Proud Beggars (23 page)

“Beat me!” he cried. “Who would dare beat me?”

“So what are you complaining about, you son of a bitch!”

“I'm not complaining, Excellency! Who told you I was complaining?”

The three men built like carters remained motionless and silent. They studied their victim with malicious pleasure. Nour El Dine moved as though to stand up—he felt like hitting everyone, but he suddenly sensed the futility of his gesture and refrained. On the outside, he was still a police inspector, tough and uncompromising, tightly laced into his uniform, but deep inside everything was dissolving. He understood nothing of the mortal illness that had taken possession of his being and that rendered him unable to exercise his authority. It seemed that the power from which he drew his strength no longer existed, had never existed. To the astonishment of his audience, he brought his hand to his forehead and leaned on his desk in a pose of profound depression.

The policeman leaned toward him and said quietly, “Are you sick, sir?”

“Throw the whole bunch in the cell,” answered Nour El Dine. “I don't want to see them anymore.”

When the policeman and the four men had left the room, Nour El Dine looked at the plainclothesman seated on a chair, who had been waiting for a moment. It was the man he had assigned to watch the brothel.

“What do you have to tell me?”

“Actually, Excellency, I have nothing new to report. I think my job has become useless. Everyone there seems to know who I am.”

“That doesn't surprise me coming from you. No doubt you did everything to stand out.”

“But I did obtain results, Excellency! The confession of the young man—”

“I know,” Nour El Dine interrupted. “He made a fool of you.”

“I don't understand.”

“Don't try to understand; you'll hurt yourself! Tell me: did you notice anything new about this Gohar Effendi?”

“No, sir. He is a courteous and well-behaved man. He never seemed suspect to me.”

“Well, that's why I find him suspicious. You may go now.”

Once alone, Nour El Dine took his head in his hands and breathed a sigh of relief. His nerves were exhausted. This gang of bastards gave him no respite. He would have liked to kill them all, so as never to hear about them again. For some time he had been carrying out his duties in a grotesque fashion. A troubling element was interfering with his vitality and making him cruelly perplexed. What could he call this strange weakness, this weariness of the soul that had paralyzed him right in the middle of an interrogation, annihilating all will in him? It was making him stupid.

What he found incredible was this pride he was discovering everywhere around him, even among the most destitute people, those least likely to have any. The memory of the starving beggar with the bloody swollen face continued to haunt him. A strange fellow. He had not wanted to admit that he had been beaten. Who'd have expected to find pride there? Nour El Dine was faced with an enigma he could not penetrate, an enigma beyond any police investigation. What kept him in this fool's profession? Did he still believe in it? To spend his life seeing this accursed brood file before him, to suffer the frightening pride of these vagabonds—what a wretched curse! And that, just when he himself had forsaken all pride. For hadn't he almost groveled in the dirt before Samir, trying to soften him? The bitterest thing was that this shameful humiliation had not achieved anything; the young man had remained unmoved, coldly hostile. And when he had tried to touch him—most unhappy gesture—Samir had drawn a small knife from his pocket and had threatened him. Nour El Dine would never forget the hatred he had read in his eyes. That murderous light! He shivered again just thinking about it.

It was not so easy to forget, to overcome his sadness. At every moment as he carried out his duties, he ran up against the imbecilic pride of this miserable rabble. That only reopened his wound. And what on earth for? What joy could he hope for? More and more he felt that he must relinquish the responsibility of this endless, useless battle where he harvested only bitterness and deceit. Let murderers prosper and die in their beds. After all, he didn't give a damn.

