“People are so vile,” said Felfel, looking away from the craft. “I want to go far away so I never have to see them again.”
At the sight of this unsavory and fraudulent representation of humanity, Teymour began to laugh.
“Do you think they are any less vile anywhere else? They’re the same everywhere.”
“That’s not possible. Don’t tell me they are that vile everywhere. I couldn’t stand it.”
“But it’s the truth.”
“So there is no hope,” moaned Felfel.
“Why should that make you sad? Personally, I find them laughable.”
“They don’t make me laugh,” the young girl declared. “They actually scare me.”
She shivered with disgust, then seemed to remember something. Hesitantly, she picked up her bag from the grass and opened it. She took out a small square tin decorated with colored drawings, with a thin slit on one side: a piggybank. Then, lowering her eyes, she held it out to Teymour and said humbly:
“For you.”
Teymour took the piggybank and shook it, listening. The chink of small silver coins could be heard inside. Felfel was suddenly ashamed; she did not dare raise her eyes to the young man.
“My word! You’re rich!” quipped Teymour.
“Don’t make fun of me. That’s my life savings. I know it’s nothing for you, but I’m giving it to you anyway.”
Teymour raised her chin and made her look him in the eye. He was terribly moved by the girl’s unexpected gift. What was it that made all of them want to give him things? First Imtaz had given him his dead father’s watch, and now this poor girl was offering him this piggybank with all her savings inside. He felt his eyes filling with tears.
“Why are you giving this to me?”
“In case we go away together. I don’t want to be a burden to you.”
“But I don’t need it. And in any case, we’re not going anywhere.”
“I would really be happy if you’d keep it.”
“No, put it back in your bag,” said Teymour, returning the piggybank to her. “Who knows. Maybe I’ll ask you for it one day.”
Felfel clapped her hands exuberantly; by saying that he might one day accept her money, Teymour had definitively become her accomplice. She threw her arms around the young man’s neck and kissed him several times on the forehead and cheeks. Then she jumped up and said:
“I’ve got to go home. Can I drop you on the square?”
“I’d rather walk,” answered Teymour.
They strolled up the path holding hands. Felfel seemed delighted by her afternoon. She went to get her bicycle, straddled it, then turned to smile at Teymour one last time as she pedaled away. Teymour watched her ride off until she disappeared at the bend of a lane. His heart was filled with emotion and he walked along the cliff road with the free and lively movements of a saltimbanque.
Imtaz walked around the terrace following an itinerary familiar from long ago, without attempting to make out the vague figures seated at the various café tables. This was how he always proceeded when he was to meet someone, for his short-sightedness did not allow him to recognize in a single glance the person he was looking for. He risked making a blunder. Whereas, in this way, he gave the person who was waiting for him the chance to catch sight of him and call out. Not having been hailed by anyone, he realized he was the first to arrive and went to sit at a table on the outer edge of the terrace, his haughty and magnificent profile offered as bait to the passing women. A few moments later, a stout man with a shaved head and a mouth topped by a flowing moustache, eyes hidden behind dark glasses, came to sit discreetly at the table next to his. He took a tattered newspaper several months old out of his jacket pocket and as if his life depended on it pretended to be interested in the news. From time to time, without moving his head, he cast a sideways glance at the actor, then went back to skimming his moth-eaten paper. It must have been very painful for him to read the same news items over and over for his glum face expressed to those around him an enormous, unforgiving sorrow. Imtaz had no idea of his neighbor’s little ruses. In the solitude of his murky vision, he was reviewing in his mind the details of a dirty trick he was about to play on Chawki, the fabulously wealthy landlord. Having given in to Chawki’s repeated entreaties, he had finally promised to provide him the next evening with something to satisfy his most sexually stimulating fantasy: the young daughter of a good family, preferably a schoolgirl with ink-stained fingers, with whom to sleep. But this generous act was not entirely without an ulterior motive; it entailed a grandiose practical joke that had been Medhat’s idea. This idle, inquisitive young man had discovered, among the new recruits of Wataniya’s brothel, a young whore just barely fifteen who, scrubbed clean and dressed in a schoolgirl’s smock, would be able to make any certified sociologist believe she came from an honorable, even aristocratic, family. Despite his miserliness, Chawki was capable of spending a fortune when it came to paying the price of his sexual follies. No doubt he would shell out a huge sum to sleep with this girl with ink-stained fingers doing her homework beneath the light of a lamp. Imtaz could already picture the scene and was allowing himself to be mesmerized by the work he was about to create, like a playwright developing his characters under the influence of drugs. What particularly appealed to him about this prank was the fact that, in addition to the wicked pleasures it concealed, it would also bind Chawki even more tightly to their little group. By seducing a minor, Chawki would be forever compromised and could no longer refuse to participate in other base acts with them. This was a goldmine from which precious nuggets could be carefully extracted without the slightest use of blackmail. Of course, the blackmail would be tacit, a sort of unsigned contract.
“Hi.”
Imtaz raised his myopic eyes, recognized Teymour and said simply:
“Sit down.”
“Sorry I’m late,” said Teymour as he took a seat.
“Don’t be sorry. It was a pleasure for me to wait for you.”
He could not discern the kind of jubilation Teymour’s face betrayed, but the mere tone of his friend’s voice allowed him to recognize the joyfulness and unassailable good humor that now filled the young man’s appeased soul. Teymour felt freed for all time of those senseless regrets he had clung to when he first returned to this city. Imtaz was charmed by this change that he had, it’s true, been expecting without real concern; he had never doubted Teymour’s intelligence. The similarity of their fates made him consider Teymour to be another self. Hadn’t they both gone down the same long road before returning to this desolate spot only to discover that, for them, no place on earth was desolate? The way the young man was beaming with radiant good spirits, Imtaz noticed with a shiver, was the undeniable proof that he had been totally cured and that from now on he had the ability to survive in this pitiable world.
“I am happy to see that you are adjusting so easily to life among us,” said Imtaz, looking at Teymour with gentle warmth in his eyes that were, however, made vaguely pathetic by his nearsightedness.
“It’s thanks to your friendship.”
“Of which you are worthy. I knew it would be difficult for you to overcome certain prejudices that were preventing you from seeing an essential truth. But I never had reason to despair of your intelligence. Only an imbecile could be sad to be here, or anywhere else, for long.”