Proud Beggars (24 page)

“Would you kindly take this chair,” said Gohar. “I'm sorry the place is not worthy of you, Excellency! It's a poor flat, but please behave as if you were in your own home.”

Nour El Dine let himself fall into the chair but didn't say anything. What did this speech mean? Did he take him for an imbecile? Behave as if he were in his own home? It was the height of mockery. Nour El Dine almost believed that evil spirits were trying to ridicule him. He had expected to find a miserable room, filled with broken, dirty furniture, but not this extraordinary austerity, this marvelous emptiness as tempting as a mirage. This starkness seemed suspect and he looked around uneasily and suspiciously.

With his back to the wall, Gohar was seated on the packet of newspapers. He still wore his tarboosh and held his cane in his hand. It was cold and damp in the room. Nour El Dine buttoned the collar of his tunic, shook his head, and after a moment's silence said, “It's beyond all reason, Gohar Effendi!”

“What do you mean?”

“I'm thinking about that beggar. What conceit! To hear him tell it, all the women run after him.”

“Don't forget, Inspector, that that beggar is a gold mine because of his mutilations. Women are selfish.”

“Still! Such a horrible creature!”

“There is nothing horrible about him,” said Gohar. “Especially for a woman. That armless, legless man makes love as well as anyone. And even better than some, judging by what I happened to hear. Believe me, the woman's voluptuous cries were not faked. And I confess that it's rather comforting.”

“What's comforting?”

“It's comforting to know that even a man with no limbs can give pleasure,” said Gohar.

“Such a monster!”

“This monster possesses an advantage over us, Inspector. He knows peace. He has nothing more to lose. Just imagine, no one can take anything else from him.”

“Do you think you must go that far to have peace?”

“I don't know,” said Gohar. “Perhaps you must become a man with no limbs to know peace. Do you realize the impotence of the government against a limbless man? What can it do to him?”

“It can hang him,” said Nour El Dine.

“Hang a man with no limbs! No, Excellency. No government would have enough humor to indulge in such an act. That would really be too much.”

“You are a curious person. Do you read all these newspapers?”

“God forbid!” said Gohar. “No, they serve as a mattress to sleep on.”

When he grasped the significance of the newspapers spread on the floor, Nour El Dine was seized with panic before such total poverty. Even the most miserable being slept on a mattress, he thought. How could you sleep on a pile of newspapers? In his mind that was proof of insanity.

“You don't have a bed? You sleep on a pile of newspapers?”

“I've slept like this for years, Excellency! Why do you worry?”

“How did you fall into such misery? From the way you speak, you seem to be an educated man, I'd even say a highly cultivated one. Normally you should have occupied a high rung in the social hierarchy. But you live like a beggar. That is a mystery I'd like to understand.”

“It's no mystery. I live like a beggar because I want to.”

“By Allah, you're a surprising man! Your way of thinking baffles me more and more.”

“The truth, Inspector, is that you are easily surprised. Life, real life, is childishly simple. There is no mystery. There are only bastards.”

“Who are you calling bastards?”

“If you don't know who the bastards are, then there's no hope for you. That is the only thing you don't learn from others, Inspector.”

Hands clenched between his knees, Nour El Dine bowed his head; he seemed to be meditating on a doleful problem.

“It's more complex than that,” he said finally. “There are not just good guys and bastards.”

“No,” said Gohar. “I refuse to allow nuances. Don't tell me that it's more complex than that. Why don't you understand that this so-called complexity only benefits the bastards?”

Resigned, Nour El Dine fell silent. Once again weariness took hold of him. This empty room gave him a feeling of peace and seemed to isolate him from the rest of the universe. He imagined himself sleeping on the pile of newspapers, happy and lazy, freed from his anguish. What was the use of continuing to search for an impossible happiness? It was true that nothing could happen between these walls, in this skillfully arranged emptiness. No doubt Gohar was right. To live like a beggar was to follow the path of wisdom. A life in the primitive state, without constraints. Nour El Dine dreamed of how sweet a beggar's life would be, free and proud, with nothing to lose. He could finally indulge in his vice without fear or shame. He would even be proud of this vice that had been his worst torment for years. Samir would come back to him. His hatred would vanish automatically when he saw him dispossessed of his emblems of authority, washed of his prejudice and his slimy morality. He would no longer have to fear Samir's disdain or his sarcasm.