It was already night when he rose and went out to the street. The yellow lights of the streetlamps sparkled all around the immense square bordered by stores and noisy cafés. Nour El Dine hurried across the road without paying attention to the swirls of traffic. The noise of streetcars and automobiles rushing by reached his ears as if muffled by distance. It seemed to him that for some time things were moving away from him, and that he saw them through a veil. Eyes wild, the collar of his tunic unbuttoned, he advanced, pushed toward his destiny by a malevolent force. He could not lie to himself; what now drew him to Gohar had no connection with the investigation of the murder of the prostitute. Since meeting Gohar, and especially since the conversation he'd had with him while accompanying him to his door, there had been a change in the way he thought about his work. Nour El Dine was beginning to waver. He, who had never questioned the sacred power that he held, was beginning to wonder where truth lay. He was no longer sure of anything. Despite his conviction that Gohar was the killer he sought—although admittedly he had no tangible proof—he continued to be far more interested in Gohar's personality than in the act of arresting a criminal. He realized that Gohar posed a problem whose solution would be fundamental to his future. All the time he had been compiling the facts accusing Gohar, he had felt he was dealing with explosive material that, once ignited, would leave only rubble behind. But he also felt that out of this rubble would come peace, the peace that he had felt in Gohar's presence and that at this moment he lacked terribly.

Nour El Dine plunged into the maze of alleys dimly lit by an occasional streetlamp. He could not quite remember where the house was located; all these shacks resembled one another in their common dilapidation. He made several detours, scrutinizing the cracked façades, trying to remember at which door he had left Gohar that night, but in vain. Everything was jumbled in his head; he couldn't recognize the precise spot. Bitterly disappointed, he was about to turn back when chance favored him: passing by a door, he bumped into someone.

“What a pleasant surprise!” said Gohar. “Were you coming to visit me? Welcome.”

“I was passing through the neighborhood and thought of coming to see you,” said Nour El Dine. “I hope I'm not disturbing you.”

“Not at all. It is an honor for me. Really, what a pleasant coincidence. I don't usually come home so early, but I wanted to leave this package in my room.”

Gohar was carrying a big package of old newspapers under his arm, held with difficulty tight against his hip. He was bent under the weight of his burden and appeared out of breath. Yet he amusedly contemplated the police inspector, as if this meeting made him strangely contented. He easily guessed it had not been accidental and that Nour El Dine had come to his house with the intention of questioning him about the crime. Did he already suspect him? Anyway, Gohar had been expecting this visit. He even desired it.

“Excuse my going up before you,” he said, “but I must show you the way. If not, you could kill yourself. This stairway is a veritable abyss; every step is a trap.”

One behind the other, they slowly climbed the dark staircase. In this impenetrable darkness, Nour El Dine could not see Gohar; he only heard his hoarse, panting breathing. He felt as if he had suddenly gone blind.

At last a faint glimmer. Gohar stopped on the landing; his neighbor's door was open and a light from a kerosene lamp feebly lit the flat, which seemed empty. Gohar stood in puzzlement for a few seconds. This open door frightened him; he would not care to meet his neighbor, the terrible hag. But suddenly the sound of a voice like an infant's cry roused him from his hesitation.

“Good people! Come and help me!”

Gohar advanced to the threshold, then entered his neighbor's flat, looking for the source of this poignant cry. He spotted the limbless man in a corner set on the ground like a horrible mutilated statue. With demented, tearful eyes, he was staring at a plate filled with beans and a piece of bread spread out before him: his evening meal. At Gohar's approach, he raised his head and his face assumed an expression of intense relief.

“What can I do for you?” asked Gohar.

“I'm hungry,” answered the man. “My wife went out and left me all alone. Could you help me eat?”

“Certainly,” said Gohar.

He leaned down to place his pack of newspapers on the ground, revealing Nour El Dine in the doorway.

“The police!” cried the limbless man, noticing him. “What are the police doing here?”

“He's a friend,” said Gohar. “Don't worry. He won't harm you.”

“I don't like to see the police. Get him out of here!”

Rolling his eyes in fear, the man forgot his hunger and thought only of this astounding scandal: the presence of a police inspector in his room. He twisted his body on its base of piled-up rags and grunted like a beast caught in a trap, absurdly trying to escape what he thought to be an arrest. His desperate efforts were so pathetic that Nour El Dine was on the point of going to help him. Finally he calmed down, his fright abandoning him little by little, and he remained immobile, mouth open, waiting for his food. With his large, flat nose, thick lips, and puffy cheeks covered with stubble, he resembled an enormous toad.

Gohar squatted next to him, and with an almost maternal delicacy and sweetness began to feed him. He behaved with the man as he would with an infant.

