Proud Beggars (19 page)

The scent of a violet perfume penetrated his nostrils and informed him of a woman's presence at his side. He interrupted the movement of his arm, his nerves suddenly relaxed, his being infused with delicious joy. The mere smell of this perfume sufficed to dispel his anger. Without turning his head, he glanced obliquely at the woman standing near him, grave and immobile, as if fascinated by the extent of the riches contained in the window. She was a native girl dressed with uncommon care and elegance. The folds of her
melaya
and the impeccable cut molded her svelte form, emphasizing the firm roundness of her rump. Although the lower part of her face was hidden beneath a black silk veil, the luster of her almond eyes lined with kohl augured a distinguished beauty. Her entire being emitted an air of sensual mystery that made El Kordi tremble in the very depths of his flesh. She seemed extremely interested in a diamond necklace that almost filled the whole window by itself.

This superb creature so charmed El Kordi that he did not react for a moment. Then the fear of seeing her go away moved him to whisper, “O beauty, I am sure that this necklace would look marvelous on you.”

The young woman looked him up and down as if he were an unclean serpent.

“Yes,” she said. “But where is the man rich enough to give it to me?”

El Kordi could not think of any answer to this mischievous invitation. The young woman was a whore, but a high-class whore. He certainly wouldn't offer her a diamond necklace, or even an ear of grilled corn. Who did she think she was? Her exaggerated idea of her market value amused rather than frightened El Kordi. For his part, he feared nothing: he had nothing to lose in the adventure. This foolish woman did not realize whom she was dealing with. He would have her for nothing! Prostitutes were the kind of women El Kordi seduced with the greatest of ease; he knew their mentality and how to talk to them.

He was now persuaded that fate had led him here just to meet this aristocratic whore. He quickly tried to find a pleasant way to resume the conversation and especially to make her laugh.

But the young woman did not give him time; she suddenly turned away from the window and left with the haste of an offended person. No doubt she had interpreted El Kordi's silence as a rebuff. Did she really think he was going to buy her a diamond necklace? What a madwoman! Instinctively, El Kordi followed her. Then he noticed she was not alone; a little girl with braided hair topped with a rose ribbon and wearing wooden shoes accompanied her. At first El Kordi was vexed, then he concluded that it was a fortunate circumstance. The little girl offered a good way to easily strike up an acquaintance. He rapidly caught up with them and began to walk in step, waiting for the proper moment to intervene.

He could now appreciate at his leisure the elegant figure of the young woman, who strolled with a swing in her hips, tapping the sidewalk with her high-heeled shoes. She moved like a sleepwalker, eyes straight ahead, indifferent to the desires she excited along the way. Aroused as never before during the course of his amorous adventures, El Kordi experienced some very intense minutes. The vast conflicts that agitated his generous soul had disappeared like a charm. The misery of the disinherited masses, the revolution on the march, the overthrow of evil powers—all that could wait. His only concern was to capture this tempting prey whose lascivious hip-swinging burned his flesh. He was already trembling at the idea of possessing her.

Without bothering about jealous passersby who observed his growing passion with a critical eye, El Kordi prepared for action. He had drawn a handful of roasted seeds from his pocket, and, approaching the young girl, he innocently held out his hand. The little girl looked in El Kordi's hand but didn't dare touch the seeds.

“Aunt!”

“What is it?” the young woman asked wearily.

She pretended not to notice El Kordi's presence.

“Can I take some?”

“What?”

“Seeds.”

“Take some, if you like.”

The little girl turned toward El Kordi.

“Gimme,” she said.

El Kordi poured some seeds into the girl's hand. She immediately began expertly to munch on them. El Kordi stroked her hair and struck a paternal pose. They now formed a perfect familial group—a young married couple walking with their child. Actually, this easy success had so intoxicated El Kordi that he was not far from marrying the young woman on the spot if she demanded it. Nothing else mattered; he was ready to make any compromise to sleep with her. He had never been so close to such a beautiful, highly bred whore. It was the chance of a lifetime. It seemed to him that if he did not have her, he would not survive his defeat.