But it wasn't that easy to yield to temptation. He rose from the chair and took a few steps across the room; then, turning, he stood before Gohar. For a moment he admired the calm face of his host lit by the flickering candle. Doubtless this man had committed a crime, but his features remained perfectly serene. He seemed immune to fear and suffering, a stranger to the real world that surrounded him. A plaintive sigh escaped Nour El Dine's chest. He felt he was not mature enough for this calm, this absolute detachment that a beggar's life called for. He was still too submissive to the regulations of his work; his duty commanded him to complete his mission. He could not forget entirely that he was a police inspector responsible for enforcing the law, and that he was there to investigate the murder of a young prostitute.

“Actually,” he said, “I came here to ask you some questions.”

“I'm listening,” said Gohar. “Ask me all the questions you want.”

“It's about that murder in the whorehouse,” said Nour El Dine, sitting back down in his chair.

“I know,” said Gohar. “I was expecting your visit. Speak, and I will answer you. While we wait, I'll make you some coffee. Pardon me for having neglected to offer you something to drink.”

“I don't want anything,” said Nour El Dine. “Don't trouble yourself for me.”

Gohar lit the spirit burner anyway and began to prepare the coffee. As he poured the water in the coffeepot, he observed Nour El Dine in silence. He was curious to know how the resolution would take place. But the police inspector asked no questions. He seemed to be lost in some distant dream.

It was Gohar who asked, “Do you suspect someone?”

“Frankly, I must say that I suspect you,” answered Nour El Dine with an anxious look in his eyes.

“Well, I congratulate you, Excellency,” said Gohar. “You have seen things clearly. I am the murderer.”

This sudden confession had the effect of a catastrophe on Nour El Dine. He shook his head firmly, at the same time thrashing his hands in front of his eyes in a gesture of negation, of refusal.

“What a farce!” he cried. “Oh, no, it's too childish, Gohar Effendi! Your young friend El Kordi already confessed. What's gotten into you all that you all want to confess? By any chance, do you also want to reform the world?”

“God forbid!” said Gohar. “You are wrong, Excellency, to compare me to that young man. El Kordi thinks like you; he too believes that things are more complicated than they are!”

The coffee was ready; Gohar poured the contents of the coffeepot into two chipped cups, then held one out to Nour El Dine.

“I'm at your disposal,” he said. “What do you plan to do?”

“I don't plan to do anything for the moment. I can't arrest you on the basis of a simple confession. I need proof. Tomorrow I'll make a decision. I must first question someone; everything depends on that interrogation.”

Suddenly a song rose up; it was coming from the next flat. In a hoarse voice, the man with no limbs was crazily singing a joyous song.

The sun was shining above the peaks of the minarets when Yeghen stopped, undecided, at the edge of the square. He knew that soon, in the police station, all would be injustice and gloom. Yet he was not afraid. His indecision had nothing to do with a fear of torture. He was simply possessed by a boyish desire to prolong his walk among the crowd. He loved to stroll about, always expecting the unpredictable. He had taken his drugs beforehand, so he felt calm and clearheaded. The thought of confronting the authorities even made him oddly elated.

Yeghen had been expecting this summons. For a long time, he suspected that Nour El Dine, the police inspector, had dark plans for him. But what exactly did he know? Did he take him for the killer, or did he only suspect Yeghen of knowing the murderer's identity? In any case, Nour El Din was hoping for some confession from him. Yeghen had no illusions about the manner in which the inspector planned to question him. Torture had become one of the favored methods in the life of civilized society. Nothing could be done against stomach cancer, and even less against the terror instituted by men to oppress other men. Yeghen put police brutality in the same category as incurable illnesses and natural cataclysms.

