But it was not just with the intention of taking a leisurely stroll that Karim found himself, at such an early hour, out in the blazing sun on a major thoroughfare and among a sullen mob moving sluggishly through the heat and dust. Yesterday evening he’d received an official summons ordering him to present himself for questioning. This hadn’t thrown him in the least; he’d expected it. It was the follow-up to the inquiry the police were conducting because of the cursed strategic route. So well before the appointed hour he’d gone out to savor the atmosphere of the street at leisure and to prepare himself for the interrogation, which would determine whether he could stay on in his new apartment. While he dawdled, he wondered if that old wheezy policeman who’d risked death to climb up his six flights of stairs a week earlier had kept his promise to write a favorable report. Would he, after accepting the kite, turn out to be an ingrate? Karim replayed the scene in his memory — the painful hesitation of the aging father who suspected a bribe. That he might have succeeded in corrupting an officer in the line of duty made him laugh, but only for an instant; he didn’t feel calm at all. He’d still have to answer pointless questions and grovel and snivel in order to get them to forgive his past as a revolutionary. It required preparation. Like an actor getting ready for the role of his life, he began to transform himself into the picture of humility, twisting his face into the expression of someone crushed by the burden of his responsibilities. Unfortunately there was no mirror, no window in which to examine himself. To rehearse a role of such import without being able to correct the inevitable flaws — and however small, they could still cause damage — was proving an arduous, challenging task. He tried resuming his normal look, smiling broadly to erase the expression of suffering from his face. No matter what, he was sure to disgust them, all those idiot cops who wanted to kick him out of his comfortable lodging and throw him into a hovel in the slums. He was attached to his spacious terrace and the sea breeze, both essential for testing his kites. But more than that, it was a question of honor — above all because of that ineffably ingenuous “strategic route.” It was really too beautiful; how could he not plumb it to its most ludicrous depths? He just had to make sure to stick to his plan, acting inoffensive and obsequious, almost simpleminded, careful never to utter an intelligent word — that was the biggest risk. To demonstrate intelligence was as good as spitting in their faces. But how was he going to dim the sardonic glint in his eyes? Dark glasses? Pretend he had conjunctivitis? What a marvelous idea! Why hadn’t he thought of it earlier? But it was too late now, and anyway, he couldn’t afford to buy the glasses.
From time to time, his eyes fell on one of the posters he’d put up the night before in anticipation of today’s walk. Strewing his path with pictures of the governor had seemed brilliant then, when he’d been filled with the delighted anticipation of today’s walk, but now he regretted having anything to do with this hideous thing that accosted him with every step, like a billboard from hell. The posters made him sick; it was all too depressing. Already a few of them had fallen victim to local vandals, with eyes scratched out or a beard scribbled in. These perfidious flourishes hadn’t ruined the governor completely; he was still recognizable. Since the appearance of the posters, he’d become as famous as a movie star. Even children cursed him, like the villain of an action film. But that didn’t bother the authorities in the least; what bothered them was when crowds gathered around to look and laugh, peppering their laughter with jibes and snide asides. More than once the police had to intervene, arresting a few individuals who were laughing especially loudly, charging them with public drunkenness. Which was, come to think of it, more or less true. And then there were always two or three hash smokers around, and for them the governor’s picture triggered explosions of transcendent glee. Nothing could temper their hysterical outbursts — not even the billy clubs of the policemen, who were furious to see the effects of drug use spreading to contaminate the lives of clean-living citizens, who no doubt were stunned by such unmerited praise of the governor but still maintained appearances as best they could. These bouts of collective hilarity — which would spring up at the most inopportune moments, sometimes causing traffic jams — were putting the authorities to the test. The government’s henchmen waited dejectedly, utterly confounded by the treacherous initiative, which seemed unworthy of real revolutionaries and bordered on being a hoax.
Karim stopped abruptly. A few meters ahead, under the shade of one of the trees lining the avenue, a traveling barber had set up with his tools. Karim wondered if he should get his hair cut. Suddenly it seemed vital that he appear well-groomed when presenting himself to the authorities, so that they would recognize the esteem in which he held them. A haircut was essentiaclass="underline" long hair suggested the tortured spirit of a bitter revolutionary. And his scruffy neck and sideburns — not respectable. What a serious mistake he’d almost made! How would they know he’d reformed when he had a mop on his head befitting a dirty intellectual? A good haircut — an almost shaved head, like a convict’s — that would make the right impression! That would be concrete proof of his loyalty! And only one man could perform this miracle: this ignorant barber, with his clippers of mass destruction.
Karim sauntered up, delighted with his decision.
The barber was in the midst of shaving an earnest young man wearing a dark, tattered suit, with a morose expression and an air of dignified poverty. He sat on a wooden stool with his back pressed against a tree and his eyes closed, and the impression he made was one of exquisite agony. On his knees was a paper folder on which he had laid his threadbare tarboosh, the distinctive sign of a public servant — he looked like he was afraid of being dragged into the surrounding human scum. The barber squatted and, with the meticulous gestures of an embalmer preparing a corpse, shaved his customer’s cheeks with a razor so old and broken that it rasped like a power saw. Karim’s arrival didn’t disturb them at all; neither of them answered his greeting. Surprised, but as confident as ever of his plan, he sank down on the second stool the barber provided for waiting clients. Right away he felt a subtle change in the atmosphere, filling him with an incredible happiness, irresistibly nudging him little by little toward sleep. The cool shade and the scent of the shaving soap mingled with the violet perfume of various oils and tonics were like the sweet air of the countryside. It was hot as a furnace, but the barber’s spot — though still outdoors — was a garden of delights, a place to draw you into dreams. Karim would have liked to stay as long as possible, motionless, only half-conscious as people swirled about, writhing like the damned in the eternal fire. He was still savoring this exquisite respite when he was brutally torn from his torpor by a donkey cart coming to a screeching halt at the curb. The driver leaped to the ground, unhitched his donkey, and, grabbing it by the neck, hauled it into the shade practically right under Karim’s nose.