It was almost noon. On El Azhar, a wide street teeming with a carefree motley crowd, Gohar recovered his full faculties. This was his familiar world, among this lazy crowd that spread itself indifferently on the sidewalks and in the street, despite the busy traffic of cars, cabs, donkey carriages, and even streetcars that sped by like meteors. The gentle winter sun poured its bountiful warmth over this tangled throng. Kites hovered high above, plunged into the crowd, then flew off carrying bits of stolen meat in their beaks; no one paid attention to their clever maneuvers. Groups of women stood in front of fabric stores, haggling for hours over the purchase of some printed handkerchief. Children amused themselves by enraging drivers, standing deliberately in their path. The drivers cursed them, swore at them and their absent mothers, then ended by running over a few. From all the cafés that lined the street, radios poured forth the same whining voice of a famous singer. The musical accompaniment was sad; as for the words, they explained at length his sorrows and regrets on the subject of a thwarted love. Gohar recalled his dead neighbor, the mourners' strident cries, and stepped up his pace. But there was no way to escape this gloomy voice, it was everywhere, rising above the tumult in the street.
Gohar stopped instinctively, as though intuiting a peaceful zone, the promise of a delectable joy amid the surrounding din. In front of an empty store, he saw a well-dressed older man sitting with dignity on a chair, with a detached and royal air, watching the crowd pass. The man had a strikingly majestic appearance. “Here's a man after my own heart,” he thought. This empty store and this man who sold nothing were a priceless discovery. The store, Gohar guessed, was simply decorative; it served as a place to receive his friends and to offer them coffee. This was the height of opulence and generosity. Gohar greeted him like an old friend, and the man answered with a pleasant smile, barely perceptible, as if he understood that he was being admired.
“Honor me,” said the man. “Please be so kind as to accept a cup of coffee.”
“Thank you,” said Gohar. “Another time. Please excuse me.”
They looked at each other with visible pleasure, almost tenderness, then Gohar resumed his walk through the crowd. He was perfectly happy. It was always the same thing: this amazement he felt before the absurd easiness of life. All was simple and ludicrous. He only had to look around to be convinced. The swarming poverty that surrounded him was not at all tragic; it seemed to conceal a mysterious opulence, treasures of a strange, unknown richness. A prodigious indifference seemed to preside over the destiny of this crowd; here, every humiliation assumed a pure and innocent character. Gohar swelled with brotherly affection; at each step the futility of all this misery appeared to him and delighted him.
A yellow streetcar crossed the road with an infernal noise, clanging its bell to clear a path through the crowd which blocked the tracks. Gohar passed a restaurant that sold boiled beans; the smell of food made him vaguely uneasy. He stopped, leaned on his cane, and waited. No, it wasn't hunger. Hunger had no effect on him; he could last several days with nothing but a piece of bread. This queasiness meant something else. He took several steps, realized the nature of his discomfort, and was alarmed. The drug! He had forgotten his drug. The death of his ignorant neighbor had outrageously disturbed his habits. Gohar normally woke at dusk; now it was still too early to buy drugs. His only supplier was Yeghen, and Gohar wouldn't be able to meet him until evening. It was impossible to find Yeghen now; he had no fixed address, he didn't live anywhere.
How could he last until evening without drugs? The prospect unnerved him a little; he knew he would suffer, and he calmly prepared for this suffering. He drew a little rumpled bag from his pocket, took a mint lozenge from it, and diligently began to suck it. It didn't have the bitter taste of a hashish ball, but it was enough to calm him.
A little farther on he smiled, seeing the faithful beggar squatting in his usual place. The same rite always unfolded: each time he passed by, Gohar had no money, so he would apologize, and they would enjoy a fascinating conversation. Gohar had known him a long time and cherished his company. He was a special kind of beggar, for he made no lamentations and suffered no infirmity. Quite the contrary, he shone with good health and his djellaba was almost clean. He had the piercing look that marked the professional beggar able to judge his client with a single glance. Gohar admired him for never having dreamed of saving face. In the general pandemonium, no one seemed to attach importance to his condition as a healthy and flourishing beggar. Amid so many real absurdities, the act of begging seemed like any other workâand the only reasonable work, at that. He always occupied the same place, with the dignity of a bureaucrat behind his desk. People would throw him a penny in passing. Sometimes he challenged the donor: he had just come across a counterfeit coin. An interminable palaver followed, in which insults had the weight of eternity. He threatened to call the police. It always ended in his favor.