The police station was located on the other side of the square. It was a one-story white stone building with bars on the windows. Instead of crossing the square, Yeghen took the sidewalk to the left; he had decided to stroll a little more. It was eleven in the morning and the square was swarming with a multitude of people whose busy appearance fooled no one. Yeghen admired this perpetual stagnation amid the disorder and illusory movement. To a sharp eye, it was readily apparent that nothing urgent or sensational was taking place. Despite the noise of streetcars, automobile horns, and the strident voices of strolling merchants, Yeghen had the impression of a world where words and gestures were measured according to an eternal life. Frenzy was banished from this crowd that moved in eternity—it seemed animated by a wise joy that no torture, no oppression could extinguish.

With lucid detachment, Yeghen thought about the suffering awaiting him. It was not the first time he had undergone an interrogation; the brutality of policemen held no secrets for him. But up to now he had experienced it for minor offenses involving drug trafficking. This time, it was something else; it was a murder. The question was, would the policemen hit him harder than usual. No, Yeghen told himself. For a small drug deal or for a major crime, the force of the blows would be roughly the same. So he didn't have to fear any weakness on his part. He knew he would never pronounce Gohar's name. It was not a question of courage or of sacrifice for friendship's sake. To betray his friends, or even his own mother, seemed insignificant compared to the innumerable crimes committed throughout the world. No, in this case it was not only to save Gohar but also to demonstrate to Nour El Dine the ludicrous role of the police. Nour El Dine was the personification of an absurd justice. Yeghen had to prove the grotesquery of the situation to him. With this to look forward to, he felt joyous and began to laugh.

Yeghen entered the police station. He found himself in a big room with whitewashed walls containing only a desk, behind which sat a sergeant. This man was reading his newspaper with a rather comically laborious look. Yeghen approached him, took out his subpoena, and waited. The sergeant stopped reading and raised his head.

“What is it?”

He looked at Yeghen as if he suspected him of the worst misdeeds. Yeghen knew this look. His ugliness always exposed him to criminal prosecution; he represented the very image of the alleged killer for these obtuse souls. He smiled and handed his summons to the sergeant. The man took the piece of paper, glanced at it, then said, “Wait here! Don't move.”

“I'm not going to flee,” said Yeghen.

The sergeant pressed a button while watching him with a sullen look. After a moment, a bull-like policeman appeared and saluted according to regulations.

“At your command, Sergeant.”

“Take this man to the inspector.”

The policeman saluted again, then motioned for Yeghen to follow him.

“Come on.”

Yeghen followed the policeman along a narrow corridor. Contemplating the massive shoulders of his guide, he felt his will waver. To fall into the hands of a torturer like that meant certain death. The policeman stopped at a door and knocked. A voice answered from within. The policeman opened the door and pushed Yeghen ahead of him.

“Sir! The sergeant told me to bring you this man.”

“Very well,” said Nour El Dine. “You may go.”

The inspector was seated behind his desk with the collar of his tunic open, his features glum and tense. He had not shaved and seemed not to have slept all night. His eyes burned feverishly, and the look he gave Yeghen was that of a man come to the end of a tragedy.

“Approach. I am glad to see you.”

“Greetings, Inspector,” said Yeghen.

“You are late,” Nour El Dine returned. “For that alone you deserve a week in prison.”

“Excuse me, Excellency! I don't have an alarm clock.”

“Stop the jokes. I'm not in a mood to joke. I warn you, this time it is serious. You won't get out of here alive.”

Without being invited, Yeghen took a chair and sat down.

“I've already made my will,” he said.

Nour El Dine was quiet; he tried to control the rage that was choking him. From his first words, Yeghen had shown him the insanity of this interrogation. These people never took anything seriously. Nour El Dine felt much more comfortable with the vagabonds, the rabble born to commit sordid offenses. At least you could frighten them. But these disreputable intellectuals were forever breaking down all sense of authority in him. Nour El Dine considered himself a reasonable being; that is, he believed in the existence of the government and in the speeches pronounced by ministers. He had blind faith in the institutions of the civilized world. The attitude of Yeghen and his fellow men always disconcerted him; they appeared not to realize that there was a government. They were not against the government; they simply were not aware of it.