Albert Cossery - The Colors of Infamy

Karamallah now knew the girl well enough to imagine that her fate would not be an ordinary one. Each time she came to visit, she would bring him humble gifts, objects of indeterminate value for which he had absolutely no use. Because she was from a very poor family, he suspected her of having stolen them in various shops in the city. He was more and more worried by these innocent, impractical offerings because of the risks the girl was taking. He had nothing against theft, an activity that enjoyed international approval in proportion to the amount stolen. But to get caught and to risk going to prison for such paltry spoils was a fool’s game. He himself would surely have chosen to become a thief had he not been blessed at an early age with the insight that he could fight hypocrisy by means more intellectually satisfying than the classic homemade bomb. In any case, he had to put a stop to this profusion of plunder: his parents’ mausoleum was turning into a pawn shop. It was a delicate matter. How could he speak to the girl without revealing his fears about the provenance of all the small gifts she was showering upon him? He drew near and placed his hand forcefully on her shoulder as though to wake her from an irrational dream. Nahed stopped writing and turned to smile at him. Her smile held some of the original affliction shared by all the destitute. It seemed to Karamallah that at times her face took on a kind of fleeting loveliness, the result of some alchemy as complex as the mystery of the Creation. Was it laziness or negligence that had made him incapable of divining this girl’s hidden beauty? True, during their first meeting he had barely looked at the poor student for fear she’d detect the uneasiness he always felt in the presence of ugly women. Now he wondered with comic trepidation if he should attribute this unbelievable change in her to the mausoleum’s air or, more specifically, to his heretical words. It was outrageous and unacceptable to his intellect to imagine that Nahed had blossomed on contact with his writings. But she had told him an apparently truthful story that deserved serious consideration: one day when she was sick and disgusted with everything and had decided to let herself die, a girlfriend had brought her one of his books. In order to please the friend who had suggested she read it, she took it and began to leaf through it unenthusiastically. Yet later, once she had finished, she felt an extraordinary well-being suffuse her entire body. She was no longer sick and had no desire to die. She got out of bed motivated by a burning desire to live and, putting on her prettiest dress, went out in the street to proclaim her deliverance and her joy. She thought she had learned something of exceptional gravity, but didn’t know quite what — yet she was sure of one thing: her vision of the world had changed for good. Then, after a moment, she added: it was like the day after a revolution, when the tyrant has died and people smile at you without knowing you because they are happy. Karamallah knew, however, that the death of a tyrant does not mean the end of tyranny; nevertheless, so as not to dishearten the girl, he decided not to disparage her naïve idea of revolution.

“I’m going to leave now,” said Nahed. “I’ve imposed long enough on you and your valuable time.”

“Don’t worry about that. I’m not one of those people who believe they are taking part in some obligatory ritual by devoting themselves to work that is by and large pointless. The only valuable time, my dear Nahed, is the time that we use for reflection. This is one of those inconvenient truths that slave dealers despise.”

“It’s just amazing that the truth isn’t obvious to everyone!”

“You’re quite mistaken. Everyone knows the truth, but something that everyone knows has no market value. Can you imagine the bastards who control information selling truths? In the best of cases, they would be made a laughingstock. For one simple reason. The truth has no future, whereas lies carry great hope.”

Nahed began to laugh. She often laughed in his company, as if to show him that she had absorbed his teachings and that henceforth she would look at life as an instigator rather than a docile tool. Again Karamallah was surprised by a fleeting spark that lit up the girl’s face. He looked at her, his eyes suddenly filled with gratitude toward the invisible author of this moving transfiguration.

“Every time I come here you lift a weight from my shoulders. I always feel lighter when I leave this cemetery — it’s become a magic place — everything seems so easy here.”

Karamallah took a few steps toward the door, looked at the alley deserted under the sun, then returned to the girl. In a jocular tone, he said:

“Do you know that a while ago a skinny donkey that was being led to the slaughterhouse by its owner cast a reproachful glance at me?”

“You’re making fun of me, Master! How do you know it was reproachful?”

“Because all I need is to see an old woman struggling to walk, a man struck with a horrible infirmity, or simply a child crying, to feel guilty about what is happening to them. I think it’s because I personally have no use for unhappiness, so the unhappiness of other people seems to denounce continually my own lack of seriousness. But let’s leave the donkey to its fate. Let’s talk about you a little. For some time now I’ve been meaning to tell you that you shouldn’t feel obliged to bring all these gifts each time you come to see me. I don’t know what to do with these treasures. They are turning my mausoleum into a museum.”

“But you are rich, Master. All the gold on earth couldn’t make you richer. What you call my ‘gifts’ are only small tokens of friendship, to keep you from forgetting me. I know you’re going to laugh at me again, but with all due respect, I confess I’m afraid of vanishing from your memory as soon as I’ve finished my work.”

“Why would I forget you? You will always be welcome in my home, here or elsewhere. So, tell me, where did you get this idiotic idea?”

Nahed was slow to answer; her features tensed, and her face became unsightly again, as though to underscore her painful confession. “Well,” she said, avoiding Karamallah’s gaze. “I know you only like women who are very young and very pretty. And I am old and ugly. That’s why I thought you wouldn’t want to see me again.”

She stopped speaking and then looked Karamallah in the eye, awaiting his verdict.

Without the slightest warning, Karamallah was first stupefied and then beset by remorse, like a slowly spreading ache — remorse for his thoughtless cruelty. Had he wounded the girl by being aloof and perhaps even betraying his displeasure without realizing it? She had risked prison in order to leave him mementos of her, and Karamallah could not erase this fact through mockery of any kind.

“Forgive me if I’ve never complimented you on your looks,” he said, with the air of an actor not quite sure of his lines. “Such fawning methods for charming a woman have always repulsed me. But since you bring up the subject, I must tell you that you are more than beautiful — there is something enigmatic and at times unsettling about your seemingly ordinary face, something that none of the pretty girls whom you suspect me of loving will ever possess. Are you satisfied now? And do you believe me?”

“I believe everything you tell me, Master. Even when you seem to be joking. .”

Karamallah silently congratulated himself. He had just avoided one of those ruses that only women can invent, the mechanisms of which no philosophy — ancient or modern — has ever managed to lay bare. Having extricated himself so brilliantly, he was encouraged to settle a question of decorum that had long been up in the air. Nahed particularly annoyed him by behaving like a submissive, respectful disciple, and Karamallah scorned the praise of a society that only respects scoundrels. He experienced any and all admiration for him as an insult in disguise. In essence, he didn’t think anyone deserved the slightest veneration. In this cemetery invaded and degraded by the misery of the living, only the dead — discreet and silent — had the right to his respect.