The Jokers - Albert Cossery [13]
“Can I offer you something? A coffee, maybe?”
“Yes,” said Karim. “I’d love a coffee.”
Khaled Omar stood up, walked around the desk, and went to open the window. A loud murmur rose from the alley, where there was a daily market. The sound of the vendors proclaiming the succulence of their goods broke into the room, rattling it like an earthquake. The businessman yelled down to a coffee vendor across the alley, cutting through the din with his thunderous voice:
“Two coffees! Hey, Achour!”
“Two coffees!” the vendor’s voice echoed back.
Khaled Omar quickly closed the window and returned to his seat behind the desk. He seemed amused, as if he’d just remembered a funny story.
“Congratulations on your bogus beggar. What a riot, this morning, when the police found him.”
“Tell me, are they talking about it around town?”
“First, the news went around that a cop had slit some old beggar’s throat. People were outraged. But in the end, they found out it was a hoax. The police are still at a loss, though. They’re trying to hush up the incident in the papers—they think it’s a stunt organized by beggars to protest the governor’s orders.”
“Let them think what they want. We’re not done laughing yet. Listen, I came here to tell you that I’ve set up a meeting with Heykal. Tonight, around eight o’clock, on the terrace of the Globe Café. He wanted me to tell you that he’s looking forward to it very much.”
“You know that I’ve wanted this meeting for a long time,” Khaled Omar said, a barely perceptible tremor in his voice. “Everything you’ve told me about him fills me with fellow feeling—I love him like a brother already. He should know he can count on me for anything he wants to undertake; my humble fortune is at his disposal.”
“I’ve told him all that. He feels close to you, too—he already knows you better than I do. He’s often spoken of you as a man dear to his heart. And all that without ever having met you. He’s sure you won’t disappoint him.”
“What’s he planning? Has he told you anything?”
“No,” Karim admitted. “I assume he wants to speak with you first. He needs your help. I’m sure tonight he’ll bring you up to date with his projects.”
“Are you going to keep sending in your letters to the editor? That was a piece of diabolical genius! I’m still staggered!”
Of late the newspapers’ sycophantic treatment of the governor had exceeded every precedent in the history of baseness and servility. If you believed the press, the whole city was singing the odious man’s praises; his initiatives and his commitment to their success were the sole topics of conversation. Even his militaristic side was singled out for praise, as if the city were a battleground on which the governor, a former general, was staging a victorious war. This was the situation that Heykal had resolved to exploit. His plan consisted of joining the most staunch celebrants and acolytes in their folly, one-upping them with even more outrageous flattery. So he had his people write letters that were so laudatory of the governor’s actions that none of the papers could possibly refuse to publish them: they were sure they were serving the glory of their master.
“Not anymore,” said Karim. “Someone high up has forbidden the papers to publish our missives. The last ones we sent were never printed. We seem to have overstepped some limit. You remember the one I wrote myself, comparing the governor to Alexander the Great?”
“I remember it well. You read it to me. It was an outstanding letter!”
“Well, in a certain milieu that letter is still considered a masterpiece of its kind. The paper that published it saw its circulation go up by several hundred in one day. Believe me, it’ll go down in posterity as the essence of shameless servility. Government lackeys will mine it for inspiration.”
“That’s what makes me wish I could read,” said Khaled Omar. “Then I could enjoy it