The Jokers - Albert Cossery [23]
The businessman was tired of seeing Karim and his other literate friends laughing over articles in the papers. It demoralized him to feel so outside the loop. He had to beg them to read passages aloud. Once he’d been clued in, he could laugh too—even louder than the others—but this delayed satisfaction was tinged with bitterness. To end his dependency, he’d decided to learn to read; he wanted to be able to keep up with the delicious depravity of the ruling party all on his own.
“I wish I could really savor their lies. It’s a pleasure I’m longing to experience. Unfortunately, I’m not making much progress. I’m a lousy student.”
“Do you go regularly?”
“Oh, no! Only from time to time. I like Urfy a lot. Did you know that his mother’s gone mad?”
“Yes, I knew that,” said Heykal. “A few months ago she fell into a state of nervous prostration, a kind of gentle derangement. It could be much worse.”
“Still, she’s become a burden. He can’t look after her and also attend to his students. Before she fell apart, she helped at the school; she was an educated woman. Believe me, our friend’s situation is tragic, even though he won’t admit it. Many times I’ve offered to pay for her care in a residential clinic that specializes in her kind of madness, but he always refuses. I’m afraid to go on insisting—I don’t want to hurt his feelings. It’s a delicate business. Couldn’t you speak to him about it? With all my heart I want to help him, and I’m sure he’ll listen to you.”
Heykal had turned thoughtful. He’d known Urfy for a long time and knew all about the love and tenderness the schoolmaster felt for his mother. However crazy she got, he’d want to keep her close.
“I know Urfy very well. He’s an eminently intelligent man. He claims that his mother isn’t mad, that in this world to call someone mad is absurd. I think he makes perfect sense.”
“I’ve heard that she still fills in for Urfy when he’s away. Apparently the students don’t notice a thing. They think she’s just sick.”
“It’s very possible,” said Heykal. “Personally, that’s something I’d like to see.”
Khaled Omar seemed taken aback by this display of cynicism.
“I can see that you’re a man who lives according to his ideas. I like that.”
“Why should there be a difference between a friend’s madness and other people’s?”
“I see what you mean,” said Khaled Omar, exploding with laughter.
But this time, there was no corresponding echo from the surrounding tables. The customers all looked as if someone had died. For almost a quarter of an hour, not a single young woman had paraded before the tables.
6
A SMALL, distinct sound interrupted the silence that prevailed in the classroom. Urfy could identify it without lifting his eyes: one of the boys in the back was snacking on toasted watermelon seeds. Urfy had hesitated to intervene, not wanting to rouse the rest of the students, who—though momentarily subdued by the deadly midday heat—were apt to get excited about even the most minor occurrence. But the sound of the little brat gorging himself broke in on Urfy’s concentration and inspiration. He was working on the text for the poster praising the governor, which Heykal planned to paste up all over the city. He seemed calm on the outside, but inside he was savoring this opportunity to compose an apologia for this important figure. As he shaped his masterpiece it came to resemble an epitaph, something for the tombstone of an illustrious hero. Urfy was so caught up in his role that he almost began to believe the inane compliments he was lavishing on the governor. With characteristic generosity, he’d given him every imaginable virtue, using language usually reserved by the newspapers only for notorious criminals, with one or more wars on their conscience.
Again the irritating noise: Urfy stopped in mid-sentence, raised his head, and decided it was time to put an end to this behavior, which was disrupting the sacred hours of siesta. A quick glance identified the guilty party. It was the redoubtable Zarta: a very bright ten-year-old boy who was also