The Jokers - Albert Cossery [41]
From time to time, his eyes fell on one of the posters he’d put up the night before in anticipation of today’s walk. Strewing his path with pictures of the governor had seemed brilliant then, when he’d been filled with the delighted anticipation of today’s walk, but now he regretted having anything to do with this hideous thing that accosted him with every step, like a billboard from hell. The posters made him sick; it was all too depressing. Already a few of them had fallen victim to local vandals, with eyes scratched out or a beard scribbled in. These perfidious flourishes hadn’t ruined the governor completely; he was still recognizable. Since the appearance of the posters, he’d become as famous as a movie star. Even children cursed him, like the villain of an action film. But that didn’t bother the authorities in the least; what bothered them was when crowds gathered around to look and laugh, peppering their laughter with jibes and snide asides. More than once the police had to intervene, arresting a few individuals who were laughing especially loudly, charging them with public drunkenness. Which was, come to think of it, more or less true. And then there were always two or three hash smokers around, and for them the governor’s picture triggered explosions of transcendent glee. Nothing could temper their hysterical outbursts—not even the billy clubs of the policemen, who were furious to see the effects of drug use spreading to contaminate the lives of clean-living citizens, who no doubt were stunned by such unmerited praise of the governor but still maintained appearances as best they could. These bouts of collective hilarity—which would spring up at the most inopportune moments, sometimes causing traffic jams—were putting the authorities to the test. The government’s henchmen waited dejectedly, utterly confounded by the treacherous initiative, which seemed unworthy of real revolutionaries and bordered on being a hoax.
Karim stopped abruptly. A few meters ahead, under the shade of one of the trees lining the avenue, a traveling barber had set up with his tools. Karim wondered if he should get his hair cut. Suddenly it seemed vital that he appear well-groomed when presenting himself to the authorities, so that they would recognize the esteem in which he held them. A haircut was essential: long hair suggested the tortured spirit of a bitter revolutionary. And his scruffy neck and sideburns—not respectable. What a serious mistake he’d almost made! How would they know he’d reformed when he had a mop on his head befitting a dirty intellectual? A good haircut—an almost shaved head, like a convict’s—that would make the right impression! That would be concrete proof of his loyalty! And only one man could perform this miracle: this ignorant barber, with his clippers of mass destruction.
Karim sauntered up, delighted with his decision.
The barber was in the midst of shaving an earnest young man wearing a dark, tattered suit, with a morose expression and an air of dignified poverty. He sat on a wooden stool with his back pressed against a tree and his eyes closed, and the impression he made was one of exquisite agony. On his knees was a paper folder on which he had laid his threadbare tarboosh, the distinctive sign of a public servant—he looked like he was afraid of being dragged into the surrounding human scum. The barber squatted and, with the meticulous gestures of an embalmer preparing a corpse, shaved his customer’s cheeks with a razor