Despite the young woman's disdain, El Kordi was full of hope. He continued to court the young girl.

“What's your name?”

“My name is Nagafa.”

“What a pretty name!” gushed El Kordi. “Do you like seeds?”

“Yes, I often eat them.”

“Well, next time I'll bring you a big bag.”

Just then the young woman stopped, faced El Kordi, and said calmly, “I think it's time to talk seriously.”

Caught unawares by this sudden attack, El Kordi stammered, “Why, certainly. That's exactly what I was waiting for.”

She was now going to broach the principal question: the price of her charms. El Kordi understood that he would have to be cagey; he did not even have enough to buy a radish.

“What are your intentions?” continued the young woman.

“The best in the world,” El Kordi assured her. “I'm at your service. Your wish is my command.”

“Where do you plan to take me?”

“To my place, of course! I have a very comfortable apartment. I am sure it will please you. I hope you like modern furniture.”

Wanting to avoid serious matters, he was becoming worldly.

“In what neighborhood is your apartment?” She didn't seem to believe him.

“In Menchief. It's very near here.”

“You call that near! That's very far. I'm sorry, but I won't be able to come.”

“On my honor, I assure you it's not far. And besides, don't worry. You'll spend the night there. I have a big apartment; the little one can sleep in the living room.”

“Spend the night!” She looked at him as if to size him up. “Are you rich enough to pay for a whole night?”

“By Allah! What do you mean? I've never been so offended. Do I look like a vagabond? I am a high government official. What do you take me for?”

The young woman seemed skeptical; she reflected.

“I would like to believe you. Let's take a cab then.”

El Kordi mentally calculated the money he had in his pocket; it would not be enough for a cab. He pretended to hail one, without conviction, in a timid, cracked voice, but no coachman answered his call. They all took him for a joker.

“We'll find one on our way,” he said. “Let's walk. Don't you think the weather is lovely?”

“Walk yourself, servant of a failed government!” And off she went, haughtier than ever, with the little girl clinging to her silk
melaya
.

Incredulously, El Kordi watched her leave; he still couldn't believe in the collapse of his beautiful dream. He heard laughter bursting out all around him. It was some passersby who had followed the whole scene and were now enjoying seeing him come away empty-handed. El Kordi turned his back on these envious clowns; he despised their sarcasm. Once again he had become very dignified.

Although Set Amina's brothel had reopened a week before, many of her regular customers had not dared to put in an appearance. The few clients seated in the waiting room behaved like people at a funeral. They had the impression that a trap had been set for them. And they were not altogether wrong.

In giving Set Amina authorization to reopen her business, Nour El Dine had been guided by the hope—on the strength of the axiom that a criminal always returns to the scene of the crime—that he would discover the individual he was after. With this aim, he had assigned one of his best agents to investigate at the house, passing himself off for a rich, provincial businessman. Since the reopening, this man appeared each evening, drunk and behaving like a real peasant reveling in the pleasures of the capital. All the same, at the last moment he would refrain from accompanying any of the girls into their bedroom, and this weird behavior made the others suspicious. What's more, the questions he asked were not well calculated to hide his identity. By now everyone knew he was a plainclothes policeman. Set Amina herself had spotted him right off, but she played blind. What else could she do? Just now, seated on the couch in her usual pose, she was watching the policeman toy with little Akila, caressing her thighs under her dress without making up his mind to consummate. Outraged by this behavior that was causing her most popular girl to waste time, she was now complaining to an old admirer sitting beside her on the couch, who was speaking to her adoringly about the time when she was still a desirable prostitute.

“You see! They want to ruin me!” she said. “Is that man never going to leave?”

“Calm down, woman! Policeman or not, he's still a customer.”

“Him, a customer! May sickness rid me of such customers.”

“Be quiet. He could hear you.”

“Let him hear me! After all, I am the mistress in my house.”

