The Colors of Infamy

I

T
he human
multitude meandering at the nonchalant pace of summer along the ancient city of
Al Qahira's torn-up sidewalks seemed to be dealing serenely, even somewhat
cynically, with the steady, irreversible decay of their surroundings. It was as
if all these people, stoically strolling beneath the molten sun's incandescent
avalanche, were, in their tireless wanderings, benignly colluding with some
invisible enemy eating away at the foundations of the erstwhile resplendent
capital. Immune to drama and devastation, this crowd swept along a remarkable
variety of characters lulled by their idleness: workmen without jobs;
intellectuals disillusioned with fame; civil servants forced from their offices
for want of chairs; craftsmen without customers; university graduates sagging
beneath the weight of their futile knowledge; and finally those inveterate
scoffers — philosophers in love with their tranquility and shade, who believed
that the city's spectacular deterioration had been expressly created to hone
their critical faculties. Hordes of migrants had come from every province with
preposterous illusions about that hive of activity, the prosperous capital, and
they had latched on to the local population, forming an appallingly picturesque
pack of urban nomads. In this riotous atmosphere, cars sped by, heedless of
traffic lights, like machines without drivers, transforming any vague notion a
pedestrian might harbor of crossing the street into an act of suicide. Along the
neglected thoroughfares stood apartment buildings doomed to imminent collapse
(the landlords had long banished from their minds any pride of ownership) and
from balconies and terraces converted into makeshift lodgings flew the multihued
rags of destitution like flags of victory.
Th
ese
dilapidated dwellings brought to mind an image of future tombs and gave the
impression, in this country awash with tourist attractions, that all these
pending ruins had over time come to be prized as antiques and were therefore not
to be touched. In some places water from burst sewer pipes caused pools as wide
as rivers to form, wafting the effluvia of unspeakable stenches and pullulating
with flies. Naked and unashamed, children entertained themselves by splashing
about in this putrid water, sole antidote to the heat. As if it were a day of
revolution, the streetcars overflowed with clusters of people and dug out at a
snail's pace a pathway along the rails obstructed by the pressing mass of a
populace that had long ago gained expertise in survival strategies. Resolutely
circumventing every obstacle, every pitfall in their path, the people,
discouraged by nothing and with no particular goal in mind, continued their
journeys through the twists and turns of a city plagued by decrepitude, amid
screeching horns, dust, potholes and waste, without showing the least sign of
hostility or protest; the awareness of simply being alive seemed to obliterate
any other thought. Every now and then the voices of the muezzins at the mosque
entrances could be heard emanating from loudspeakers, like a murmuring from the
beyond.

M
ore than
anything, Ossama enjoyed contemplating the chaos. As he leaned his elbows on the
railing of the elevated walkway on its metallic pillars that encircled Tahrir
Square, he was contemplating ideas that flew in the face of all the theories
propounded by those certified experts who swore that a country's continued
existence was predicated on order. This absurd notion was utterly belied by the
spectacle that spread before his eyes. For some time now, he had been treating
this structure, dreamed up by humanist engineers to shield the miserable
pedestrians from the street's dangers, as a panoramic observation deck to
reinforce his profound conviction that the world could go on living in disorder
and anarchy indefinitely. And indeed, despite the elaborate free-for-all that
dominated the huge square, nothing seemed to alter the population's mood or its
spirited gift for sarcasm. Ossama was convinced that there was nothing more
chaotic than war; yet wars lasted for years on end and it even happened that
generals notorious for their ignorance won battles because shock, by its very
nature, is a great producer of miracles. He was thrilled to live among a race of
men whose exuberance and loquaciousness could not be spoiled by any iniquitous
fate. Rather than fulminating against the problems they faced because of their
city's outrageous decrepitude, they behaved affably and civilly, as if they
attached no importance whatsoever to those material inconveniences that could
lead to suffering in petty souls. This dignified, noble attitude filled Ossama
with wonder, for to him it was a sign of his compatriots' complete inability to
fathom tragedy.

