Albert Cossery - The Colors of Infamy

“All right, then, I’ll be going now. I hope we’ll meet again.”

“Of course we will. I’m always happy to see you.”

Ossama had regained his optimism. He was pleased with his apocryphal tale about where his suits had come from, a tale he could use again in other circumstances, plausible even to an obtuse policeman. Allowing the girl to carry on with her leave-taking preparations, he let his eye roam across the still-dense crowd, on the lookout for a breach in that human wall which would permit him to catch a glimpse of the club’s open gate. He had an intuition that — as a kind of reward for this exhausting tête-à-tête with Safira — the day had a magnificent gift in store for him.

She rose slowly, as if she did not wish to wake Ossama from his daydream, and then moved nimbly, passing from the shade of the alley into the sun of the street, her cheap jewelry shimmering one last time before she vanished into the crowd.

Left alone, Ossama let out the sigh of a dying man coming back to life. After each encounter with Safira he had the feeling he’d been drained of his blood and, even worse, that he’d become mindful of prosaic human suffering. He got a hold of himself and attempted to forget this gloomy interlude. Freed from the shackles of chivalry, he stretched his neck and riveted his gaze on the opposite sidewalk. And after a moment, his wish was granted. There, as if in belated response to his vigil, appeared a man: he stood motionless on the threshold of the venerable entrance, blinded by the dazzling light of the street. He was a precious specimen of the brotherhood of notables, a man of about fifty, tall and satisfyingly stout, dressed in a navy blue suit that hugged his plump body, the kind of uniform

favored by his fellow creatures, all graduates of the same school of high crime. He was nervously fingering a string of amber prayer beads as if he were trying to relieve a toothache or the twinges of a stomach ulcer. His physique was repugnant enough to disgust a nanny goat in heat, yet everything about him oozed opulence — theft on a grand scale. But his face, bloated from the fat of sumptuous foodstuffs, somehow lacked the usual haughtiness and self-assurance of parvenus of his ilk; all the standard arrogance now seemed sorely diminished by a tenacious anxiety linked to some private calamity that Ossama attributed to a loss of money or a mistress’s betrayal. Standing on the threshold of the club, the man was fidgeting about in every direction, his gaze searching the tangle of cars beyond the crowd, obviously hoping to attract his driver’s attention to his remarkable self.

With the majesty of an aristocrat accustomed to bringing the riffraff under control, Ossama rose and crossed the street with an authoritarian stride, counting on his distinguished dress to arrest the bellicose drivers in their ardent race toward oblivion. He reached the opposite sidewalk at the precise moment when the man’s car stopped directly in front of the club door. The man, who’d been awaiting this arrival with the exasperation of a master abandoned by his servant in the midst of a riot, pushed forcefully through the slow parade of peaceful passersby, who showered him with the most offensive curses and insults. During this short but difficult journey, he bumped against Ossama who, with the dexterity of a magician, relieved him of his wallet. The man must have felt nothing in the crush, for he dived into his car with the fiery spirit of someone trying to escape a lynching.

It was curiosity rather than fear of an unlikely arrest that sent Ossama in search of a taxi. He was eager to examine the fruit of his larceny and to learn his victim’s name, a name that he felt must enjoy — he didn’t know why — some dreadful notoriety. The man must have committed some grandiose misdeed: that explained his state of doleful despondency leaving the club, which Ossama had witnessed. All the while thinking with jubilation about what he was going to find, Ossama endeavored to get a taxi driver’s attention in the maelstrom of traffic. Hailing a taxi amid all those vehicles in perpetual motion was something of a wartime raid, especially since all those damn drivers now had the habit of only picking up passengers from the Arabian Peninsula, recognizable by their traditional dress and the surplus of women in their harems. These desert potentates were reputed to hand out money like peanuts, making them the designated targets of the entire business class. Ossama cursed these invaders — they reeked of oil and they monopolized all the services in the hotels, casinos, and cabarets by ostentatiously displaying their wealth: even hapless belly dancers saw in them their salvation. The crush of cars speeding by nonstop despite the craters and mounds of dirt left by the endless roadwork — you’d think they were competing on an obstacle course — exhorted Ossama to be cautious. Only when traffic had slowed slightly because a bus had collapsed under the weight of its passengers did he decide to place himself deliberately in the path of a taxi that had been forced by the mishap to temporarily renounce its creed of speed. The taxi driver, shocked by this impolite and suicidal way of calling upon him, hurled abuse in an infuriated voice, as if Ossama had insulted both his most distant ancestors and his descendents yet to be born.

“Curses upon your mother! I almost ran you down. If you want to die, go drown yourself in the river!”

“God provides for everything,” Ossama replied calmly. “Besides, I fear nothing. I’m wearing an amulet.”

The taxi driver had time to note Ossama’s stylishness and his face softened at the thought of an excessively expensive fare. For lack of a Saudi prince, this young man would do — yes, he could do justice to his brand-new car. He loathed the lower classes that clamored aboard en masse and dirtied his seats, eating watermelon as if his car were a picnic ground.

“And where would you and your amulet like to go?”

“It’s a big city. Take me wherever you’d like.”

“Your wish is my command, your lordship, and may Allah protect us.”

Ossama climbed aboard, closed the door, and settled comfortably on the seat cushions that smelled of new leather. As if to give his noble client a demonstration of his virtuosity, the driver grasped the wheel and shot the car forward at rocket speed. This barbaric conduct did not worry Ossama in the least; it fell within the norms of mass hysteria. Completely at peace with himself, he pulled from his pocket the wallet he had just appropriated and opened it with the daintiness of a lover unsealing a missive from his mistress. Crocodile skin, the wallet had no doubt had cost a fortune; it exuded a strong whiff of corruption. A letter was inside; Ossama took it out and read the name of the addressee on the envelope — previously slit cautiously with a letter opener, it didn’t have the slightest nick — sent in care of the Club of Notables. The man’s name had been in the news for a week due to a dreadful scandal. This fabulously wealthy real estate developer was being sued for causing the death of some fifty tenants of a low-rent apartment building constructed by his firm; it had collapsed shortly after being unveiled with great pomp by a government delegation. Dumbfounded, Ossama plucked the letter out of its envelope and began to read. The note, written by hand on the letterhead of the Ministry of Public Works, seemed to come from an accomplice who was terrified of the legal consequences of the carnage. He warned the addressee, in a scathing tone (stamped with unintentional humor), not to count on his present or future collaboration now that fifty corpses lay between them — it was not his intention, he said, to increase the prosperity of undertakers. As for the commission he was owed for his most recent intercession with the ministry in question, he would spare the addressee. Under no circumstances could he continue to have the slightest contact with a man obviously better suited to tombs than apartment buildings, even moderately priced ones. In short, it was a break-up letter to a discredited associate from a thief stripped of all good manners by the idea of prison. It was signed by the Minister of Public Works’ brother — a worthless man very popular with the capital’s shadiest wheeler-dealers.