She finally finished her complaining, leaned her cheek against her hand in the classic pose of those overwhelmed with sadness, and gave no further thought to the policeman.

Young Arnaba's ghost was not haunting Gohar. Comfortably settled in one of the rattan chairs, he was busy lining up numbers on the checkered page of a schoolbook with a yellow cover. He had joyfully resumed his work as accountant and man of letters in the service of a shameless hussy. The house accounting was rudimentary and demanded no intellectual concentration. From time to time, Gohar lifted his head and let this mélange of lust and sterile words seep into his mind. Instead of alarming him, the continual presence of the plainclothes policeman gave him an absurd sense of security. The man amused him: he was making a fool of himself with his insidious questions. Did he not realize that everyone had guessed his true identity long ago? Gohar enjoyed being witness to a police inquiry whose innumerable circumlocutions were an attempt to discover and entrap him. He was not sadistic, just completely indifferent to the result of the investigation. All the efforts being deployed for his capture seemed disproportionate to the insignificance of the crime.

Gohar was less worried about his own arrest than about the dangers to which Yeghen was going to expose himself by helping him. The absolute sincerity of Yeghen's devotion and his generous offer of aid had touched him. Yeghen was capable of concocting the shadiest of schemes to procure money for Gohar's trip. Was he about to compromise himself by taking some illegal, and perhaps useless, action? Gohar would have liked to prevent that, and now he was filled with remorse. Should he not have dissuaded Yeghen, shown him the futility of any effort to save him? He had been weak in the face of Yeghen's manifest kindness. And, besides, had not Yeghen offered him his life? Could you really refuse the help of a man who had put his life at your service? That would have been tactless, an insult to friendship.

What if escape were truly possible, if he really could leave for Syria? He imagined vast fields of hashish and saw himself cultivating the magnificent plant with the same hands that had strangled a young prostitute. Diabolical dream!—it lasted but an instant.

“Gohar Effendi!”

It was the plainclothes policeman summoning him. While continuing to fondle young Akila, he had turned toward Gohar as if to solicit an opinion of the utmost importance.

“I'm listening,” said Gohar.

The few customers scattered throughout the waiting room pricked up their ears. Everything that the plainclothes policeman said concerned them directly.

“Arnaba's murder,” said the policeman, “reminds me of an old story that also took place in a whorehouse. I don't know if you remember it. There was something strange about it that just came to me.”

The imbecile was going to talk to him about the crime again. Gohar coughed, took hold of his cane, then said with his usual courtesy, “Forgive me, but I don't recall the incident.”

“It took place before the war. There was a lot of talk about it in the papers at the time. It concerned a prostitute stabbed to death with a knife. At the autopsy, the medical examiner stated that she was a virgin. The funny thing was that she had been plying her trade for almost twenty years. What do you say to that?”

“Unbelievable!”

“Isn't it? I can't stop thinking about it. A virgin whore! You can't trust anybody, can you?”

“Even a whore's ass holds surprises,” said Gohar. “It can astonish everyone.”

“Your philosophy enchants me. I see you are a man of the world.”

The policeman laughed coarsely, embraced his companion, and kissed her on the mouth like a wild beast. Akila, who was a sly little thing, excited him so much that he was panting visibly. Soon he could no longer resist and agreed to follow her into her room.

“See you later, Gohar Effendi!”

“At your service!”

“The wretch finally made up his mind!” Set Amina exulted. “At least he won't enjoy himself at my place without paying.”

Gohar resumed his calculations, but he was touched by grace. Once again, tragedy was revealing its ridiculous side. Wasn't there a peculiar drama in a murdered whore's corpse turning out to be that of a virgin? Gohar had solved the enigma. Take this laughable world seriously? That had been his folly—long years of folly.

“I knew I would find you here, Master! I have something very serious to tell you.”

An extraordinary-looking El Kordi had appeared in the waiting room: his tarboosh was pulled down over his ears and the lower part of his face was covered with a handkerchief that he held firmly as if to stanch the blood from a wound.