Proud Beggars (22 page)

“But man has become a calamity for his fellow man,” answered Gohar. “Man has become worse than an earthquake. At any rate, he does more damage. Inspector, don't you agree that the horrors caused by man long ago exceeded those of nature's cataclysms?”

“I can't stop an earthquake,” said Nour El Dine with comic stubbornness.

“And the bomb!” said Yeghen. “Can you stop the bomb, Excellency?”

“That madness again!” said Nour El Dine in a resigned tone. “No, Yeghen Effendi, I cannot stop the bomb.”

“So they pay you to do nothing,” said Yeghen. “What do I care if you catch a poor murderer? Ah, but if you could stop the bomb!”

Samir had remained outside the conversation; all this time he had preserved his attitude of cold disdain. He seemed visibly disgusted by the whole gathering. His curiosity, however, was fully aroused. Though he despised them, they were, nevertheless, new beings for him; he had never met their like. He had the impression that these men were spouting idiocies, but that they were doing it purposely to provoke Nour El Dine. They seemed to be heartily enjoying themselves. Samir looked at El Kordi, and without understanding why, he realized that this man at least knew. He seemed to regard Nour El Dine with a hatred almost equal to his own. Had the inspector already made a pass at him? Samir turned his head away; the annoyance he was feeling turned to anger.

He stood up.

“What, are you going?” Nour El Dine asked him.

“Forgive me, sir, but I must go. My honorable father doesn't allow me to stay out late.”

“Give my regards to all the family,” said Nour El Dine.

“I won't forget,” said Samir in a courteous but acerbic tone.

Head high, he turned his back and crossed the terrace.

“I beg you to excuse my young friend,” said Nour El Dine. “He is extremely timid.”

“He is charming,” said Yeghen. “Really charming. But it is time for me to go too. I regret cutting short such a profitable conversation, Excellency. The truth is that I am falling asleep.”

“Delighted to make your acquaintance, Inspector,” said Gohar, standing up. “We'll meet again, I hope.”

“May I accompany you a little way?” said Nour El Dine.

“With pleasure,” answered Gohar. “I am your humble servant.”

Yeghen had already disappeared. El Kordi remained alone; he seemed not to have noticed that the others had gone.

Yeghen stifled a cry and stopped. A terrible doubt had just arisen in him, waking him from his torpor. He suddenly had a burning sensation throughout his body, but it was not the cold. The cold couldn't penetrate to the regions of his anguish. He waited a moment, then feverishly plunged his hand into his pocket and withdrew a small coin. With his numb fingers he touched it, squeezed it for a long time to feel its substance and hardness, but that seemed insufficient to him. A dire foreboding was still preventing him from breathing. As quickly as possible, he had to assure himself that the coin was not fake, but how to go about it in this darkness? He had to see it in full light.

There was a streetlamp at the end of the alley; Yeghen headed for the light, suffering from an inexpressible fear. The cruelty of fate now appeared to him in all its horror. If the money were fake, there went his night's sleep. His dream of a night of repose in a hotel room, far from the cold and the fatigue of useless walking, now depended on this single coin.

Yeghen was sleepy; he dreamed of a higher order of sleep, one with the unfathomable taste of nothingness. The light was still ten yards away; Yeghen could wait no longer and stopped to look at the coin. Trembling, he opened his hand; he brought it to eye level and, at the same time, uttered a horror-struck cry. The coin had fallen. His hand was trembling so much that he had not felt it slip. Yeghen almost threw himself on the ground, actively searching with his hands and eyes; he saw nothing, felt nothing. He felt dizzy and his brain began to rave. The streetlamp was too far away; the light it produced reached only to the edge of where he needed to search. Yeghen grew wild with impotent rage. He cursed himself for having taken the coin out of his pocket. Then he attacked the government. These two-piaster coins were really too tiny; couldn't the government make them bigger? “Government of pimps!” How dare it make such small coins! Just to save money. It was shameful and absurd.

