The Jokers - Albert Cossery [31]
Karim bustled around the press like a child getting ready to show off a complicated toy. He turned toward Urfy.
“Superb, isn’t it?” he said with the pride of ownership. “It’s almost new. Khaled Omar has demonstrated his sincerity; he spared no expense.”
“Yes,” said Urfy. “Will you tell me what you need me to do?”
“In a minute, we’ll start setting type. I’ll explain how it works; it’s not hard. But first let’s turn on some lights—I can’t see anything in here.”
He went to flip the switch. Two bare lightbulbs suspended from the ceiling projected a harsh light into the room, reintroducing a dim hint of the blazing heat outside.
“Let’s get started,” said Karim, going over to the table and sitting down in the other chair.
“At your service,” Urfy said.
By nine that evening, when Heykal arrived with Khaled Omar, more than five hundred posters bearing the portrait of the governor in full military dress were piled on the floor of the warehouse. The businessman wore a bottle-green suit and a dazzling red tie, and smelled more strongly than ever of violets. He walked up to Karim and took the young man in his arms, kissing him on both cheeks and showering him with congratulations. At the late hour his exclamations rang out and echoed throughout the silent port.
“You’ve done all this already! What a genius!”
Khaled Omar fell silent as Heykal began to read the poster out loud, articulating each word as solemnly as a death sentence. Hearing the litany of praise for the governor, Khaled Omar could hardly contain his joy: he bobbed his head like an imbecile; he clutched his chest as if suffocating with happiness. But, in fact, he was just coming to a full appreciation of the murderous treachery of their hoax and was congratulating himself for his part in it.
“The portrait alone is eloquent enough,” said Heykal, when he’d finished his reading. “But I bow down before the writer; he’s just caused the suicide of our beloved governor.”
And for the first time since he’d entered the warehouse, he looked at Urfy.
Urfy received the compliment with some embarrassment, as if his inability to fully share Heykal’s pleasure made him guilty, a traitor to his cause. He smiled appreciatively, but Heykal seemed to detect the bitterness behind the smile. He became very serious, then, after a moment’s reflection, he addressed the schoolmaster again.
“You know how much I love you, brother. But there’s something about you that’s making me worry. Are you ill? That would upset me deeply.”
He spoke with such sincerity that Urfy was both moved and disturbed. But he recovered quickly, realizing what Heykal was alluding to by inquiring after his health. He was asking, indirectly, for news of his mother—his unfortunate mother, his private affliction. Heykal couldn’t hide his real intentions; Urfy had seen him in action too many times. Every time he came over, he would visit the old lady’s room; you’d think he came just to see her. Then with the same serious look he had at this moment, he’d speak to her, displaying his most refined manners and putting on his best gentlemanly tone. And, incredibly, the madwoman was flattered; she grew coquettish; she called him “prince.” It was an unnerving spectacle—Urfy couldn’t understand how it worked, and he preferred to forget it once it was done. He wondered if Heykal only responded to the crazy side of life and if he wasn’t a bit crazy himself.
“I’m doing very well,” he replied.
“But you look tired,” Heykal observed.
“I’m very busy these days. You know, I’m the sole director of the school.”
“I understand. But why the bitterness? My dear Urfy, you know how much I care about you. I’d hate for anything to come between us.”
“What bitterness?