“Would you permit me to ask you where you were this afternoon between two and six o’clock?” he continued.
“I was walking,” said El Kordi without taking the time to reflect.
“I see. That’s a very common sort of alibi. But, unfortunately, it cannot be verified. Have you nothing else to offer?”
“Perhaps you could retrace my footprints. My shoes leave marks.” El Kordi raised his foot so that the inspector could admire his shoes at leisure.
Nour El Dine didn’t have time to answer, because just then the door opened and two ambulance attendants in white shirts entered carrying a stretcher. The policeman on guard led them into the dead girl’s bedroom, where they disappeared. After a moment, they came out with young Arnaba’s body covered with a tarpaulin. Seeing this, the girls began to howl and wave their arms about like madwomen. Nour El Dine stopped up his ears and waited patiently for this collective frenzy to end.
El Kordi smiled inanely. The vivid memory of the shabby fellow who proclaimed himself a debt collector with such pride engrossed his thoughts. He had called himself the minister’s friend. After all, why not?
5
THE SOUND of voices and the brightness of the acetylene gas lamps welcomed Yeghen like a kindly place of refuge. At this hour of the night the Mirror Café was full of a rowdy crowd occupying all of the tables and a slow parade of people strolling up and down the dirt roadway. The ever present radio poured forth a stream of stormy music amplified by loudspeakers, drowning the magnificence of the words, the cries, and the laughter in the same confusion. In this grandiose tumult, ragged beggars, cigarette-butt scavengers, and wandering merchants indulged in a pleasant form of activity, like saltimbanks at a fair. It was like this every night: the atmosphere of a fun fair. The Mirror Café appeared to be a place created by man’s wisdom within the confines of a world doomed to sadness. Yeghen always felt amazed by this idleness and this delirious joy. It seemed that all of these men knew nothing of the anguish, the painful uncertainty of a miserable destiny. True, poverty marked their clothes made of innumerable rags and inscribed its indelible imprint on their emaciated, haggard bodies; yet it hadn’t managed to erase from their faces the shining joy at still being alive.
Curious population! Delighted with this fraternal and wonderfully comforting togetherness, Yeghen made his way through the crowd. He was on his own territory; here, his ugliness didn’t offend anyone. On the contrary, in contrast with these humble men it acquired a kind of radiance. He was quickly recognized and greeted by friendly exclamations. Several times he was invited to have a glass of tea, but he declined on the pretext of some vague business. Actually, he wanted to find Gohar; he must certainly be waiting for him, deprived of drugs and prey to suffering. Gohar’s suffering was the only iniquity that Yeghen couldn’t tolerate in a world full of iniquities. He put all the generosity he was capable of into offering Gohar his daily portion of hashish. To give this scrap of joy to a man — be it only a few hours’ worth — seemed to him more effective than all the vain attempts of reformers and idealists who wanted to lift sad humanity out of its sorrow. Yeghen gloried in being the apostle of immediate, tangible efficacy in this domain. In his opinion, elaborate plans and wise theories destined to relieve a people’s misery were only sinister jokes. He laughed derisively, taking care to maintain his public image.
Without wanting to admit it to himself, he was still obsessed by the memory of his recent encounter with the young girl. Now that he had made contact with her by means of a poem, he worried about the probable repercussions of this adventure on his private life. First of all, he was certain he did not feel any kind of love for her. For him, it was at heart an endeavor devoid of any desire for conquest. To sleep with the daughter of a civil servant, and a minor at that, implied considerations to which Yeghen was hardly disposed. Nonetheless, this girl intrigued him by the effrontery of her behavior; she seemed to defy him. Her reaction to his ugliness denoted a nature that was sly, at the very least. Yeghen saw revealed in her behavior something abnormal, unhealthy, and it incited him to pursue what was a unique experience for him. This was the first time he found himself to be the object of a woman’s attention, and he was not beyond deriving a certain smugness from it. He could not resolve to easily abandon such a source of amusement and perhaps, who knows, sensual excitement. He was aware of the laws of probability enough to recognize that such an amorous adventure would only offer itself to a man like him once every three generations. He must, then, take advantage of it. Moreover, those piano lessons added to the strangeness of the adventure. Not that Yeghen liked music; on the contrary, he abhorred it with all his heart, but he doubted that the young girl would ever have the occasion to play in his presence.
Should he tell Gohar about it? First, he must find him. His my-opic gaze grew completely dim in the garish light of the acetylene lamps reflected by the enormous mirrors decorating the walls. He was advancing with difficulty through the throng when he felt someone take his arm.
“My dear Yeghen, do me the honor of sharing my table.”
Yeghen turned around. The man was a notorious pederast of majestic corpulence wearing a green silk robe and an ample aubergine-colored coat. His hair and mustache were dyed and he wore heavy rings on his fingers. He was a very rich fabric merchant who prided himself on his literary taste.
The fat merchant’s affability toward him always amused Yeghen because of the ambiguity it cast over their relationship.
“Well then, how is poetry doing these days?”
“It’s dying.”
“Never mind! Come have a glass of tea with me. I’m eager to hear you talk.”
“Excuse me, it’s not possible. I’m looking for someone. I absolutely must find him.”
“Ah, I understand,” the man said, with a knowing wink.
“You understand nothing. I’m not at that game yet. But perhaps some day … ”
“Well, that would be a great day. I will be happy to count you among my friends.”
“You don’t mean it!” Yeghen protested. “With my face?”
“Don’t forget that you have other charms for me. I’m sensitive to genius.”
“In other words, you want to sleep with my genius.”
They burst out laughing.
“But that too is impossible,” Yeghen continued. “I have no genius. Take care. I’ll see you very soon.”
“Your modesty becomes you. At least give me the pleasure of accepting a cigarette.”
He held out a pack of expensive cigarettes to Yeghen, who took one which the man lit with a gold lighter.
“Thank you.”
Yeghen left the fat merchant and resumed his search for Gohar. Where was he hiding? He didn’t see him anywhere. He began to grow more uneasy, especially since he felt the presence of a little cigarette-butt scavenger behind him, glued to his heels, watching and waiting for the moment he would throw away his cigarette. The allure of this expensive butt seemed to exercise a kind of fascination on the little boy. He followed Yeghen’s trail with the look of a starving dog. Finally Yeghen had had enough of this pursuit and threw him the half-smoked cigarette.
“Here, you wretch! You won’t be up my ass anymore!”
“May God forbid!” cried the child, picking up the cigarette.