“Why did she leave?” he asked. “You had a quarrel?”

“Yes,” said the man. “That bitch is jealous. She never stops making scenes.”

“If she is jealous, then she must love you,” said Gohar. “Tell me what happened.”

“Well, it was like this. Tonight when she came to fetch me in town, she found me chatting with a young cigarette-butt scavenger. That made her furious. Every time she sees a woman come near me, she goes crazy with jealousy. And yet I am faithful. I can't help it if women make advances to me. I swear to God! I don't know what attracts them to me!”

Nour El Dine remained leaning against the doorframe like a condemned man at the stake. The words of the limbless man had trouble penetrating his consciousness. Was it possible? He couldn't conceive of such pretentions, such self-conceit on the part of so hideous a human wreck. He had the feeling that the man was indecently putting on airs by speaking of the attraction he exercised on women. What especially fascinated Nour El Dine was the absence of any gestures; this absence conferred a grave, solemn tone on his words, the cold dignity of a talking machine. Nour El Dine wanted to burst out laughing, but a reflex of professional manners restrained him. He must keep a straight face at all costs. He had come this far to penetrate a mystery; perhaps he was finally going to understand.

The limbless man ate with a ferocious appetite. From time to time he glanced furtively at Nour El Dine; he still could not believe that this inspector was here on a courtesy call. Fear of being arrested made him swallow too quickly; he seemed to beg Gohar to hurry and, above all, not to abandon him.

“Don't worry, she'll surely come back,” said Gohar.

“Oh no! I don't want her anymore,” said the man. “Let her go and get herself screwed somewhere else. I've had enough. And besides, she's too old for me. I'm going to repudiate her. I intend to get remarried with a young virgin.”

He smiled lewdly, looked at Gohar, and added, “What do you think of that?”

Gohar recalled the horrible woman and was pleased at the thought of having a young neighbor soon.

“I think you're right,” he said. “It's always preferable to have a young woman. There's no doubt about, it's more enjoyable.”

“That's right. What I want is a little virgin. I hope you'll do me the honor of coming to my wedding. I'm going to give a nuptial dinner.”

“I wouldn't miss it,” said Gohar. “You want something to drink?”

“Yes, please. There's the water jug.”

The water jug was against the wall behind Gohar. He took it, tipped it toward the man's mouth, and helped him drink.

“Thank you,” the man said, after having drunk. “Believe me, I'm sorry to take advantage of your kindness like this.”

“It is an honor and a pleasure for me,” said Gohar.

“You can count on my gratitude. I would be delighted to render you any service whatsoever.”

“I am your humble servant,” said Gohar. “A neighbor like you is a blessing from heaven.”

This exchange of exquisite courtesies was not to Nour El Dine's taste. He began to wonder if Gohar and the limbless man were making fun of him. For an instant he thought of leaving, fleeing this vision of hell. But something held him in spite of himself; he wanted to understand. If only they would explain to him how this man, this outcast from humanity, could excite a woman's jealousy. But no, Gohar continued to converse tranquilly with the man, making a grand display of civilities as if it were a worldly conversation. Nour El Dine felt like an intruder, as if seeing a pair of lovers busy caressing each other. He had a strong desire to beat a retreat. He backed up slowly and found himself alone on the dark landing. But it was too late now to escape the trap that destiny held for him. Gohar's voice already reached him, saying goodbye to the limbless man.

“Peace be with you! I'll be back to see you soon.”

Gohar came out on tiptoe, his cane held above the ground, taking a thousand precautions, as if he feared to disturb the sleep of a sick person. With the happy air of someone who had just attended an amusing spectacle, he crossed the landing and pushed open the door to his flat.

“After you, Excellency!”

Nour El Dine hesitated before crossing the threshold, then he boldly advanced into the darkness like a man resolved to hurl himself into an abyss. He stopped, winded; he had just collided with a wooden object. He went around the obstacle and stood still, expecting to receive a knife in his heart. He had the feeling that Samir was hiding in the shadows, knife in hand, ready to kill him. For an instant this uneasiness was extreme, then he heard Gohar moving somewhere in the dark and soon a candle flame lit up the room.