Naila returned to the waiting room, followed by a client who left after a brief goodbye. Paying no attention to El Kordi, she leaned toward Set Amina and gave her a sum of money that the madam stuffed in her blouse.
“Let’s go to your room, my darling!” said El Kordi. “I have to talk to you.”
“Leave me alone,” Naila answered without looking at him. “I’m here to work, not to listen to your nonsense.”
“Go with him, child,” said Set Amina. “This man is crazy. I don’t want a scandal.”
“No, Aunt. I’m not going. I don’t know this man anymore.”
She sat down on the couch and pressed close against Set Amina, as if to seek her protection.
El Kordi did not understand this sudden indifference. Why was she sulking? He took a chair and sat down facing his mistress.
“You shouldn’t work,” he said. “I told you to rest.”
“Are you going to feed me?”
This reproach seemed trivial and unjust. As if it were a question of food!
“I’m being hunted by the police and you talk to me about food!” he said despairingly.
“Shh!” said Set Amina. “Don’t speak of the devil! He’s nearby!”
The plainclothes policeman returned, clasping Akila by the waist and puffing up his chest as if he were the only virile man in the neighborhood. He whispered words of love in her ear and smiled at everyone in the room, as if to apologize for the pleasure he had just enjoyed.
El Kordi calmly turned toward him and said in a worldly tone, “If there is a policeman here, I would love to make his acquaintance.”
The so-called provincial merchant took the blow without losing his joviality. Nevertheless, he played the honest man terrified by the proximity of the police.
“A policeman here! On my honor, it’s a black day!”
“It seems that the policeman is you,” El Kordi said, pointing his finger at him.
The man turned pale.
“You are wrong, Effendi! I am an honorable merchant.”
“Don’t insult the clientele,” Set Amina interjected. “This man is a nobleman. I know him.”
“But you yourself told me he is a policeman!” El Kordi shot back in blind rage.
“Me!” shouted Set Amina. “You ingrate! And I received you in this house like my own son!”
“Calm down, good people!” said the policeman. “It’s a simple misunderstanding. Let’s clear it up.”
“It’s useless,” said El Kordi. “I’m ready to confess.”
“Confess what, Effendi?”
“I confess that I am the murderer of Arnaba.”
The policeman opened his eyes wide and his face assumed a rigid expression. For a moment Naila remained petrified at her lover’s confession, then broke into sobs. Impassive and smiling, Gohar watched the scene from where he was. Assuredly, El Kordi would never change. He had just put himself in a nasty situation for the simple pleasure of astonishing his pitiful audience.
10
THE TALL, broad-shouldered man stood in his stall like a mummy in a sarcophagus. It was a narrow shop, barely two feet wide and a foot deep; it was full of little bottles holding rare essences, pots of unguents, and vials containing elixirs against impotence and sterility. It gave off a heavy, clinging perfume scent that made the air unbreathable all the way to the end of the lane and beyond.
With skillfully measured gestures, the man uncorked a miniscule vial and offered it to a woman customer standing on the doorstep to smell.
“A single drop of this perfume and men will die for you,” he said.
“I don’t want to kill anyone,” the woman laughed. “I just want my husband to find me attractive.”
“Then I won’t sell it to you,” said the man. “I pity him. At the very least, he’d go mad.”
“What a black day! Why all the foolishness? I’ll buy it.”
“Very well, for you that will be only ten piasters.”
“Ten piasters! By Allah! You’re ruining me! I’m the one going mad. Well, here’s your money.”
She rummaged through the folds of her melaya, took out a handkerchief, untied it, and counted out the sum. The merchant gave her the vial.
“You’ll see,” he said. “You will be eternally grateful to me. Your husband will never be able to resist you. It will be impossible for him to go on living without this perfume.”
“He’ll just have to come to you to buy more.”
“By the Prophet! I won’t sell it to him.”
The woman left carrying her vial of perfume, and the man turned to Yeghen.
“It’s agreed,” he said. “The price suits me. I’ll take the merchandise.”
“I’ll bring it to you as soon as possible. I don’t know when. I expect it soon.”
“I hope it’s good quality.”
“The best,” said Yeghen. “You know I’m an expert. I’ll see you later.”
Leaving the perfume stall, Yeghen headed for the Mirror Café. He was a little anxious because the man seemed wary. It had not been easy to persuade him. The trick had become too well known among drug dealers; Yeghen had already tried it many times, and he always came out ahead. In fact, it was the simplest of swindles. It involved concluding a deal for a certain quantity of heroin, and then, when the time came, giving the buyer a packet containing sodium sulfate bought in a pharmacy. Since the transaction had to be done in all haste — given the circumstances — the buyer was prevented from appraising the goods. When he discovered the fraud, it was already too late. All he could do was curse the thief, without daring to complain to anyone.
It had been a long time since Yeghen had had recourse to this dishonest dealing. Not because of any scruples of conscience but because his bad reputation made him suspect to all the dealers in town. It was very difficult for him to find new victims. The man to whom he had finally addressed himself was one of the rare dealers he had never fleeced and with whom he had the best of relations. Still, the risk was great because the man was also a police informer. He could be setting a trap for him. But Yeghen was resolved to run this risk; he knew no other way to obtain the money that would allow Gohar to leave for Syria and escape the consequences of his crime.
At the Mirror Café, he found Gohar sitting with El Kordi; the two men weren’t speaking. Looking more dismal than ever, El Kordi seemed to be contemplating some terrible revenge. As for Gohar, he was sucking a hashish ball with tranquil happiness, his gaze lost among the crowd of drinkers who filled the meandering terrace; from time to time he took the glass placed before him and drank a mouthful of warm tea. Yeghen sat down with them without saying anything; he also had no desire to speak. He reflected on the swindle he had just set up; if everything went as planned he would soon have the money that he had promised Gohar for his trip. To save Gohar from prison, and perhaps even from the gallows, had become a kind of sacred mission for him. All these last days, he had thought only of how to help him. His astonishment at Gohar’s crime had remained as strong as ever; the mystery continued to intrigue him. How had Gohar come to that? What absurd chain of circumstances had driven him to commit the only act for which he was not at all made? Gohar was the least violent of men, so how to imagine that he had attacked an inoffensive little prostitute, the most pitiful of all creatures? Yeghen would have liked to ask Gohar for more ample details about the incredible scene that had unfolded between him and his victim, but a kind of modesty, or delicate discretion, held him back. Why did he need to know? Didn’t true friendship rise to the occasion without asking for explanations?
The radio suddenly burst out like a storm, sweeping over the terrace with a wave of deafening music. The squall shook Gohar; he seemed to notice Yeghen’s presence. A pale smile lit his face.