The Jokers - Albert Cossery [61]
“In a sense, yes,” Heykal finally replied.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, my dear Urfy, that the future may hold some surprises for us. We can’t forget that there are mediocre governors, whose tasteless tyranny wouldn’t give us anything to work with.”
“No doubt,” Urfy said, a bit disconcerted by Heykal’s odd way of thinking. “Leave it to chance then—I suppose it’s served us well so far. We’ve had a lucky streak. We’ve got nothing to complain about.”
“I’m not complaining. But I have a feeling the next governor will bore us to death. He might even try to act sensible—to make people forget the foolishness of his predecessor. He’ll be out to prove himself, that we can be sure of. Perhaps we’ll have to go into exile.”
Urfy had made a superhuman effort to appear interested in Heykal’s premature anxiety about the next governor, and now he began to wonder if Heykal hadn’t perhaps sensed some of his inner turmoil. Why, in any case, was he going on about wanting to leave for other, even more respectable places? Urfy didn’t need to go abroad to find madness and misery. They were flourishing right here in the basement, a daily challenge to his reason. There was plenty for him to get excited about at home, and maybe Heykal envied him for that. He feared the face of his friend, eager to discover the symptoms of this strangely perverse jealousy. But Heykal’s mocking smile, floating in semidarkness, grew suddenly clearer, and Urfy realized that this man, who was incapable of feeling pity, was making fun of him.
The smile disappeared. Heykal asked him:
“How’s your mother? It’s been a long time since I’ve seen her.”
“Still the same.”
“There’s no hope of a turn for the better?”
This was pure nastiness, and Urfy regained his presence of mind. Heykal could only be inquiring for his own benefit. No doubt he dreaded any alteration in the old lady’s condition; he wanted her just as she was, crushed by illness and all for his own pleasure.
Urfy was overcome with a desire to set a trap for Heykal. Maybe at last he’d unmask this solicitude that was more torturous than the vilest indifference.
“I’ve been advised to send her to a clinic,” he said. “But I’m reluctant to do it.”
“Of course.”
“But in the end I’ll probably agree.”
“Don’t!” Heykal cried. Urfy had never seen him so passionate. “Don’t ever leave her, brother! What can you expect from those people? It’s like a death sentence!”
“She needs care that I can’t give her. They use new methods in this clinic. They told me that she might get better.”
“You’re like a child! If they knew how to restore her sanity why wouldn’t they apply their methods to all of humanity! No. Nothing can cure her. They’ll treat her disgustingly—and just for their filthy experiments. She’ll suffer.”
“You don’t think she suffers now?”
“If you really want to know, no—she has no notion of suffering. We’re the ones who see what she is going through; we’re the ones who suffer.”
“What! Heykal, you suffer?”
Heykal reached out to touch the schoolmaster’s arm in a gesture of supplication.
“Don’t abandon her to those brutes! It would be monstrous!”
Heykal fell quiet and turned away. How could he have succumbed to such weakness? Now that the panic passed, now that he was relieved of his fear of never seeing the old madwoman again, of losing her forever, he regretted his words and the passion with which he’d pronounced them. What would Urfy think? He could almost sense the schoolmaster’s stupefied, watchful gaze, while his own face was lost in the heavy darkness of the classroom. All he could see were the letters of the alphabet inscribed on the blackboard, like luminous hieroglyphs. Then, slowly, as if magically commanded by them, he got up, walked down the aisle, and climbed onto the podium, to sit at the schoolmaster