Ossama was a young man, about twenty-three years old, who although
not strikingly handsome, nonetheless had the face of a charmer; his dark eyes
shone with a glimmer of perpetual amusement, as if everything he saw and heard
around him were inevitably comic. He wore with incomparable ease a beige linen
suit, a raw silk shirt set off by a bright red tie, and brown suede shoes. This
outfit, quite ill-suited to the scorching heat, was not the result of personal
wealth, nor was it due to a taste for show; it was donned solely to reduce the
risks inherent to his profession. Ossama was a thief; not a legitimate thief,
such as a minister, banker, wheeler-dealer, speculator, or real estate
developer; he was a modest thief with a variable income, but one whose
activities — no doubt because their return was limited — have, always and
everywhere, been considered an affront to the moral rules by which the affluent
live. Possessed of a practical intelligence that owed nothing to university
professors, he had quickly come to learn that by dressing with the same elegance
as the licensed robbers of the people, he could elude the mistrustful gaze of a
police force that found every impoverished-looking individual automatically
suspect. Everyone knows that the poor will stop at nothing. Since the beginning
of time, this has been the only philosophical principle by which the moneyed
classes swear. For Ossama that dubious principle was based on a fallacy because,
if the poor really stopped at nothing, they would already be rich like their
slanderers. Consequently, if the poor continued to be poor, it was simply
because they did not know how to steal. In the days when Ossama had lived his
life as an honest citizen, accepting poverty as his inevitable lot, he'd had to
put up with the wariness his rags aroused in shopkeepers and the closed-minded
members of the police force. At that time, he had felt so vulnerable that he
never dared to go near certain city districts where the privileged set led their
glittering lives for fear he would be suspected of evil intentions. It was only
later — once he'd at last caught on to the truth about this world — that he'd
decided to become a thief and, in order to carry out his trade respectably, had
adopted the visible attributes of his superiors in the profession. From then on,
suitably attired, he could frequent without difficulty the lavish milieus where
his masters in plunder lounged about, and steal from them in turn with elegance
and impunity. True, with these petty thefts he recouped a mere fraction of the
fantastic sums that these unscrupulous criminals amassed without a thought for
the misery of the people. Yet it must be pointed out that Ossama's objective was
not to have money in the bank (the most dishonorable thing of all), but merely
to survive in a society ruled by crooks, without waiting for the revolution,
which was hypothetical and continually put off until tomorrow. Cheerful by
nature, he was predisposed to humor and mischief rather than to the demands of
some dark and distant revenge.

He thought he'd had enough of admiring his compatriots'
performance as they attempted to dig themselves out of the chaos, and he was
about to leave his observation deck when — ever on the lookout for an
entertaining detail — his eyes were drawn to a scene transpiring on a traffic
island that served as a streetcar stop. Several plump, buxom women carrying
innumerable packages and straw baskets were conferring with a burly young man
who wore a tattered T-shirt and some sort of filthy fabric draped about his hips
as if he were a classical statue representing destitution.
Th
ese monumental nymphs had apparently just climbed off a streetcar
and seemed to be engaged in some bizarre dealings with the scantily clad fellow
— unfortunately the distance and the ambient cacophony made them inaudible.
Ossama was concentrating, trying to make out the nature of the discussion when
suddenly it came to an end in an unexpected way. He saw the man take the
females, who were terrified by the constant onslaught of cars, under his
protection, raising his arm skyward as if to invoke the name of Allah and
escorting them into the traffic until, in a blaze of horns, they reached the
haven of a sidewalk. Having arrived safe and sound, the survivors unknotted
their handkerchiefs and each gave a coin to her savior who, having caught his
breath, was already offering his services to any number of pedestrians
hesitating at the edge of the sidewalk, still stunned by his exploit. Ossama
keenly felt all the hilarity of this one-of-a-kind scene. Street crosser!
Th
is was a new trade, even more daring than that of
thief because one risked a violent death; it was a trade he could never have
dreamed up even in his wildest theories about the ingenuity of his people.
Th
e man who had invented this astounding profession in
order to make ends meet deserved his admiration and undying friendship. He would
have liked to congratulate him and even write to the government to request that
he be decorated as a model for a new generation of workers.
Th
is inventor of a job as yet undiscovered by the hardened
unemployed of the beleaguered capital was unquestionably entitled to a medal;
but Ossama mistrusted all those corrupt government ministers who were hardly in
a position to appreciate an initiative that offered no clever way for them to
grow richer, and he decided to leave them in ignorance of such a captivating
phenomenon.

