraordinary mix-up. The idea that the police were so off track as to think Medhat might be a political agitator capable of assassinating government dignitaries was so inane as to be farcical. No doubt about it, Teymour’s stay in this city promised to be full of delectable possibilities that he could never have foreseen. He burst out laughing and patted Medhat’s shoulder as if his friend had just told him a very good joke. For an instant Medhat stared at him harshly; then, caught up in Teymour’s contagious laughter, he too began to laugh.

Just then a shabbily dressed young man with a gaunt and woeful face appeared on the terrace, threading his way stealthily among the tables. Medhat abruptly broke off laughing and called to him:

“Hey, Rezk, come here! I want you to meet my friend Teymour.”

The young man came over to them, bowed and extended his hand to Teymour hesitantly, as if he feared intruding on a reunion where he would not be welcome.

“I am honored,” he said with an air of contrition, smiling ever so faintly.

“Have a cup of coffee with us,” said Medhat. “I’m happy to see you.”

“I’m terribly sorry,” said the young man, “but I cannot stay. I must go. Excuse me.”

He turned his head and made as if to go on his way, but Medhat grabbed his jacket sleeve and said, with misplaced intensity:

“Why don’t you like us, Rezk, my brother?”

“I!” exclaimed Rezk, bringing his hand to his heart. “My word, how wrong you are. Believe me, I love you all.”

“So, sit with us then. Just for cup of coffee. Please. Do me this favor.”

For a few seconds Rezk seemed extremely discomfited; he grew even paler and his feverish eyes scanned the terrace as if looking for help. Then, with a resigned smiled, he grabbed a chair and sat down without saying a word.

“There, that’s better,” said Medhat. He called the waiter and ordered a cup of coffee for the young man.

The new arrival’s personality was of less interest to Teymour than the passionate tone Medhat had used to scold him for refusing to sit down with them. This was yet another mystery that Teymour was incapable of illuminating, and in fact more obscure than any he had encountered since leaving his father’s house. This sickly young man in his threadbare suit was behaving like a frightened young girl; he didn’t remember ever having met him; most likely he’d been a boy when Teymour left the country. Just what was his role in the crucial conspiracy that Medhat had cleverly mounted in this city in order to safeguard his pleasures?

Teymour waited calmly to see how the conversation would evolve. But the conversation was slow in picking up again.

The waiter brought the coffee and Rezk began to drink it in tiny sips, conscious of the gaze of the two men fastened on him. His face, with its delicate features slightly tensed as if he were suffering from some buried pain, was occasionally lit by a pale smile that invited sympathy. He seemed sincerely aggrieved by Medhat’s suspicions regarding his good feelings for him.

“My friend Teymour,” declared Medhat, “was away from our city for a long time. He was pursuing endless studies abroad. He’s an immensely educated man.”

“Pursuing studies,” said Rezk in a dreamy tone, as if these grandiloquent words had struck a chord in him. “How marvelous! I am delighted you have returned among us.”

“The honor is all mine,” answered Teymour in a steady voice, without committing himself.

“You’ll see him often now,” Medhat said to the young man. “He won’t be leaving us again. You were complaining about the lack of cultured men in our city; well, now you’ve got what you wanted. You’ll be able to converse as much as you like with a superior mind.”

“I’d never dare to bother him,” said Rezk.

“You would not be bothering him,” Medhat asserted. “Right, Teymour?”

“Not in the least,” Teymour replied. “On the contrary, I’d be thrilled.”

“It would be a signal favor for me,” said Rezk. “In truth, I love to read. I suppose you must have brought back a pile of books by foreign writers?”

“Yes, a few,” said Teymour. “I’d be happy to lend you some if you’d find it useful.”

“Oh, I can’t thank you enough! I am your humble servant. Here foreign books are like manna from heaven!”

“You see,” said Medhat. “By insisting you keep us company, I only had your happiness in mind. Because I, Rezk, my brother, I love you.”

Rezk had finished his coffee and was attempting to put an end to the dealings with his companions by means of silences, nods, and distraught glances toward the square. He was waiting for the moment to withdraw in a way that wouldn’t seem rude.

Medhat noticed he was ill at ease and came to his rescue.

“You can go now if you want,” he said, smiling.

Rezk sprang out of his chair like a robot unfolding its legs.

“Thank you for the coffee. I am very honored to have met you,” he said looking at Teymour intensely, as if he wanted to store his image on his retina forever.

As soon as Rezk had left, Teymour asked:

“What on earth was that? Where’d he come from?”

“He’s a police informant,” replied Medhat with sublime indifference.

whenever he looked back on the episode, Imtaz couldn’t help reliving all the ghastliness of that moment when, clasping his co-star in a fiery embrace, he had realized his error. He had stood there, stunned and filled with absurd terror as he heard the audience shouting out sarcastic remarks, while his partner — the actress he was supposed to have taken in his arms — emitted the shrieks of a woman dishonored before collapsing, unconscious, in an armchair. Then the curtain came down, the catcalls and the laughter grew fainter, and Imtaz tried to understand how the catastrophe could have occurred. Over the course of some hundred performances, he had played this scene, in which he entered a living room where his fiancée and her brother were waiting for him, by using as reference points the spots where the other actors usually stood on the stage. Despite his extreme near-sightedness, he was able to distinguish the characters he had to deal with well enough not to make any critical mistakes. At first he thought his partners had exchanged places during the scene that preceded his entrance, and that his blunder had arisen from this switch. But such was not the case. Nothing of the kind had occurred; it was almost as if he had deliberately chosen to head in the wrong direction. This realization led him to seek a psychological explanation for his behavior. Was it some unconscious drive that had sent him rushing toward his fiancée’s brother? It seemed like the eruption of some long-repressed act — he despised the actress who played opposite him — she was a stupid, vulgar woman of about forty with sagging flesh who had, for a small fortune, been promoted to the ranks of celebrity by a wealthy merchant. Imtaz had a very hard time hiding his disgust whenever he acted with her. Each time he had to take her in his arms, she would latch on to him, hungrily seeking his mouth like a vampire thirsting for blood. It was therefore highly plausible that he had attempted to escape her adipose hugs and kisses by moving unconsciously toward her partner, a shy young man who represented absolutely no threat to him. This explanation restored Imtaz’s confidence in his eyesight as well as in his sense of direction.