“No need to talk,” said Karim.
He didn’t look at Taher, keeping his eyes on the kite. The fat cloud had drifted off and now the sun reappeared, blurry, as if enfeebled by a long absence. Its rays glanced off the yellow framework of the kite, which sparkled in the sky like a trail of gold. Karim was ecstatic to be holding all this gold at the end of a string, but his ecstasy was tempered by more realistic concerns. Taher’s presence on the terrace was not particularly to his liking; on the contrary, it was seriously worrying for him. Taher was putting him in a difficult, perhaps even a dangerous situation. The presence of a patented revolutionary in his home could cause no end of trouble, for no doubt the police were following his old friend’s every movement. If by a stroke of bad luck they found out about this visit, they’d cause problems for him, the cruelest of which would be to make him move out. They would drive him out; no question of it. But what to do? He couldn’t forbid Taher to enter his home; that would be improper and completely incompatible with his character. He had a highly developed sense of hospitality, and whatever might happen, he knew he could never bring himself to show his old friend the door.
Taher seemed annoyed by the offhandedness of his reception; he supposed Karim had no time for anything except his kite.
“Forget the kite and look at me,” he said.
“It took me an hour to get it so high,” said Karim, with eyes still lifted up. “Don’t you think it’s beautiful?”
“I’m in no mood to marvel at a kite. Who do you think I am? Come on, stop fooling around, I have serious things to discuss.”
“God, what have I done!” lamented Karim. “There are a million men in this city, and you have to come to me with serious things to discuss! Can’t you just enjoy yourself? Look at this kite, what a marvel!”
“The only reason I came to you is because this is your terrace,” Taher remarked enigmatically.
“My terrace! You want to buy it?”
“Don’t be ridiculous. I just want to make use of it this evening between nine and ten o’clock. That’s all I ask.”
“To do what? To sleep with a woman? If that’s what you want, I’m happy to let you use my bedroom.”
Without responding, Taher lifted his head to look at the kite, which remained perfectly still in the sky. He’d almost exhausted his patience for capturing Karim’s attention; to make him understand his plan would be even more complicated. This fool thinks he’s an engineer because he can fly a kite! Such degeneracy was beyond remedy, and Taher realized he was up against what he hated most: a joker and his wiles. How was he going to reach him? How could he penetrate his conscience when he was so proud to reject both dignity and honor, those treasures of the soul that even the most miserable beggar held fast beneath his rags? There Karim stood like a dim-witted child, mesmerized by his kite, while the people were suffering and the city stank with the sickness of their pain. Taher wanted to cry, to scream, to lash out, but he contained his rage: he was the people’s proxy, the military wing of their revenge. Duty commanded that he forget his bitterness for now. He must focus on the reason he was here.
“Did you know that there’s a big gala going on tonight at the casino?” he said in a soft, almost friendly tone, as if he hoped Karim would accompany him to the party.
“I didn’t, in fact. I’m not as social as you think.”
“It’s not about being social. I abhor social events, as you well know. But the governor is going; he’s the host of the party.”
“So?” Karim asked, suddenly worried at this mention of the governor.
“He’ll pass by in his car, with his motorcycle escorts — right down there on the cliff road. It’s the only possible route. I’ve studied it.”
“Where are you going with this? I’m not following.”
Taher took his time before responding. He looked at Karim’s tense features, his hand gripping the kite string. And then he said, quickly:
“It’s very simple. I’ll be here with a bomb and I’ll throw it at his car. There’s no better location.”
“So we’re back to that!” cried Karim, turning to Taher with horror in his eyes. “I was sure there would be a bomb somewhere in this!”
The neglected kite lurched violently and plunged several meters, like a crashing plane. Karim sprinted across the terrace, forgetting Taher, forgetting the insane plan he’d just been told, thinking of nothing but saving his kite from catastrophe. He gestured wildly, waving his arms in one direction and then another; then, with one quick, precise motion he set the kite back on course. He stood in the middle of the terrace, proud of this demonstration of his skills in aerial navigation.
“Bravo!” Taher called out. “I can’t believe your incredible escape! It was amazing, I swear!”
Taher’s flattery was so blatantly charged with ulterior motives that Karim felt disgusted. Without turning around he responded:
“My dear Taher, you know I’ll never participate in such a violent act. My terrace is not a slaughterhouse.”
“You can’t refuse me,” Taher said, and he came closer. “Plus, it’s not just me you’d be refusing but all of our old friends. You know I speak for them, too.”
Karim smiled to himself. With his tight suit, starched collar, and tie, Taher claimed to be a humble agent; he wanted Karim to know that an entire organization — the whole people, even — stood behind him, speaking through his very mouth. He wanted to impress him with the vast extent of his decision. Did he take him for a fool? Karim pitied his naiveté; he was certain that Taher had spoken to nobody about his plan. He knew him all too welclass="underline" his taste for mystery and the insufferable obsession that led him to think of himself as entirely alone in the fight against injustice and oppression. Not ambition but something worse drove him, a sense that the sufferings of humanity were all his own. He planned to commit an act of unprecedented violence that would send him straight to the gallows, and he was marching toward it like a blind man toward an abyss — as if he’d been marked from birth for this and had no choice but to see it through. Of course he had no idea that the governor had already been defeated, that he was about to kill a man who was, for all intents and purposes, dead.
“Listen closely,” said Karim. “The governor is out. He’ll be gone in a matter of hours; the prime minister has demanded his resignation. Soon he’ll be nothing but a memory. I have this from a reliable source.”
“Don’t give me your stories,” Taher retorted suspiciously. “Your sources are a joke. You want me to believe that your posters brought him down?”
“Yes, our posters. I know it’s hard for you to accept. But I’m begging you, give up your plan.”
“Never. The decision is made: we will strike hard. The tyrant will die, mark my words. And you’re going to help us.”
He didn’t say it, but he’d thought up the whole scene solely in order to wash off the filth that Heykal, with his quirks and jokes, had covered him with. Heykal, that impudent destroyer of revolutions. That the police suspected him, Taher, of being the author of such a travesty gnawed at him like a poison. How was he to continue his work as a militant? The false imputation paralyzed his every thought. He had to prove to the authorities that he hadn’t renounced his methods, that he was still a force to be reckoned with; above all he couldn’t allow them to sleep peacefully in the blissful confidence that they were up against a bunch of juvenile delinquents. He wanted to shake them up with an act of brutality that would make them understand that the posters, and that whole business about the governor’s statue, had nothing to do with his ideas about overthrowing power. After this attack, they’d be forced to admit their mistake. How else was he to save the honor of his party in the eyes of the police — for Taher, in his own bloodthirsty way, was vain.