The Jokers - Albert Cossery [56]
Heykal gave him a sympathetic glance, stirred to the depths to detect, in this model manager of the revolution, a budding awareness of the vanity of his struggle—barely budding, true, but appreciable all the same. The tight jacket, the stiff collar and threadbare tie were emblematic of his perfect domestication. The rags of a society that he wanted to fight against—he made it a point of pride to wear them. A revolutionary, but with dignity—dressed in the same uniform as the adversary and ready to take his place. What a magnificent specimen of the era! And ripe for reinvention still; Heykal would have liked to adopt him, to have him around all the time, the living image of irony. But it was a dream for a king—an object so precious was beyond his means.
The silence, and Heykal’s affectionate gaze—as it seemed to Taher—made Taher get a grip on himself. He broke in:
“These virtues you speak of, Heykal effendi, could just as easily belong to a rat. Would you accept the breath of joy from a rat?”
“Rats kill any breath of joy,” responded Heykal, “and whatever side they’re on, I hate them. But that’s not the kind of man you are, Taher effendi. I know how to recognize a man’s true character, beneath the appearances. Why do you stubbornly put on a mask that makes you suffer? I’m sure you could learn to be happy and to embrace the frivolous and the vain. I’d like to see you when that happens.”
Taher was growing confused, even as the full horror of the man’s honeyed words dawned on him. That Heykal saw him as a frivolous man was the greatest conceivable insult to his fighter’s pride. He averted his face as if to escape this badge of shame, and at last to understand how useless it was to argue with a shadow. He couldn’t wait to get back to the world of iniquities that awaited him outside; there, at least, he might be defeated, but he was never unhappy.
Heykal lifted his glass of tepid rose water from the table and addressed his guest:
“To your health, Taher effendi!”
Taher appeared not to understand. Mechanically, he picked up his own glass, meaning to lift it to his lips, hesitated, then abruptly threw it on the floor. It smashed and he looked proud, almost arrogant—his dignity had been restored.
Karim was too stunned to react. He remained in his chair, waiting to see what Heykal would do. But Heykal was impassive, as if indifferent to his visitor’s scandalous provocation. His face bore a look of indulgence. He even seemed to regard Taher with a certain respect.
Having heard the noise, Siri entered the room and, without a word, began to pick up the broken glass. Nobody spoke; they seemed to be waiting for Siri to finish cleaning up. When he finally left, Taher rose. For a moment he looked at Heykal. He gave a slight nod and slowly made his way to the door.
Heykal rose from the sofa and followed. For a few seconds, they hesitated at the door. Heykal said:
“The rose water was not poisoned, Taher effendi! It was offered in friendship.”
Taher didn’t respond. Suddenly Heykal grabbed him by the shoulders and pulled him close.
“Taher, my brother, you are brave, but you are lost. It’s too bad!”
“Lost to whom?” asked Taher in a voice like a stifled cry.
“Lost to me, to me alone,” said Heykal. “Now go. And may peace be with you.”
Then he turned to Karim, who looked on, speechless.
11
THE LITTLE girl ate her ice cream while peering over it at Heykal; there was nothing coy about her look, which was somehow arch, timid, and discreet in a self-consciously feminine way. She sucked the spoon slowly—carefully attending to it with a kind of blissful gluttony. Heykal was pretending not to see; his love of seduction drove him to feign indifference even with a child. This one must be about eight years old; a big green ribbon was tied around the single braid that hung down her back. She was extremely beautiful, but not with the detestable beauty of the rich, well-fed children that Heykal loathed on first sight. Her features were refined and