“Follow me.”
Karim followed him silently, staying in character as a poor, harmless wretch. The orderly opened a door, let Karim in, and closed it behind him softly, as if to avoid waking a sleeper. Karim noticed the typical smell of an interrogation room: an undefinable scent, mental more than olfactory, as if human absurdity emitted a nauseating stench. People of all types and from all over waited on benches along the walls, their expressions frozen with resignation so excessive that it looked put on. They seemed to have been there forever, covered in dust, their clothes all worn out; they were like sculptures from another era that had just been dug up. Karim gazed at them briefly, stupefied, like someone viewing a catacomb and its relics for the first time. He pulled his handkerchief from his pocket and mopped the sweat off his forehead to prove to himself that he was still alive, but already he knew the sinister truth: all these people were playing the same game he was. If they were mute and looked lifeless, it was in the hopeless hope that they would be taken for dead. This, of all possible attitudes, was the one that was least exposed to tyranny’s talons. Karim admired their act of dissimulation and, only too happy to get a close-up look at these models of humanity, found an open spot on one of the benches and sat down, mimicking their pitiful posture. For a moment he stayed there, neutrally still, playing dead in this disparate gathering of mute victims; then, with an abundance of circumspection, he risked a glance toward the back of the room. Seated behind his desk, a uniformed security officer was exhaustively interrogating a bleary-eyed man with the look of a piecemeal skeleton, apparently a spy from some miserable desert country. Just behind them, two policemen with military mustaches stood at attention. Karim recognized the officer: it was Hatim, the one who’d taken care of him back in the day. This discovery surprised and irked him at the same time; he thought the new regime would have had the good sense to change their policemen. How naive! And yet he should have known: the simple truth, enduring and unchallenged, was that the power of the police outlasted every regime.
From the back of the room he heard Hatim’s voice, scathing and angry; the officer seemed to be having some serious problems with an informant. Karim heard the latter let out a long sigh in response to his torturer’s repeated interrogations, as if advanced tuberculosis prevented him from articulating a single word. Hatim made a strange face in front of this mute, emaciated stool pigeon. To keep from bursting into laughter, Karim had to remember his own situation — it was far from stellar. He was going to have to revise all his plans. How could he play his game with Hatim, who knew all about him? Hatim wouldn’t walk right into his trap. Karim’s moral and physical transformation — even after all these years — would make him highly suspicious. Perhaps he should refine his act, introduce a modicum of dignity, the kind of dignity that Hatim, in his barbaric cruelty, would relish breaking. Karim decided to offer him this paltry gift as a sign of his esteem.
Hatim suddenly seemed to have had enough of his stool pigeon; with a furious gesture he turned him over to one of the guards. For a moment he appeared to relax and breathe more easily, as if set free; then he started scrutinizing the people seated on the benches. He seemed to be looking for somebody specific and kept shaking his head with a disappointed frown. Suddenly a spark lit up in his eyes; he’d just recognized Karim in this heap of human garbage. His nostrils flared, a thin smile fluttered on his lips, and he seemed to bloom with renewed vigor and aggression.
“Karim effendi!” he yelled, pointing to the young man.
Karim rose and went to stand in front of the police officer.
“Hello, Your Excellency!” he said in his humblest voice, his eyes lowered, and in a posture of uttermost contrition.
The officer looked taken aback; he stared closely at Karim as if perhaps he’d mistaken his identity.
“I must be dreaming!” he said. “You never acted like this before. What’s happened to you?”
Karim kept his eyes down and said nothing. He was aware that the entire interrogation would depend on his reply. He was searching for the right words when Hatim resumed:
“Sit down. You have no idea how happy I am to see you.”
Karim sat on the chair that the stool pigeon had just vacated and looked up at the officer with an expression of unquestionable sincerity.
“I know I was wrong, Your Excellency! Can’t the police simply forget about me?”
“Forget you!” exclaimed Hatim. “But you left such unforgettable memories! You wanted to destroy everything. You promised to have me hung once you and your friends were in power. Those were your very words, or am I mistaken?”
“That was foolishness,” said Karim. “I was joking, Your Excellency! How could you have thought that I was serious?”
“What are you talking about? Do you take me for an imbecile?”
“No, God help me, Your Excellency! In a moment of madness I might have said such things. And things were different then. You forget, Your Excellency, that was during the old regime.”
“And? Are you a revolutionary, yes or no? Can you explain to me in what way the new regime is more satisfactory than all the others?”
“It’s hard to explain,” admitted Karim, crestfallen. “But you can feel it, there’s no doubt. With a good regime, even the air is different. For example, just now, walking in the street, it seemed to me that it was not so hot as it used to be.”
“Ah! It’s not so hot now! That’s the sole benefit you find in the new regime?”
“I am sure the new regime has brought other benefits, but perhaps I’m not aware of them, Your Excellency.”
Now this was talking! Karim was almost proud of himself for coming up with that one. But the officer looked worried; the young man’s display of humility had thrown him off. Could he be joking? Unlikely. He knew Karim’s mentality very well; nothing about it indicated he’d go in for such trifles. Then what? It was a mystery, and for now he was stumped, but he meant to clear it up before going any further.
Hatim had expected to do battle with a stubborn adversary, and he found himself facing a human worm. Notwithstanding his professional duties, he’d found occasion at every turn to admire the courage — the indomitable revolutionary spirit — that had driven the young man. And he’d been happy at the prospect of measuring himself against him once more. He’d learned a lot from these revolutionaries, things that had been very good for his career. Among higher-ups, Hatim was known for having studied the subject of subversion from every angle; he was considered a highly sophisticated officer, capable of combating the twisted theories of all the young madmen who wanted to overthrow the powers that be. In fact, his whole knowledge of such matters consisted of snippets torn out of political prisoners in the course of interrogation. So he resented Karim’s grotesque attitude. This son of a bitch wasn’t giving him anything positive to display in front of his superiors. Not as hot as it was under other regimes? He was making fun of him, for sure.
Anger boiled up inside Hatim, but he contained it. He examined the young man with the concern of a psychiatrist trying to detect a glimmer of dawning sanity in a patient. But Karim refused to react. He stayed in character: humble, tragically pitiable. Hatim’s eyes widened; he was thoroughly disappointed. He viewed the prospect of accepting the young man’s repentance with genuine displeasure. And he still didn’t quite believe it — it was just too easy. Revolutionaries don’t change, at least not like this. Like cops, they were indifferent to regimes.