The Jokers - Albert Cossery [16]
He walked toward the window again but stopped, hearing a faint noise from the corridor. Instantly his anger toward his servant disappeared; he’d been rescued. A few seconds passed before Siri appeared with the famous suit, suspended from a hanger, at the end of his outstretched arm.
“This is what I get for counting on you?”
Siri, the servant, looked at his master with a weary, fatalistic expression on his sleepy face. He never used drugs, but he resembled an addict permanently in need of a fix. With his half-closed eyes, he seemed to be sleeping standing up. This unbreakable bond with sleep that he’d maintained from birth predisposed him to be calm and gave him a generous spirit. Without opening his eyes, he said in a peaceful voice:
“Prince, it’s not my fault. Things—”
“What things, dammit! I have an important meeting. I might miss it because of you.”
“Sorry, prince,” said Siri, cracking a lifeless eye. “But things—”
“Shut up or I’ll strangle you,” said Heykal. “Now put the suit on the couch.”
Siri didn’t respond but weakly bowed his head, as if to communicate the unfairness of his reception. With infinite care and soporific slowness, he deposited the precious burden on the couch; then he went to squat in a corner, waiting patiently for his master to deign to speak. But Heykal had stopped paying attention. He was getting dressed in front of the mirrored armoire, pleased at the last-minute reprieve. It was always like this; he just couldn’t stay angry at his servant for long. Beneath his moronic exterior, Siri possessed undeniable gifts. Heykal entrusted all material matters to him and could even go several weeks without giving him money; Siri continued to run the household as if money didn’t even exist. There would always be something to eat at mealtime. How he managed to make do was a mystery. Heykal suspected Siri of stealing food and staples from the neighborhood merchants, and one day he figured Siri would wind up in prison. Then, from time to time, Siri would adopt the tone of a sage and speak of money as of a necessity that could on occasion be of some value; he made it sound like a philosophical discovery—perhaps banal but not without its importance. This discreet allusion to financial difficulties never fell on deaf ears. Heykal understood by it that his servant had run out of resources. He would offer a bit of money, and Siri would pretend to refuse, protesting that there was no hurry, that he was not yet on the verge of ruin. Heykal would insist to the point of becoming angry, and finally, and always reluctantly, Siri would accept the sum.
Seeing that his master had turned his back and was continuing to get dressed without calling for his services, Siri, head still bowed, started to mumble under his breath, as if defending himself against accusations lodged by imaginary characters who placed his loyalty in doubt. Heykal allowed him a moment to air his grievances before finally losing patience.
“What now?”
“Prince! It’s not fair!”
“What’s not fair? Isn’t it enough you’ve made me late for my meeting? Now I’m expected to listen to your lamentations?”
“Yes, prince, it’s not fair. I can’t bear for you to be mad at me. I’m late, it’s true, but it’s not my fault. I had to save the honor of our house!”
“The honor of our house! What on earth—Can’t you leave me in peace? Go sleep in the kitchen.”
“I don’t want to sleep. I have to tell you the whole story first.”
Still buttoning his shirt, Heykal turned