The Jokers - Albert Cossery [11]
“With my compliments,” said Karim. “I hope that the children enjoy it.”
“For their sake, thank you,” the policeman said, as he turned toward the door. “I must write my report. You’ll receive a summons shortly.”
“Your visit has comforted me enormously,” Karim replied. “I felt alone and abandoned. Believe me, I’m so grateful.”
He escorted the policeman onto the terrace and to the door of the stairway, bowing continually. For several minutes he continued to maintain an attitude of artificial deference, then, all at once, he burst into laughter.
He couldn’t stop laughing. The cliff road had become a strategic route! Ah! The sick bastards! They had strategic routes now! What presumption! They’d make use of anything to enhance their prestige. But to make him move for so stupid a reason! That was the limit! It was of the utmost importance that he respond to this threat. He wouldn’t let himself be evicted; he wouldn’t give them the pleasure. First of all, he had to do something about this miserable policeman before he had a chance to write his report. Karim felt sure he’d brought him around, but you never knew. He’d ended up taking a kite; why wouldn’t he take more? Karim decided to turn the whole business over to Khaled Omar, the businessman. Khaled Omar, thanks to his contacts at every level of society, would be able to get to the policeman—or his superiors! Khaled Omar could afford to bribe an army of bureaucrats. Karim collected his materials and brought them back into the room. He dressed hastily. It was time to go visit his rich friend.
Outside the house, he paused briefly, contemplating the strategic route with a malicious glint in his eye. He felt a strong desire to piss on it.
3
KHALED Omar, an illiterate man, had made his professional debut where some businessmen finish their careers: in prison. A few short years ago he had been a penniless drifter—perpetually hungry, sleeping on the streets, living off thievery and handouts. But Providence, for mysterious reasons, had planned a glorious future for him. Caught red-handed picking a wallet from someone’s pocket, he was arrested and given a sentence of eighteen months. This unhappy circumstance was the prelude to his ascent into prosperity, for it was behind prison bars that he discovered his vocation and his star began to rise. Freed from the dread of starvation, no longer worried about his survival, his frustrated but now awakening spirit began to notice a host of things he’d never had the chance to appreciate. Looking around him, he was fascinated by the prevailing economic phenomena of a society condemned to isolation. The black market inside the prison made a powerful impression on him. At first he couldn’t participate; he had nothing to sell and nothing with which to buy anything. So he bought on credit and sold his new acquisitions at a profit. The simplicity of this operation astounded him. For the first time in his life he’d made money without expending the slightest effort. In no time, he became a shrewd speculator. He had an innate sense of the laws of supply and demand, and by the end of six months he controlled every transaction and regulated prices at will. He provided the prisoners with supplies of all kinds: cigarettes, drugs, sometimes even women. The jailers, practical men, supported his enterprise; he made it worth their while. By the end, he’d turned prison smuggling into a veritable branch of the national economy.
When he was released, in possession of some cash—and, more important, of a flair for business—he hurried to put on a suit and good shoes and to don a tarboosh. Then, having rented himself an office, he embarked on a number of legal and quasi-legal operations, always with success. He now owned several buildings, along with beautiful land in the most fertile regions, and he continued to conduct his affairs while exerting himself as little as possible. He limited