In his madness, Yeghen imagined carrying the streetlamp to the place of disaster. He felt capable of anything to recover his coin. Suddenly he thought of matches and jumped. All of his suffering had immobilized him as if from shock. The box of matches was in his pants pocket; he took it out, lit a match, leaned down, and moved the flame around him. The first examination showed nothing, the coin was still lost. Yeghen lit another match, took several steps sideways, his nose almost to the ground. Soon his heart jumped with joy; the coin was there before him, clean and brilliant like a diamond. He grabbed it, hastily stuffed it in his pocket, then stood flabbergasted, exhausted by the effort. The match that he had forgotten to extinguish burned his fingers.

“Government of pimps!” he shouted.

The sound of heavy footsteps was heard, and someone stopped behind him. Yeghen held his breath, then turned around and found himself face-to-face with a policeman. It was a sinister apparition; Yeghen stood petrified. It was no longer a matter of fatigue or cold or famine: he was before the official representative of all these calamities. He smiled foolishly.

“So, you insult the government!” said the policeman.

“Me?” stammered Yeghen. “I don't insult anyone, Excellency!”

“I just heard you shout, ‘Government of pimps!' I'm not deaf. Come on, admit it.”

“Oh, that's nothing, Excellency,” said Yeghen. “That was just because of this match that burned my fingers.”

“We'll take care of the match later,” said the policeman. “For the moment, tell me: Are we a government of pimps, yes or no?”

“No, Excellency! On my honor, it wasn't our government I meant.”

“And what government was it?”

“I was thinking of a foreign government,” said Yeghen.

“A foreign government,” said the policeman dreamily. “You're a liar. You were thinking of our government, I'm sure of it.”

“On my honor, Excellency, there has been a misunderstanding. I swear that it was a foreign government. I can even tell you the name.”

The policeman was quiet. He seemed to be reflecting. It was painful, very painful for him to reflect, so he stopped just in time. He was beginning to feel uncomfortable.

“Tell me the name of this country. Come on, quick.”

Yeghen didn't try to find a country; the world was immense and the countries swarmed about the surface, but Yeghen did not deign to choose. The name came out all by itself.

“Syria,” he said.

“Syria,” the policeman repeated. “That's far away. You're sure about that?”

“Completely certain. I swear to you on my honor.”

“Very well,” said the policeman. “But I'm not letting you go yet. What were you doing here lighting matches? I was watching you for a while, you know.”

“I'll explain it to you,” said Yeghen. “I just lost a coin and I was looking for it by lighting matches. As you see, it's very simple.”

“A coin! What sort of story is this?”

The affair was becoming complicated. Yeghen was exhausted; he was trembling with cold. By what magic did the world contract around him? All his life he had been hunted. And now, on the threshold of a night of repose, he found himself hemmed in by this demonic power, always lying in wait for him. He hated the forces of law and order, especially these local policemen, the perfect images of brutality. However, right now he would have liked to be on the other side of the fence, to
be
this stupid, limited policeman. He was sick of always being on the side of the pursued. He had a crazy desire to be on the side of the pursuers, if only for one night, if only for this night. To sleep, to not be cold, to get rid of this heavy fatigue that he carried around like a burden. Yes, to be an abject policeman, but to be able to sleep.

He used a humble voice, seeking refinements of politeness to say, “Believe me, Excellency, I'm telling you the truth. Here's the coin.”

Yeghen took it out of his pocket and showed it to the policeman.

“I had just found it when you arrived.”

The policeman looked at the coin and yawned. He did not want to go to the police station, and besides, this fellow seemed devoid of interest.

“All right,” he said. “You can go. But stop behaving suspiciously. I'm watching you.”

“Thank you, Excellency,” said Yeghen. “You are a superior soul. You are the incarnation of intelligence. One day you will be minister.”

Yeghen breathed deeply, then began to run. He stopped under the streetlamp, opened his hand, and examined the coin in the light. It looked normal; it was real money. No one would dare refuse it. Yeghen went on his way, still feeling the presence of the policeman watching him from the shadows.

The first hotel he stopped at had a sign that read “The Sun Hotel.” Yeghen went in. The clerk sleeping on a dirty couch raised his head and looked at Yeghen as if he were a thief.

“What do you want?”

“I want a room,” said Yeghen.

