The Jokers - Albert Cossery [9]
“You’d do better to hold off,” he said.
“Why?”
“Because you can’t live here. It won’t be permitted.”
“What do you mean ‘permitted’?”
The officer’s eyes narrowed to a point, and he leaned toward Karim as if to reveal a terrible secret.
“Did you know, my friend, that this building lies on a strategic route!”
This declaration could only provoke hilarity, but Karim remained imperturbable. Not the slightest smile crossed his face. On the contrary, he appeared to be deeply impressed by what he’d just heard. In a tone of contrition—the tone of a citizen thoroughly invested in the well-being of the state—he replied:
“The cliff road, a strategic route! I had no idea, Your Excellency! On my honor, I didn’t know.”
“Well, I am informing you now. You should know that the cliff road is a strategic route of the utmost importance. Politicians, heads of foreign states, and prestigious military officials often take this road.”
“That’s true,” said Karim, “but I don’t see what that has to do with me.”
“You really don’t see?”
“No, by Allah I don’t! I’m trying to understand, but I don’t.”
“Well, I’ll have to tell you then. It’s like this: You are a dangerous man.”
“Me? What do they have against me?”
“Nothing, at the moment,” the policeman admitted. “But you’re on our black list. We’ve had dealings with you in the past, right?”
“That’s true, I won’t deny it. But it was years ago, under the previous government.”
Again the policeman shook his head, gazing with pity at Karim: such arguments were beyond stupid. Really, these revolutionaries were disarmingly naive.
“If you didn’t like the previous government,” he said, “there’s no reason why you should like this one. We know all about hotheads like you.”
Karim was dumbstruck by the brilliant accuracy of this analysis. What could he say? And yet he wasn’t going to be thrown off track by the whims of one lousy cop. He had to go all the way to the end.
He protested his good faith.
“How wrong you are, Your Excellency! Me, dislike the government? You’d have to be blind not to love it. Look at me: Am I blind? I’ll tell you in all frankness that I look up to the current government the way I look up to my own father. What more can I say to show my respect?”
“Since you brought it up, where is your father?”
“He’s dead,” Karim replied. “I’m an orphan.”
Either out of gratitude—the scene was a gift from heaven—or because he wanted to play his role of repentant rebel to the hilt, Karim was soon on the verge of tears. With his head in his hands, he began mumbling—almost sobbing—about his bad luck, about the unhappiness he’d endured since childhood. He did everything he could to make the whole melodrama seem real, and though he may not have been entirely convincing, the policeman appeared to relent a little at last, remaining silent as he waited for the painful moment to pass. But Karim kept going, talking about his poor mother, dead from a mysterious disease (strongly resembling asthma), the symptoms and effects of which he described with the precision of a trained physician.
Hearing this, the policeman’s eyes grew a little sad. His features took on a defeated, depressed look. He’d been in his job for thirty years; there was nothing left for him to learn about the vicissitudes of existence. His skepticism about the benefits of the rule of law, as well as his total lack of ambition, had kept him in the lower ranks of a profession in which cynicism and brutality were the only virtues that counted. A deep human sympathy made him feel a kinship with his fellow man. This young man could have been his son; he was touched by his suffering, whether fake or real.
“How do you get by? Do you work?”
“Of course,” said Karim. “I’m in manufacturing.”
“Manufacturing of what?”
“I manufacture kites.”
“You’re pulling my leg.”
“I wouldn’t dare, Your Excellency! It’s the truth. There’s nothing extraordinary about it. You’ve just never thought of it. Look, I’ll show you some samples of my work.”
He got up quickly and walked over to the corner where the kites were