The Jokers - Albert Cossery [17]
“I don’t want to hear it,” he said.
“I beg you, listen to me. In the name of Allah! I had no other choice. Would you have wanted us to lose face in front of strangers?”
“I don’t understand a thing you’re saying. Why were we going to lose face?”
Now that he’d aroused his master’s curiosity, Siri struck his best raconteur’s pose. Squatting comfortably, he cleared his throat and gazed upon his captive audience with a mysterious, world-weary expression.
“Well, prince,” he began, “as you know, the shop that belongs to Safi, the clothes-presser, is a popular haunt for the neighborhood notables. They sit there all day philosophizing, smoking, and sipping tea. You’ll be happy to know that they hold me in high esteem. These are people of stellar reputation, and they are aware that I serve in your house.”
Siri fell quiet and completely closed his eyes, as if the source of his inspiration had suddenly run dry.
“And?” asked Heykal.
“Prince,” Siri resumed, “this afternoon, I realized that the situation is serious.”
“What situation, mongrel!”
“Listen, prince! How could I let them think that we had only one suit? Every time, they see that it’s the same one. They were starting to look at me with pity and to shake their heads suspiciously when I mentioned our splendid dwelling. Don’t you understand, our reputation was beginning to slip! So to address the situation I invented a story.”
“Go on.” Heykal spoke with icy rage. “Right now I have to assume you’re on something.”
“God save me, no! Don’t be angry, prince! I wanted to dispel any doubts about our fortune, so I told them you were especially fond of this suit—despite having an armoire full of clothes—because it reminds you of a love affair that broke your heart. I told them this was the suit you were wearing when you first encountered the wonderful woman who was the greatest love of your life. But, alas! this woman being dead and your happiness gone, you maintain a special fondness for this suit, in her memory. That’s all, prince! Is there anything that’s not to your honor and credit?”
“And it took you all that time to tell them these idiocies?”
“They wouldn’t let me go, prince! They wanted to know all the details of your love affair. For example: What was the name of the lady, how did she die, and were you married? I had to answer every question. I only got away by promising to tell them even more next time.”
Looking lazier than ever, Siri rose, retrieved the clothes brush, and went to stand next to Heykal. Everything was settled, he thought. He awaited his master’s congratulations.
“So, prince, you’re not mad anymore?” he asked.
“It’s all right,” said Heykal. “I forgive you, though it’s the stupidest story I’ve heard in my life. From now on, leave the honor of the house alone. You nearly made me miss a very important meeting.”
“How could I leave the honor of our house alone!” responded Siri, opening not just one eye but both at the same time. It was a sign of powerful emotion. “I’ll never let anyone insult you, prince!”
“Give me a handkerchief,” Heykal snapped, realizing that the discussion could drag on forever. Honor was his servant’s favorite subject.
From the dresser Siri removed an immaculate white handkerchief and presented it to his master, who grabbed it, checking carefully to see that it was spotless, then slipped it into the outer pocket of his jacket. He was now dressed. He inspected himself in the mirror one last time, and, finding himself impeccable in every way, prepared to leave.
This abrupt departure was not to Siri’s liking. He would have preferred to talk longer with his master, to share some deep thoughts drawn from his sleepy brain. But sensing that there would be no indulgence this time—Heykal refused to talk—he accepted