“Would you like to see her in private?” he asked in a whisper.
Chawki reeled under the impact of this unexpected offer; he leaned more heavily on his cane and continued playing with his mustache, a look of dissolute sensuality spreading across his face.
“Really! You could manage to set up a meeting?”
Rezk fought the impulse to spit in his pompous face. He felt he was being put to a decisive test, and sensed that beneath the sham surface of this provincial potentate he had neglected an essential element: the innate ordinariness of the man. For an instant he was absorbed in contemplating the potbelly under the leafy-patterned vest; the sensualist’s mouth twisted in a seductive pout; the big red rose in the buttonhole like a spreading splotch of fresh blood; the black satin cape — the classic, indispensible vampire accessory — cloaking the massive structure stuffed with fat. And suddenly, as if under the impact of some liberating trigger, Rezk’s mind was overpowered by an obvious truth that left him dazed for a few seconds but filled him with breathtaking joy. He had just realized that Chawki, despite his ancestral wealth and the intangible power of his race, was nothing but a pitiable buffoon. How could he have despised this minstrel of a putrefying society and taken him so seriously? No doubt it was distance that lay at the root of this psychological error. Since his father’s misadventure several years ago, Rezk had never come so close to Chawki, nor had he had occasion to study his degenerate features so thoroughly. From afar, Chawki had always seemed endowed with a demoniacal importance. Rezk’s laughter burst forth, splattering the night.
Chawki was waiting for his answer, frozen in his elegant pose, and this laughter came as a relief to him as well.
“She’s my sister,” said Rezk, who had stopped laughing.
It took Chawki a moment to grasp the significance of this confession.
“What?” he stammered, slightly aghast. (Then, in a bantering tone:) “Well, that’s fantastic; it makes everything easier. Obviously you will be rewarded for your trouble. I’m very respected in this city; you can count on my complete discretion.”
“I am at your service,” answered Rezk maliciously. “Whenever you’d like, Excellency.”
Rezk’s sarcasm and flippancy remained imperceptible to Chawki, who was totally captivated by the way this extraordinary adventure had played out.
“I see that we understand one another. I am very pleased to have made the acquaintance of such a reasonable boy; it’s so rare these days. Come see me; here’s my address.”
He pulled his card from a vest pocket and held it out to Rezk as if he were giving a coin to a beggar. With the respect due a precious object for which he would feel almost unworthy, Rezk took it. Regaining all his self-confidence, Chawki strode boldly away and, making his way to Imtaz’s house, he rejoiced at how easily he had just added to his conquests.
The young whore was totally unrecognizable. Dressed in the smock purchased the previous day at a dry-goods store, her face thoroughly cleansed and a yellow ribbon around her hair falling in a thick braid down her back, she looked more like a schoolgirl than a schoolgirl. Her own mother wouldn’t have recognized her, nor, especially, could Chawki, who had never ventured into the brothel where she was the magnificent resident. Lingering over some final touches and drinking champagne from teacups, the three young men who were the architects of her metamorphosis guffawed at the phenomenal success of their prank. The girl, amused at first, now seemed sorrowfully resigned, as if she missed her pretty sequined dress and tawdry jewelry that Imtaz had locked away in the wardrobe, or as if she had found deep within her some disturbing memory of her childhood. Impenetrable to this kind of humor, her mind could not understand all the childish exuberance the young men displayed. She was totally illiterate and this ritual in which she was being forced to take part aroused in her nothing but a listless torpor. Seated at the table in the middle of the bedroom, she was letting herself be guided in her role as a studious pupil, gazing helplessly at the schoolbook open before her, the notebook placed to the right, the pen held between her ink-stained fingers. She was angry with Medhat for having inflicted these humiliating marks on her, which would require intense scrubbing to remove. But Medhat, finicky artist that he was, had been determined to make his work look authentic, claiming that these ink-stained hands, in addition to being proof positive of her schoolgirl status, had the extra attribute of being a stimulant to the senses. This explanation did not make the girl any less morose.
When the front bell rang, Imtaz went to the door and ushered Chawki into the living room.
“Is she here?” inquired Chawki softly.
“Look,” whispered Imtaz, pointing to the door that opened on the bedroom. “She’s doing her homework.”
Indeed, by some cleverly calculated staging, the girl could be seen from the living room sitting at the table, the lamp shining down on her head as she leaned pensively over her schoolbook.
“God help me!” sighed Chawki, sent into raptures by this tableau.
“As you can see, she’s a serious girl who doesn’t waste her time,” added Medhat.
“She’s first in her class,” said Teymour, going Medhat one better.
“I don’t know how to thank you,” said Chawki, curbing the arrogant inflection of his voice. “It’s all too splendid!”
“Nothing’s too good for a friend like you,” said Imtaz, bowing. “And now, go on; she’s waiting for you.”
Just then the girl turned her head in their direction and smiled impishly and tenderly, which had a tremendous effect on Chawki. As he entered the bedroom he felt as if a mysterious magician were ushering him in to an eternity of debauchery.
: VIII:
it was only ten o’clock in the morning and, apart from a handful of open shops and a few street peddlers hawking their wares in voices that were still shaky, the city remained sunk in drowsiness. In its futile attempt to dry the streets that were damp from the previous day’s rain, a hazy sun was making the water that had collected in the potholes glisten. Medhat walked falteringly, his mind still dull with sleep; he was fundamentally allergic to this entire early morning atmosphere. As he headed for Salma’s, he wondered what emergency required him to call on her at such an ungodly hour. The little servant girl who had come to pull him out of bed had urged him to go see her mistress straight away; Salma had even ordered her to “take him by the hand” should he put up any resistance. Medhat smiled at this expression of pure formality, knowing that the little servant, a girl of about twelve, had a distinct fondness for him, as if he were some fashionable new sweetmeat. She had wanted to carry out her mission to the letter and had tried to grab his hand, but he’d called her, jestingly, a vile seductress and urged her to be off without waiting for him. The girl looked at him disdainfully, then went on her way, slightly saddened by her defeat. Medhat knew it was all an act, and that at the next opportunity she would be even more flirtatious. At heart, she amused him quite a bit and he thought that in a year or two she would be ripe for a more serious game. He had a gift for spotting girls who had not yet reached puberty but who showed all the signs of precocious sensuality; he maintained adult relationships with them, keeping them in a state of emotional receptivity during the entire process of their transformation by serving them up an assortment of adoring glances, flattering remarks, and phony fits of jealousy until they reached a suitable age. Since female youth was a very perishable good, it seemed of real importance to lay the groundwork for the future.
Salma’s request was particularly worrisome because in all probability it had to do with some new dispute between her and that cursèd Samaraï; his crude and unrestrained passion was making him unbearable. Had he attempted to strangle her? Anything was possible from such an unenlightened person; he was practically a savage. Medhat had lost all interest in the veterinary student as soon as he realized how wrong he had been about him. His unfailing ability to size up people had been proved seriously flawed by this monster of ingratitude, this bleating lover who, not content simply to betray Medhat’s trust, was also behaving like a boor in a friend’s home. When Medhat met Samaraï for the first time, he thought he would be doing a good deed by leading this hopelessly stupid lackey of the bourgeoisie away from a mediocre and insipid fate. But it had turned out that Samaraï was fiercely determined to continue his studies and get his degree, demonstrating thereby his total lunacy. He was the sort of boy who was beyond redemption, wholly in thrall to the idiocy of the times, and Medhat had, as casually as always, struck him from his list of acquaintances.