Gohar stopped to greet him.
“Peace be with you,” said the beggar. “I saw you coming from afar; I waited for you.”
“I'm sorry,” said Gohar. “I have no money; next time I will.”
“Who told you I wanted money?”
“Why wouldn't you? I might think you're spurning me.”
“Such a thought is far from me,” the beggar protested. “The sight of you enchants me; I love to chat with you. Your presence is worth more than all the treasures on earth.”
“You flatter me,” Gohar said. “Business going well?”
“God is great!” answered the beggar. “But business isn't important. There are so many joys in life. Have you heard the story of the elections?”
“No, I never read the paper.”
“This one wasn't in the papers. Someone told it to me.”
“All right, I'm listening.”
“Well! This took place some time ago in a little village in Lower Egypt during elections for mayor. When the government clerks opened the ballot boxes, they discovered that the majority of the ballots had the name of Barghout on them. The clerks didn't know this name; it wasn't on any party list. Bewildered, they made inquiries and were amazed to learn that Barghout was the name of a donkey renowned in the whole village for his wisdom. Nearly all the people had voted for him. What do you think of the story?”
Gohar breathed happily; he was delighted. “They are ignorant and illiterate,” he thought, “but they've just done the most intelligent thing the world has seen since there've been elections.” The behavior of these peasants lost in the depths of their village was the true consolation, without which life would become impossible. Gohar was overwhelmed with admiration. His joy was so piercing in nature that he remained dumbfounded, looking at the beggar. A kite landed on the street nearby, scratched around with its beak for something rotten, found nothing, and flew away.
“Wonderful!” Gohar exclaimed. “And how does the story end?”
“Naturally, he wasn't elected. What do you expect? An ass with four feet? The high officials wanted an ass with two feet!”
“You deserve something special for such a marvelous story. You've made me happy. What can I do for you?”
“Your friendship is enough,” the beggar said. “I knew that you would appreciate it.”
“You overwhelm me,” Gohar said. “We'll meet again soon, I hope.”
Gohar turned left, entered a sordid, relatively quiet alley, and headed for the Mirror Café. He knew he wouldn't find anyone at this hour, but he liked to give miracles a chance to happen.
The Mirror Café was located at the junction of two alleys; it occupied most of the dirt street, forbidden to heavy vehicles, where only the handcarts of strolling merchants ventured. Immense awnings stretched over the winding terrace like at a covered market. An impressive number of mirrors in sculpted and gilded frames hung everywhere, even on the façades of neighboring hovels. The Mirror Café was famous for its green tea and the eclecticism of its clientele, composed of carters, intellectuals, and foreign tourists thirsting for local color. Just now there wasn't a crowd. Gohar crossed the terrace, gliding between the tables in search of an acquaintance. A few important-looking people were smoking water pipes with a minimum of effort; others played backgammon while drinking a glass of tea. Some rare specimens of the tribe of cigarette-butt scavengers, awake before the others, went about their work with debonair indifference; they weren't afraid of competition.
“Greetings, Master!”
Gohar turned around. El Kordi was half out of his chair, offering his hand.
“What!” Gohar said. “You didn't go to the ministry today?”
“I went, but I left right away; I just couldn't work. Master, I'm extremely unhappy.”
“What's wrong, my son?”
“I've just been there,” El Kordi said mysteriously. “She's sicker than ever. I let her sleep.” Then, seeing that Gohar was still standing, “But sit down, Master.”
Gohar sat down; El Kordi called the waiter.
“What would you like?”
“A tea,” answered Gohar.
“Me too,” said El Kordi.