He cast a parting glance filled with brotherly affection at the
man in rags, then wended his way toward the steps that led to Talaat Harb
Street; he climbed down them cautiously (they were covered with a thick layer of
dust that could damage his shoes), and found himself on the right-hand sidewalk,
which was, for the moment, in shade. A voluptuous calm spread through his body
on contact with the air — tepid and sticky but how refreshing after the furnace
he had just left! His clothes felt lighter and he struck the pose of a prodigal,
carefree young man as he set out to mingle with the crowd. He avidly listened in
on the discussions of the passersby strolling beside him, catching incredible
bits of conversation shot through with irony and invective regarding the ruling
hierarchy, illustrating that mixture of insolence and arrogance that poverty
bestows upon its chosen ones. And as he listened, it seemed as if each speaker
prided himself on being descended from the Pharaohs.
Th
e fact that all these beggars laid claim to some imaginary
nobility was pleasantly appealing; Ossama believed the most ostentatious
indigence was the irrefutable sign of true grandeur. All along the street, store
windows displayed the full panoply of a consumer society, a society still
limited in scope, but firmly determined to profit from its offerings. One could
see household appliances of all kinds, radios, televisions, VCRs, refrigerators,
expensive jewelry, roll upon roll of silk fabric, Persian rugs, fashionable
women's clothing, luxurious limousines with gleaming chrome, and, most absurd of
all, travel agencies advertising snow-covered landscapes in a kind of reverse
exoticism.
Th
e crowd on the whole remained
indifferent to these primitive enticements imported for the most part to satisfy
the voracity of a tribe of vultures. Only a few individuals, either from fatigue
or out of infantile curiosity, stopped to contemplate all these objects beyond
their comprehension, wondering what unjust fate had caused them to be so poor in
a country so rich.

Th
e Cosmopolitan Café, which at one
time owed its fame to the social and intellectual standing of its clientele, was
now overrun by an assemblage of people without any particular status, and was
slowly spiraling down toward marginalization and opprobrium. It had lost its
glorious terrace — gradually eroded over the years by the devastating tide of
passersby — and no longer kept anything outdoors other than a few tables
protected by a dead-end alley too short to tempt strollers. Ossama sat down at a
table in that alley spared from the crowd, ordered a lemonade from the waiter,
and began to keep an eye on the opposite sidewalk where an old apartment
building still retained some vestiges of its opulent architecture, like a
courtesan worn out by time in whom one can catch a glimpse, despite her
wrinkles, of some meager residue of buried beauty.
Th
is deterioration of a building once so opulent-looking had, it
must be admitted, nothing compelling to hold Ossama's attention, with the
exception of a wrought-iron gate with open double doors flanked by a black
marble plaque on which the words “Club of Notables” were inscribed in golden
letters, thereby signifying to the people that it did not recruit its members
among the rabble. Several times in the past, this den of the mercenary
aristocracy had been a fruitful source of personal gain for the young man.
Th
e members of this club were not only “notable” (as
the sign proclaimed) because of their ill-gotten gains; it went without saying
that they also carried in their wallets a tiny portion of their wealth, and
Ossama was kind enough to relieve them of that during an imperceptible brushing
of bodies.
Th
e operation was amusing and easy, and
was coupled with the pleasure of the gambler, for Ossama never knew who his next
victim would be or how much he might collect. In truth, he was a tolerably
frivolous thief, interested more in the pleasantly risky aspect of the adventure
than in any financial gain. His cynical and prankster-like concept of theft
shielded him from the gloomy, anxious attitude of the ordinary thief obsessed
with the foolish morality of the well-to-do. His heart was gripped with joyous
excitement and he watched the entrance to the club as if the lascivious and
divinely beautiful woman imagined by idle men in their erotic fantasies were
about to emerge.