Urfy struggled against a feeling of unreality. He was standing behind Heykal, and over his shoulder he could see his mother stretched out on her bed like a corpse. He didn’t dare intervene in what seemed to him to be a gift from heaven. By what miracle was Heykal able to carry on such a conversation with his mother? He spoke to her naturally, as if she was sane, and the old lady responded in the same way, as if the sheer magic of his presence had made her disordered mind begin to function. Right then Urfy began to wonder if his mother was really crazy or if she had been playing a part. But he banished the question from his mind; what was most important for now was to see her emerging from the darkness to regain her dignity and good humor.
The old lady opened her eyes, lowered the bouquet, and asked, a little anxiously:
“How is humanity these days, prince? I remember it as being nasty.”
She seemed to be asking about a foreign country she had once visited in her youth but to which she’d never returned.
“It still is,” responded Heykal. “But human foolishness remains entertaining enough.”
“There’s no hatred in you. I could tell in my dream the other night. I didn’t see a single spark of meanness in your eyes when you were fighting the dragon. And yet he wanted to devour you, prince. I would never have gotten over it. Be careful.”
“I won’t let myself be eaten up. I’m not the type. I know how to defend myself, even without hatred. Don’t worry about me.”
She gripped his hand and brought it to her lips, like a woman crushed by her lover’s departure for a pointless war.
“Yes, defend yourself. And come back victorious!”
Heykal contemplated her, touched to previously unsuspected depths of his being by this emaciated but smooth face, unwrinkled even by age. He knew no face so transparent, so utterly without blemish. Even the face of the little girl in the tearoom now seemed to bear a stigma of impurity. Her animation had been founded on guile and will, born of unflinching determination to seduce a cunning adversary — already she displayed the tools of her femininity. But the peace of this moment was something else entirely. Saved! Yes, he was saved from the oppressive hypocrisy of men. Only opposite this madwoman, who had forgotten the torments of vanity and lucre, could he feel at peace with the world. For him she had become the incarnation of a human being free of rancor or ambition.
He could see that the old woman was also observing him with an expression of happiness, as if she couldn’t believe the marvelous peace she was feeling.
“We understand each other, don’t we, prince?”
“Yes,” said Heykal. “But it’s our secret and we mustn’t tell anyone.”
Then she leaped from the bed and began to skip and spin around in the narrow space between the bed and the dresser. Her dress flared away from her feeble body, revealing her skinny brown-spotted legs, as she began a melancholy chant that was nonetheless full of spirit and youth, and her voice was that of a young girl happily playing in the garden of her childhood.
Heykal didn’t make a move to stop this spontaneous outbreak of dancing. He was happy watching her, delighted; the scene seemed as beautiful to him as a supernatural vision.
Urfy blanched; for a moment, he’d wanted to intervene, to interrupt the charm of this wild dance that was leading his mother back into madness. But as he observed Heykal, something shifted. He understood that madness and its ways held nothing terrifying. He could live as easily with his mother as with any human being. Madness makes no difference. He seized onto this as if it were his salvation, and, looking at his mother, he began to smile.
The old lady abruptly stopped spinning. Gasping, she curled up on her bed, her features ecstatic.
“Little one,” she said, addressing her son. “Buy me a new dress. A dress with sequins. I want to look good the next time the prince comes to visit. He gives me flowers, and I receive them like a beggar. I must be beautiful.”
She reached out and grasped the bouquet of jasmine. Her head fell back on the pillow and she slept deeply.
The two men watched for a moment, then left the room in silence.
Urfy was afraid to speak; never in his life had he been so happy. An enormous burden seemed to slide off his shoulders, leaving him free and invulnerable. He no longer stooped but held his head high as he followed Heykal to the front door.
Before parting they shook hands. They stood in the deserted, badly lit street in front of the basement door.
“You have a precious gift,” said Heykal. “Don’t ever give her up to those criminals!”
“Don’t worry,” responded Urfy. “I understand now. And forgive me, Heykal, my brother, that it took so long.”
Heykal walked off, then turned back to see Urfy still standing in front of the basement entrance. Once again he waved, with all the pomp and circumstance of a king departing for exile, leaving all that is most precious to him far behind.
12
It was only a big cloud passing over the city, but it blotted out the sun so completely you would have thought a storm was brewing. The kite was a yellow streak against the dark background of sky, and it pitched back and forth, tossed by a gusty sea breeze. The long fringed tail wriggled and writhed like a snake sprung from the belly of the cloud into a maddening void. Karim grasped the string firmly, racing around the terrace, back and forth, maneuvering the kite to ever greater heights. It was a new kite, with an enormous tail, and he was testing it with fierce pleasure — he’d made it for Amar, the little prostitute who’d shown up again the night before. When he came home, he’d found her sitting on the steps of his building. She’d apologized for disturbing him, but Karim had lifted her in his arms and carried her to the bedroom. He made love to her all night, and in the morning he wanted to give her something. But what? He had no money, nothing of any value to express his gratitude. Then he thought he’d make a kite — not for financial consideration but as a pure disinterested work of art. He leaped out of bed and got started, choosing his materials with care, as if getting ready to build a palace for the woman of his dreams.
Now he was waiting for the kite to scale the heights, to anchor itself firmly in the sky, before calling the girl to come see. He was proud of himself; it was a triumph of kite-making and she was sure to admire his skill. Wasn’t it a marvelous gift — so pretty, this kite sailing through the stormy immensity of the sky like a shimmering sign of love? He smiled at his silly romanticism, carefully steering the heavy kite through the unpredictable dangers of the atmosphere. He was worried, fearing an accident; a moment’s distraction and his beautiful gift might split to pieces. For a moment he panicked, then sighed with relief; his task was done. High in the sky the kite hung still, solitary and regal; Karim could feel it vibrating at the end of its string. He stopped, out of breath, his bare chest glistening with sweat, and leaned on the parapet. For a long moment, he stood admiring his creation with childlike pride.
“Dear God! I can see you’re having fun!”
Karim gave a start, and the kite pitched lightly in the distance; he tugged on the string to steady it. He knew that voice, and without taking his eyes from the kite, he yelled out:
“Hello, Taher! Believe me, I’m not having fun, I’m hard at work!”
Taher strode onto the terrace. He wore his signature tight suit, starched collar, and tie. But this time he wasn’t barefoot; his shoes had new soles, very thick, made to last a long time. They made an imposing sound on the terrace. The sound seemed to give Taher pleasure; with each step his self-confidence grew. He approached Karim and put his hand on the young man’s shoulder.
“Delighted to see you at work,” he said. “Your terrace is splendid, I have to admit. Listen, I have to apologize for the other night. Your friend Heykal knew what I meant, but you I need to talk to.”