Flies were buzzing about the room and landing on his nose. El Kordi tried to catch several in order to submit them to a cruel fate, but they thwarted him. He was so dazed that he lacked the agility necessary for this kind of relaxation. At the end of his resources, he took hold of the newspaper on his desk and looked it over for the tenth time. Everywhere, headlines proclaimed that the whole world was arming itself with a view to a future war. In the newspaper, it all had the appearance of something distant, without direct repercussions on his daily life. It was proclaimed with such indecency that one couldn’t believe the reality of the thing. But at the moment, El Kordi was in such a state of despondency that he was attentive to the slightest danger: for the first time, the announcement of all this weaponry seemed to conceal a concrete and monstrous reality. They weren’t simply words printed in a newspaper. The accumulation of such war potential did not appear to be directed only against humanity but almost against his very security. It was as if they were aiming directly at him by the obscene display of all these marching armies. A terrible anguish overwhelmed him. So the massacre was premeditated: they were after his skin. And what was he doing all this time? Vulnerable and defenseless, he was tranquilly seated behind his desk. He had to do something, and the first thing was to buy a gun. In a universe where everyone was armed, it was insane to remain empty-handed, waiting for them to kill you. He had to return their fire, not remain passive. “I must talk to Gohar about this,” he said to himself. But the thought of Gohar armed with a machine gun made him smile. It was his first smile of the day.
His mind relaxed at this amusing idea, and El Kordi could no longer resist the call of the outdoors; he had played the judge in his chambers long enough. He rose from his chair.
“Ezzedine Effendi!”
This was his office supervisor, a nearly blind old man. His enormous glasses made him resemble a prehistoric animal. With his nose glued to the dossier on which he was working, he asked in a resigned tone, “What is it?”
“I’m going out for a while.”
“Don’t worry, my son. Believe me, we’ll surely miss you.”
These ironic words were not calculated to change El Kordi’s mind. He’d long been accustomed to these insolent remarks. He was well aware that his bureau chief considered his departure a blessing; his presence could only harm the smooth functioning of work. He set a bad example for his companions in misfortune.
“Peace be with you!”
“Don’t feel obliged to come back,” said Ezzedine Effendi. “Take your time.”
El Kordi shrugged and left the room without looking at his colleagues slumped in their chairs.
Deep down, the hope for a revolution was only a palliative for his boredom; once in the ministry gardens, safe from his tormentors, El Kordi thought no more about it. The spring sun and the warmth of the air gave birth to sensual ideas in him, and he stepped up his pace. To his desire to see Naila again and to sleep with her was added his curiosity to learn something more concerning this enigmatic, senseless crime. After all, he was involved in it; he couldn’t forget that. His interrogation by the police inspector had given him a taste for those risky conversations in which he seemed to be flirting with a danger far more entertaining than anything his wild imagination could possibly concoct. The inspector was entirely serious when he questioned him. El Kordi puffed up his chest at the memory of this encounter: for his first experience, he was sure he had carried off a crushing victory over the representatives of authority. He was ready to battle this ignorant officer once again. He feared no one. Let them arrest him if they dared!
He was filled with sudden amazement. It seemed he was thinking about the inspector without animosity or rancor, but rather with a slightly troubled joy, a sadistic pleasure. “Strange!” he said to himself. Until now his feelings for Nour El Dine were dictated by the same unvarying hatred that he felt for all those who personified power and injustice, whether immediately or remotely. Suddenly he had discovered an extraordinary fact: Nour El Dine wasn’t simply a vile policeman, he was also a man prey to desires and torments that were linked, despite his foul job, with the infinite distress wherein the mass of humanity struggled. He thus acquired a new face, and it was this face that El Kordi thought of with disturbing emotion. He tried to remember one peculiar incident during his interrogation that had struck him as going beyond the bounds of simple police routine. What was it? Oh yes, the inspector had begun to speak to him in English, a language that they alone understood. For what reason? There was something truly ambiguous in that conversation in a foreign language, as if Nour El Dine, abandoning his interrogation, had wanted to create a bond of dubious intimacy between them. El Kordi recalled his delighted air, the suave tone of his voice — a confidential tone in complete contrast to his manners up till then — when he had spoken of his relations with young Naila. For a moment, he’d had the impression that the inspector had stepped out of his role of obtuse functionary to become a human being eager to please and to seduce. To seduce him: that was it! By heavens, now he understood everything. Nour El Dine, the police inspector, the dignified symbol of authority, was only a common pederast.
While speculating on the humorous value of his discovery, El Kordi crossed the bourgeois ministry quarter, entered a maze of populous alleys, and, without realizing it, found himself in front of Set Amina’s house. Along the way he had paid no attention to the numerous social injustices that usually saddened his gaze with their monotonous repetition. The thought that the police inspector was a pederast gave him such great joy that he forgot all of his ill feelings toward the power of the rich. The fear he had experienced during these last days — without daring to admit it — was transformed into extravagant, childish optimism. Certainly no pederast was going to frighten him. He was now eager to meet Nour El Dine. As he knocked at the door of the brothel, a satisfied smile illuminated his face, which was usually deceptively reserved.
“El Kordi Effendi!” exclaimed Zayed. “By Allah! What are you doing here? The house is closed; we’re no longer working.”
“This is a simple courtesy call,” answered El Kordi. “Let me in.”
“We’re being watched closely. No one saw you?”
“No, no one saw me. Calm down, I made myself invisible.”
“All right, come in quickly. The police have their eye on us.”
El Kordi entered and watched as Zayed closed the door.
“How is it that you’re not already in prison?”
“Now, now, El Kordi,” said Zayed in an extremely frightened tone. “None of those jokes, I beg you. They might hear you.”