When he arrived back in the small city, he let it be understood by his old acquaintances that he had come to rest from the sheer exhaustion of the artist’s life; people were happy to see him, and they did not ask for details, even though vague rumors of the scandal had reached the ears of the better informed. But Imtaz’s alleged convalescence had already lasted three years and he no longer mentioned anything about returning to the capital.
He continued to act his part in the theater of the small city — a theater of vast proportions where no stage effects existed to rein in the bountiful spring of life, and where no curtain fell to bring the performance to an end. This play had roots everywhere; it proliferated in the city’s every nook and cranny. Imtaz now found himself continually inspired; he was at once actor and audience in an infinity of intrigues that no playwright could have dreamed up. Each day a new role was offered to him in the flood of grotesque passions and spectacular trivialities to which his fellow citizens devoted themselves with proud tenacity. The absence of ovations and curtain calls was offset by a singular pleasure, that of enthralling real people and experiencing their love or their hatred with a living, vulnerable heart. He felt ennobled, and more triumphant than he had ever felt on stage.
The large mirror in its gilded frame that hung on his wall reflected nothing to Imtaz but a hazy face with blurry features, like the face of a drowned man floating in turbid waters. He stepped back slowly and all that remained was a pale patch of color, barely a faint glimmer in the misty distance. Among all the old family furniture that filled the apartment, this mirror represented for him an ever-present and persistent lure. Long ago, when his eyesight was still keen, he had often delighted in admiring the pure lines of this bronze mask and had entertained himself by changing its expressions at whim. What had become of this visage, and what transformations had it undergone over the years? He would never know. He was reduced to this dismal fate: being the only person unable to admire his own face. With an acute sense of frustration, he turned away from this vertiginous abyss that could only restore a tiny, unrecognizable portion of his own splendor to him.
The lure of the mirror was still menacing him when he heard the doorbell ring. He hesitated for a moment, then went to open the door.
“Peace be upon you!” cried Teymour.
Imtaz recognized the visitor by his voice and was relieved to welcome him without needing to lean forward to decipher his features. He rarely had such good fortune.
“What a wonderful surprise!” he said. “Please forgive me for receiving you in these clothes.”
Teymour glanced at the loose silk dressing gown with its floral pattern in which Imtaz was cloaked, then bowed respectfully.
“Don’t worry, you’re impeccably dressed. It’s you who must forgive me. But I needed to speak with someone. Something terrible is happening to me.”
Imtaz took him calmly by the arm and led him into the reception room where the famous mirror had pride of place. When they were seated, Teymour pulled a newspaper from his pocket, unfolded it, and brandished it beneath the former actor’s unfocused eyes.
“Here, look!”
“What?” asked Imtaz. “Another war?”
“No,” replied Teymour. “Just another man who has disappeared in our city. But I knew this one.”
Imtaz grabbed the paper, looked at it closely and pretended to be interested in the picture of a man dressed like a rich villager with a huge mustache, the tips of which curled up so high that they threatened at any moment to poke out his eyes. The picture had a black frame around it, as if the man were dead.
“How do you know him?”
“I met him at The Awakening, the day I went into town for the first time — I remember him because of his mustache. He really amazed me: he told me he was planning on living it up before going back home. He seemed like a rich man from a neighboring village quite smug about his wealth. When it came time to pay the waiter, he took out a wallet stuffed with bills and laid it ostentatiously on the table.”
“Is that all you know about him? He didn’t say anything else to you?”
“He said something completely ridiculous; he said that he envied me for living in this city.”
“And where was he from?”
“From a village about forty kilometers from here. It says so in the paper. He was supposed to go home that same night, but he was never seen again.”
“So. He was out for a good time,” said Imtaz. “Well, at least the man was an optimist. Too bad he’s been assassinated.”
“According to Medhat, the police seem to believe these are political assassinations.”
“That wouldn’t surprise me. The police chief sees conspiracies against the government everywhere. It’s his private nightmare. And we shouldn’t complain about it.”
“But he’s watching us!” Teymour exclaimed.
“If he’s looking for crimes, he won’t find any, because we’re not assassinating anyone. And while he’s following this false scent, he’s not paying attention to anything else. This business makes people terribly afraid; they shut themselves in as soon as night falls. And so do the police. Which works out perfectly for us for organizing our pleasures.”
“I admit I’m somewhat curious about these mysterious disappearances,” said Teymour thoughtfully.
“You’re becoming quite interested in our little city,” remarked Imtaz. “I’m very happy about that. I was afraid you’d need a long period of adjustment, full of suffering and bitterness.”
He rose, took a few slow steps around the room, moving away from the mirror and then back again as if attracted by a magnet. He couldn’t stay seated in conversation for long. His experience on stage forced him to strike various poses, and to shade each of his lines of dialogue differently.
“And what’s going on with you?” he continued. “Weren’t you supposed to start at the factory soon?”
“I’ve decided not to work for the time being,” replied Teymour.
A few days earlier, Teymour had resolved not to accept the chemical engineering position he was being offered. The fear that he would be found out as a fraud had played no role in his decision; his forged diploma still seemed as valid as any other to him. He was motivated by a more disturbing feeling urging him to stay away from any steady occupation just as strange events were transpiring in the city — a vague but insidious feeling that chained him to the town’s fate while demanding his complete freedom of movement and mind. He felt the need to pay as close attention as possible to the slightest vibrations that might occur around him. Ever since he had taken up again with the friends from his youth, things did not seem as simple as they had the day he arrived; appearances were beginning to crumble, little by little revealing to his astounded eyes flashes of an underground life somehow tied to his hopes for happiness. Old Teymour had no trouble accepting his son’s strange ideas and did not attempt to comprehend why he refused to take up a high-level position, thereby losing all the advantages of his long years of study. In fact, his father liked things better this way, for at heart he despised all mercenary aspirations. The diploma, despite being tiny and austere, was sufficient to satisfy his paternal vanity. He jealously guarded it in a wardrobe in his bedroom, but never failed to exhibit it to his relatives and other visitors as if it were a museum piece that had cost a fortune.
Imtaz suddenly stood still, slid his hands into the pockets of his dressing gown, shot a glance at the mirror, then said:
“May I ask why?”
“I didn’t study anything while I was abroad,” Teymour stated. “My diploma is a fake that I bought right before I came home. I had to, for my father’s sake.”