“Why wouldn’t you? I might think you’re spurning me.”
“Such a thought is far from me,” the beggar protested. “The sight of you enchants me; I love to chat with you. Your presence is worth more than all the treasures on earth.”
“You flatter me,” Gohar said. “Business going well?”
“God is great!” answered the beggar. “But business isn’t important. There are so many joys in life. Have you heard the story of the elections?”
“No, I never read the paper.”
“This one wasn’t in the papers. Someone told it to me.”
“All right, I’m listening.”
“Well! This took place some time ago in a little village in Lower Egypt during elections for mayor. When the government clerks opened the ballot boxes, they discovered that the majority of the ballots had the name of Barghout on them. The clerks didn’t know this name; it wasn’t on any party list. Bewildered, they made inquiries and were amazed to learn that Barghout was the name of a donkey renowned in the whole village for his wisdom. Nearly all the people had voted for him. What do you think of the story?”
Gohar breathed happily; he was delighted. “They are ignorant and illiterate,” he thought, “but they’ve just done the most intelligent thing the world has seen since there’ve been elections.” The behavior of these peasants lost in the depths of their village was the true consolation, without which life would become impossible. Gohar was overwhelmed with admiration. His joy was so piercing in nature that he remained dumbfounded, looking at the beggar. A kite landed on the street nearby, scratched around with its beak for something rotten, found nothing, and flew away.
“Wonderful!” Gohar exclaimed. “And how does the story end?”
“Naturally, he wasn’t elected. What do you expect? An ass with four feet? The high officials wanted an ass with two feet!”
“You deserve something special for such a marvelous story. You’ve made me happy. What can I do for you?”
“Your friendship is enough,” the beggar said. “I knew that you would appreciate it.”
“You overwhelm me,” Gohar said. “We’ll meet again soon, I hope.”
Gohar turned left, entered a sordid, relatively quiet alley, and headed for the Mirror Café. He knew he wouldn’t find anyone at this hour, but he liked to give miracles a chance to happen.
The Mirror Café was located at the junction of two alleys; it occupied most of the dirt street, forbidden to heavy vehicles, where only the handcarts of strolling merchants ventured. Immense awnings stretched over the winding terrace like at a covered market. An impressive number of mirrors in sculpted and gilded frames hung everywhere, even on the façades of neighboring hovels. The Mirror Café was famous for its green tea and the eclecticism of its clientele, composed of carters, intellectuals, and foreign tourists thirsting for local color. Just now there wasn’t a crowd. Gohar crossed the terrace, gliding between the tables in search of an acquaintance. A few important-looking people were smoking water pipes with a minimum of effort; others played backgammon while drinking a glass of tea. Some rare specimens of the tribe of cigarette-butt scavengers, awake before the others, went about their work with debonair indifference; they weren’t afraid of competition.
“Greetings, Master!”
Gohar turned around. El Kordi was half out of his chair, offering his hand.
“What!” Gohar said. “You didn’t go to the ministry today?”
“I went, but I left right away; I just couldn’t work. Master, I’m extremely unhappy.”
“What’s wrong, my son?”
“I’ve just been there,” El Kordi said mysteriously. “She’s sicker than ever. I let her sleep.” Then, seeing that Gohar was still standing, “But sit down, Master.”
Gohar sat down; El Kordi called the waiter.
“What would you like?”
“A tea,” answered Gohar.
“Me too,” said El Kordi.
The waiter went off shouting his order in the musical voice of an invert. With a mischievous gleam in his eyes, Gohar looked at El Kordi. El Kordi seemed completely miserable; that is, he was doing everything possible to appear so. He was a good-looking young man, carefully dressed in a spotless tarboosh, with slightly slanted eyes and a bitter, sensual mouth. His job as a clerk in some ministry embittered his romantic soul. It could easily be seen that he was enamored of justice.
“I can’t leave her like that,” he said. “I must do something. Help me, or I’ll kill myself.”
Gohar didn’t answer right away. He continued sucking his mint lozenge, savoring this counterfeit that made him forget his craving for drugs.
“Why kill yourself?”
“You don’t understand. I must take her from the brothel. I can’t let her prostitute herself this way, sick as she is. And that beastly madam, Set Amina. Can you believe she wouldn’t even let her rest? When I think of all the money she brings her. It’s shameful! I’m telling you, I’ll kill myself.”
Gohar was not impressed by this confession. El Kordi’s troubles always had this morbid, merciless character. Now he seemed to be carrying all the world’s troubles, but it was only a state that he assumed from time to time so as to believe in his own dignity. For El Kordi deemed that dignity was the prerogative only of suffering and despair. It was his reading of Western literature that had deranged his mind so.
El Kordi’s present torments stemmed from the poignant face of a young prostitute dying of consumption in a nearby brothel. It was a poor brothel whose clientele was made up of petty bureaucrats and shabby revelers from the native quarter. At first, the young man had slept with her two or three times without attaching any importance to the act; it was only when he learned she was sick that El Kordi, always alert to social injustice, fell madly in love with her. He decided to free her from the brothel and to save her from an ignominious death, but he didn’t have enough money for such a rescue. So he never stopped imagining sublime solutions to his desperate love. Now he had chosen suicide, but it seemed that his decision wasn’t final, because he asked, “What should I do?”
Gohar was silent; he seemed to be enjoying himself in a strange way. On his impassive face, only the eyes reflected his inner joy. After a moment, he said, “Listen, I’m going to tell you a marvelous story.”
“What is it?” asked El Kordi.
Gohar told him the story of Barghout, the donkey elected to the post of mayor by the great wisdom of some peasants in Lower Egypt.
El Kordi had begun to smile but caught himself in time. This was surely not the time for gaiety. Instead, he had to take the opportunity to show Gohar that there were serious matters in life. He suddenly became vehement.
“It’s dreadful!” he said. “What barbarians!”
“You think they’re barbarians?”
“Yes, and the government exploits their ignorance.”
“But they just taught your government a superb lesson.”
“First, Master, it’s not my government,” El Kordi said hotly. “And then, I envisage other methods for fighting oppression. You will admit that there are serious matters in life.”
“Where do you see anything serious, my son?”
Instinctively El Kordi looked around in search of an example of austerity or grandeur, but his gaze found only a little cigarette-butt scavenger, dirty and covered in rags, roaming near their table listening to their conversation. He was performing his work with the solemnity of a meticulous rite and carrying his search for cigarette butts into the most out-of-the-way corners. Irritated by this behavior, El Kordi rose and placed his chair so as better to allow him to inspect the ground. But the child didn’t go away; he seemed tied to them with a cord. El Kordi sat back down, and, looking at the child, said with stinging irony, “Well, my friend, are you going to have coffee with us?”