The Jokers - Albert Cossery [12]
His office was made in the image of his rugged spirit. Situated in a back alley of the port, it was striking for its complete lack of paperwork, account books, and the other nonsense businesses employ to create confusion with an imposing appearance. All you could see was a table dominated by an old-fashioned telephone, two wicker armchairs, and a few wooden crates stacked in a corner against the wall, covered in dust.
When Karim showed up just before noon, Khaled Omar was in the middle of a phone call. He waved to his visitor with his free hand, to indicate that his conversation was nearing an end. Karim sat down in one of the wicker chairs and admired the businessman’s technique. Slouched in his swivel chair, Khaled Omar listened to his interlocutor, punctuating the conversation with a nod of the head or a curt word. From time to time he let out a sigh, as if to make it clear that he was sacrificing precious time. There wasn’t a scrap of paper or a pencil on the table. He kept everything in his head.
Khaled Omar put down the receiver and swiveled to face Karim; thunderous laughter burst out as if from the depths of his being. It was the laugh of an ecstatic animal, irrational and physical to the core.
“So, my young friend! How’s your health? Do you know what that fellow on the phone was asking me?”
“No,” said Karim.
“Well, he wanted me to get him a tiger!”
“A tiger? Probably wants to sic it on his mother-in-law. That’s pretty funny!”
“Not at all. He’s dead serious.”
“You don’t mean to tell me you have a tiger to sell him?”
“Why not? I’ll find him one.”
Khaled Omar grabbed the fat amber pipe of a hookah that was on the floor by his feet and lifted it to his lips; he wore rings on every finger. He took a few puffs, exhaling a cloud of dense smoke through his nostrils before continuing:
“You see, my young friend, there was a time when I was always scavenging for a crust of bread and never finding anything, and I started to think bread had never existed except in my imagination, that bakers themselves were mythical creatures. And look at me now: I know where to find a tiger. I know who to call to bring me a tiger, on a leash or in a cage. Isn’t that extraordinary?”
He burst into laughter again.
“It’s hard to believe!” exclaimed Karim.
“It’s very simple,” Omar said. “You have to penetrate the right circle. Everything a man desires exists, in fantastic quantities, in a well-guarded stockpile somewhere. Have you ever seen a ton of rice? Neither have I. And yet I’ve sold millions of tons of it. That’s the beauty of business. You don’t see it; everything happens behind the scenes. I might as well be selling the wind—that’s what’s so entertaining.”
“You’re a sensational man, brother Khaled—let me kiss your cheeks! To think I might never have met you...”
Khaled Omar looked at his visitor with visible pleasure. The friendship that united him with the younger man dated back to his time in prison. Karim was only twenty; he’d been arrested as a “dangerous political element” and incarcerated alongside ordinary criminals. Their first few encounters were fairly painful. When the future businessman heard from Karim’s own mouth that he was in jail for political reasons, he laughed in his face: he couldn’t help but take him for a pathetic fool. Khaled Omar, a simple, primitive man, couldn’t comprehend someone risking his freedom for a motive as essentially abstract as a political cause. In his view, that was pure stupidity. He had nothing to regret about his own imprisonment; yes, he had risked his freedom, but for a tangible end—in this case, a wallet stuffed with cash.