“A room,” said the man. “Yes, I can give you a room. It costs two piasters. Do you have the money?”

Yeghen was prepared for this question; he held the coin tightly in his hand. He handed it to the man. The man took it, looked at it in the light of the smoky lamp that lit the vestibule, then said deferentially, “Follow me, sir!”

They climbed a staircase without a banister, its steps worn and dangerous as traps. On the third floor, the man stopped at a door and pushed it open.

“Come in. It's the most beautiful room in the hotel. I only give it to honorable customers.”

“I'm very grateful,” said Yeghen.

The room was furnished with one iron bed covered with a faded, rose-colored eiderdown, a chair, and a little black wooden table. But Yeghen was only looking at the eiderdown.

“Tell me: I trust there are no bedbugs?”

“Bedbugs!” the clerk said resentfully. “Never, this is a first-class hotel.”

“All right, thank you.”

“I'll leave you now,” said the clerk. “Sleep well.”

Yeghen undressed in the dark and got into bed. He fell asleep right away and had a dream. He dreamed he was an all-powerful policeman and that he commanded a whole multitude of brutes armed with clubs. He feared no one. He was the uncontested master of the street. Now it was he who tracked down poor men. He sowed terror in his wake, and all the outcasts fled at his approach. He saw himself pursuing a short, ugly person who was none other than himself. He finally caught him, and when he struck him with his bludgeon, he felt a terrible pain ravage his body.

Yeghen awoke uttering a piercing cry. The room was bitterly cold. He moved to pull the eiderdown back up, but to his great surprise he discovered it had disappeared. Astonishment took his breath away; he could not understand what had happened to the eiderdown. He began to call for the hotelkeeper as loudly as he could.

An endless time passed, but no one answered. Sitting up in bed, Yeghen panted, his arms crossed on his chest to keep away the cold. He was about to call again, when the door opened and the desk clerk appeared in the opening holding a kerosene lantern in his hand. A finger to his lips, he advanced cautiously.

“Where is the eiderdown?” cried Yeghen. “What's going on?”

“It's nothing,” whispered the clerk. “I'm using it to put a customer to sleep. As soon as he's asleep, I'll bring it back to you, on my honor! Only, I beg of you, don't make a scandal.”

Yeghen then realized what had happened while he was asleep. The hotelkeeper had come into his room and taken away his eiderdown to give to a new customer. He was completely astounded by these fantastic proceedings.

“You have only one eiderdown for the whole hotel?” he asked.

“Oh no,” said the clerk in a low voice. “This is a first-class hotel; we have three eiderdowns, but we also have many customers.”

“I understand,” said Yeghen. “What are we going to do? I'm cold. And I have to sleep. I want an eiderdown.”

“In an instant,” said the clerk. “On my honor, I will bring it back to you right away. The customer I gave it to was very sleepy. He was sleeping on his feet. He must be fast asleep now. Don't move. I'm going to see. And above all, don't shout.”

The clerk went out on tiptoe, carrying the lamp. Yeghen remained in darkness, shivering with cold. He heard the man open the door next to his; no doubt it was the room of the new customer. Yeghen began to murmur, “Let him be asleep. Dear God, let him be asleep.” Then he burst into raucous laughter that resounded throughout the hotel like a call to madness.

THE POLICEMAN
who had brought in the whole gang gave a confused explanation, but Nour El Dine was not listening to him. He was finding it hard to resume his official character; all this was so far from his mind. This story of a café brawl was becoming more and more complicated. Who had started the fight? No one knew. Seated behind his desk, Nour El Dine took in the whole group with one look of unspeakable disdain. Now and then he sighed loudly, like a weary man ready to commit a desperate act. They were lined up before him: three broad-shouldered men with rough hands—probably cart drivers—and a skinny man dressed in rags with a bloody face. According to the policeman, he was a beggar. He stood with head high, and with swollen eyes stared at the police inspector with haughty defiance.

Nour El Dine finally decided to question him.

“Are these the men who beat you? Do you recognize them?”

The man with the bloody face quivered and took one step toward the police inspector, as if he had just insulted his mother.