Teymour started over the metal bridge across the river; after a few steps, he stopped to breathe in the damp, cool air filled with the scent of the sea. Overloaded feluccas with white triangle sails were moving slowly over the muddy water, rekindling in him the rapture of departures. On the bank he had just left, massively ugly detached homes flaunted their pathetic luxury in front of the opposite bank where, beyond the shoreline flecked with palm trees, stretched the poorer district with its tumbledown hovels, its shacks, and its filthy alleyways. It was in this wretched part of the city that Medhat, in the spirit of revolt against the bleak conformism of the wealthier neighborhoods, had set up house shortly before Teymour had left the country. Teymour hastened across the bridge, spurred by the belief that in this poorer quarter some traces of boisterous life perhaps might remain; he hadn’t forgotten that the masses are always more amusing than their masters. Unfortunately, his hopes were misplaced; there was no liveliness of any kind in this tangle of rickety houses and deserted alleys. The silence was even more impressive here: it was the ritual silence of poverty, in which the slightest sound took on a tragic resonance. The few open shops were plunged in darkness and it was impossible to guess what they were selling since there was no visible sign of merchandise. A solitary, mangy nanny goat followed Teymour with the persistence of a prostitute, coming to rub lasciviously against his leg, as if she were accustomed to fornicating with men. It was in the company of this charming young lady that Teymour headed toward his old friend’s home, being careful not to lose his way.
: II:
stretched out fully clothed on his bed, Medhat was smiling mischievously as he thought of his friend Teymour and how he was about to welcome him into his home. He was far from giving in to the excitement that this reunion ordinarily would have aroused in him. For three days he had been expecting Teymour to appear from one moment to the next and recite his tales of woe. He knew him well enough to be certain that, at this very moment, Teymour was turning his misery over in his mind, believing himself exiled to his own town. And so, Medhat had promised himself not to allude to those six years his friend had spent out of the country and to behave as if this long stretch of time had never existed. He had absolutely no desire to hear the whining of a man stupid enough to fall under the picturesque spell of distant lands. The picturesque bored Medhat. He had an inherent scorn for that mass of fidgety, travel-crazed humanity always running after happiness but in reality only managing to run in circles, incapable of catching anything but a virus. This scorn stemmed from deep instinct rather than from any kind of criticism of society; it had been years since Medhat had any interest in reforming his fellow man. He had better things to do. The battle he was waging was a personal one, renewed on a daily basis, its sole purpose to turn to his advantage a small scrap of the joy that, often unpredictable and difficult to recognize, had been lost among men. With this simple and fundamentally realistic moral code, he managed to be perfectly happy anywhere and everywhere; for Medhat, no place had more of a claim to happiness than any other. And his friend Teymour was not about to prove the contrary by recounting his adventures abroad. Every country has its share of imbeciles, bastards, and whores. You had to be a fool to believe that bigger and better things were happening elsewhere. The only thing that changed was the language spoken; everywhere the same imbeciles, the same bastards, and the same whores could be found expressing the same things in different languages: the novelty consisted of nothing more. Medhat refused to forgive the absurdity and madness of people who learned all kinds of foreign tongues simply to grasp the meaning of the same idiotic remarks they could hear at home for free. He, for one, had never been tempted to trot the globe looking for experiences that were supposed to be transcendent because they took place in distant hemispheres. What was the purpose of changing continents, longing for other surroundings, if you were not even capable of seeing what was around you? Medhat had no reason to criticize the town where he’d spent his whole life. Beneath its deceptive and admittedly depressing appearance were concealed great gifts of madness and murderous rage capable of competing with any world capital. To be convinced of this fact one needed only not to be blind.
His gaze rested mechanically on the child playing on the bedroom floor with an empty cookie box, and he smiled as he imagined Teymour’s coming upon this domestic scene. In truth the child was not his; he had married the mother when she was already pregnant — an eccentric decision on his part. Two years earlier, an elderly worker from the sugar refinery — a good man whom Medhat knew and who lived in his neighborhood — had come to him and confided that one of his daughters, barely nubile, had been impregnated by a municipal street sweeper who had since absconded without a trace. To avoid dishonor the old man could think of nothing but to kill his daughter. He was a peaceful and good-natured fellow, however, not at all a brute, and his role as avenger was repellant to him. Believing Medhat to be the only educated person in the neighborhood, he had wanted to consult him about this sad business. Medhat was pained by the old man’s distress and, sensing the perilous nature of this discussion, tried persistently to change the man’s mind about such a macabre undertaking. The old fellow was deaf to the young man’s advice and did nothing but shake his head and repeat again and again that something must be done quickly because scandal was knocking at his door. The situation was all the more pitiful in that the poor wretch did not even own a knife with which to carry out his plan. He was still waiting, crouching on the ground, staring at Medhat with eyes red from trachoma as if at an oracle. Suddenly a crazy idea came to Medhat, a dangerously optimistic idea but one that seemed to him to be the sole solution acceptable to this dishonored father. He would marry the girl, arrange a wedding feast, and invite all his friends and acquaintances. He would have a wonderful evening to look forward to and, even better, an unhoped-for opportunity to escape his routine: a wedding — his own — now, there was something completely unpredictable in the realm of delights! The old man thought he was joking when Medhat offered to become his son-in-law, but after endless discussion, he left holding his head high, convinced that his entire family had just miraculously climbed the social ladder.
The wedding took place a week later, in the best popular tradition, with a bridal procession, musicians, and a banquet that lasted until dawn. Medhat had never intended to exercise his conjugal rights; he was only thinking of saving an old man from dishonor and, at the same time, planning the wedding to amuse himself. His apartment had two rooms so he had let the girl have one while she awaited the birth of her child; afterward, he intended to repudiate her with dignity. But circumstances caused him to act otherwise. In the first place, the girl was rather attractive and she showed her gratitude with boundless adoration and obedience. She was still a little girl who would stare wide-eyed at the luxury of her new home because, compared to her parents’ sordid shack, the splendor of her husband’s lodgings dazzled her. Medhat had felt too ill-at-ease to explain that he had married her just for the heck of it. During the months of her pregnancy, he grew so accustomed to her presence that he no longer wanted to send her away, and when she gave birth, he kept both her and the child. Now she had grown up and was practically a woman; she had even proved to be a very good housewife. Medhat did not regret the wild idea he had had one day merely to satisfy his love of parties; he was even tempted to sing his own praises. As it turned out, his marriage delighted him; he spent many agreeable hours playing with both mother and child.