The waiter went off shouting his order in the musical voice of an invert. With a mischievous gleam in his eyes, Gohar looked at El Kordi. El Kordi seemed completely miserable; that is, he was doing everything possible to appear so. He was a good-looking young man, carefully dressed in a spotless tarboosh, with slightly slanted eyes and a bitter, sensual mouth. His job as a clerk in some ministry embittered his romantic soul. It could easily be seen that he was enamored of justice.
“I can't leave her like that,” he said. “I must do something. Help me, or I'll kill myself.”
Gohar didn't answer right away. He continued sucking his mint lozenge, savoring this counterfeit that made him forget his craving for drugs.
“Why kill yourself?”
“You don't understand. I must take her from the brothel. I can't let her prostitute herself this way, sick as she is. And that beastly madam, Set Amina. Can you believe she wouldn't even let her rest? When I think of all the money she brings her. It's shameful! I'm telling you, I'll kill myself.”
Gohar was not impressed by this confession. El Kordi's troubles always had this morbid, merciless character. Now he seemed to be carrying all the world's troubles, but it was only a state that he assumed from time to time so as to believe in his own dignity. For El Kordi deemed that dignity was the prerogative only of suffering and despair. It was his reading of Western literature that had deranged his mind so.
El Kordi's present torments stemmed from the poignant face of a young prostitute dying of consumption in a nearby brothel. It was a poor brothel whose clientele was made up of petty bureaucrats and shabby revelers from the native quarter. At first, the young man had slept with her two or three times without attaching any importance to the act; it was only when he learned she was sick that El Kordi, always alert to social injustice, fell madly in love with her. He decided to free her from the brothel and to save her from an ignominious death, but he didn't have enough money for such a rescue. So he never stopped imagining sublime solutions to his desperate love. Now he had chosen suicide, but it seemed that his decision wasn't final, because he asked, “What should I do?”
Gohar was silent; he seemed to be enjoying himself in a strange way. On his impassive face, only the eyes reflected his inner joy. After a moment, he said, “Listen, I'm going to tell you a marvelous story.”
“What is it?” asked El Kordi.
Gohar told him the story of Barghout, the donkey elected to the post of mayor by the great wisdom of some peasants in Lower Egypt.
El Kordi had begun to smile but caught himself in time. This was surely not the time for gaiety. Instead, he had to take the opportunity to show Gohar that there were serious matters in life. He suddenly became vehement.
“It's dreadful!” he said. “What barbarians!”
“You think they're barbarians?”
“Yes, and the government exploits their ignorance.”
“But they just taught your government a superb lesson.”
“First, Master, it's not my government,” El Kordi said hotly. “And then, I envisage other methods for fighting oppression. You will admit that there are serious matters in life.”
“Where do you see anything serious, my son?”
Instinctively El Kordi looked around in search of an example of austerity or grandeur, but his gaze found only a little cigarette-butt scavenger, dirty and covered in rags, roaming near their table listening to their conversation. He was performing his work with the solemnity of a meticulous rite and carrying his search for cigarette butts into the most out-of-the-way corners. Irritated by this behavior, El Kordi rose and placed his chair so as better to allow him to inspect the ground. But the child didn't go away; he seemed tied to them with a cord. El Kordi sat back down, and, looking at the child, said with stinging irony, “Well, my friend, are you going to have coffee with us?”
“No, thank you,” the child answered. “I just had coffee at the Bosphorous Café.”
The Bosphorous was a swanky café where El Kordi had never set foot.
“Son of a bitch!” he bellowed. “Get out of here or I'll strangle you.”
The child left, making a disdainful face.
When he was some distance away, El Kordi broke out laughing. “Did you hear that, Master? What spirit! That child is fantastic.”
Gohar smiled and looked at the young man with gentle irony. What pleased him was his utter frivolousness. El Kordi was a revolutionary. He had ideas about the future of the masses and the liberty of the people, but he was frivolous, for he couldn't get beyond this absurd world. Believing that he and his people were persecuted, he would fight against oppressionâbut in vain, for as soon as he was left to his own instincts he became superficial, delighting in the most trivial actions.