“Who on earth are you talking about?” Teymour inquired.
“Why, Imtaz, of course! He was supposed to meet me here.”
“The actor Imtaz?”
“In the flesh.”
“What’s he doing here? I thought he was winning fame and fortune in the capital.”
“Not at all. He came back to live among us almost three years ago.”
“I find that very surprising. Do you know why he came back?”
“It seems there was a scandal of some sort, something that occurred on stage during a performance. I don’t know exactly what it was all about.”
Teymour remained thoughtful. This actor, Imtaz, although a few years older, had been part of their crowd for a little while before leaving for the capital, where he was destined for a stunning career. He was a wonderful fellow, with the beauty of a thoroughbred and a natural talent for acting. As a teenager Teymour had admired him wildly and had been very happy to learn about his success from the newspapers. He had long thought of him as the only person who had managed to escape the pernicious atmosphere of this city. Never would he have expected to see him return home, and now Medhat was telling him he had come back amid some murky scandal. So, even Imtaz’s enterprise had failed; this homecoming, shameful and without fame, connected him to Teymour’s own demise.
“I don’t know why Imtaz’s absence upsets you so much.”
“But that’s obvious,” said Medhat. “Have you forgotten that he’s a very famous actor? The magazines these young ladies buy were filled with his picture for years. He doesn’t need to try to seduce them; all he needs to do his show his face. It saves us a terrific amount of time. Girls drop like flies when they see him. Listen; let me give you an example of his irresistible power over feminine hearts. Recently a movie in which he played a hunter lost in the desert was shown here. After several exploits, the hunter is bitten by a snake. Well, believe me, when that happened, loads of girls fainted in the theater. We had to call an ambulance.”
“And you think you’re going to sleep with those girls? Sheltered the way they must be, I can’t believe you’d be able to corrupt them.”
“Oh, don’t you worry about that,” Medhat said confidently. “They’ll do whatever we want. I’ve only been on their trail for a short time. Today I was supposed to show them to Imtaz. The bastard promised to be here at noon. He must still be sleeping.”
“But who are those girls?” Teymour wanted to know.
“Sisters. They belong to one of the best families in the city.”
“So it’s going to be even harder than I thought! Upper-class girls! They’re practically untouchable!”
“You’re behind the times. We’re in the heart of modernism here. The daughters of upper-class families are the first to demand their emancipation. It was bound to happen. In every evolving society, social progress always begins with the liberation of women’s asses. And since that’s the only progress that will benefit us in any way, I have nothing against it.”
Medhat was speaking in a serious voice, but it was to impress Teymour and to make him understand that his city was not inhabited by ignorant peasants. This arrogant young man had best accept, and the sooner the better, the reality of his situation and abandon his belief that love’s base acts are solely the privilege of those living abroad. He scrutinized Teymour’s face, trying to discern his reactions. But Teymour’s face expressed neither surprise nor doubt; these stories of seduced girls, even if totally untrue, could only enchant him. And he had just been granted a comforting certainty: Medhat had remained as frivolous as in the past. What madness could have made him think, even for a moment, that Medhat was indulging in political conspiracies? He let out a quick laugh, as if at himself.
A timid sun had begun peeking through the clouds and now it flooded the square with a shimmering light beneath which the face of the peasant woman on her pedestal seemed older, distraught. Men crossed the terrace, going in and out of the café, giving the impression of carrying out superhuman tasks. Street sellers yoked to their carts appeared here and there on the square, singing — with the songs of prophets announcing the delights of paradise — the praises of their slim offerings. Their meager bustling was starting to spread.
“Do you have a place to take these girls?” Teymour asked.
“We have several,” answered Medhat. “That’s not the problem; the problem lies in being discreet. We are being watched. You have no idea what’s going on in this city.”
“So what is going on?”
“Believe it or not, people are disappearing!”
“What do you mean?”
“Listen to me. In the last few months, four people, most of them prominent citizens, have vanished from one day to the next without a trace. What do you think of that?”
“You’re joking.”
“On my honor, it’s the truth. You can read about it yourself in the papers. Even the newspapers in the capital are talking about it.”
“I’m stunned,” Teymour admitted. “But what are the police doing about it?”
Medhat looked around to be sure no one was spying on them.
“The police,” he whispered, “are completely out of their depth. They think these are political crimes.”
“And that’s why they’re watching you?”
“They’re watching everyone, but especially us.”
“What makes them think you’re involved in political activities?”
“Nothing. But how can I prove it? It’s a complete melodrama. I wanted to warn you. We are all suspects.”
“Even me? But I just got here!”
“You can bet they’ve already got their eye on you.”
Teymour looked at his companion in astonishment, not knowing if he should be worried or ecstatic about this extraordinary mix-up. The idea that the police were so off track as to think Medhat might be a political agitator capable of assassinating government dignitaries was so inane as to be farcical. No doubt about it, Teymour’s stay in this city promised to be full of delectable possibilities that he could never have foreseen. He burst out laughing and patted Medhat’s shoulder as if his friend had just told him a very good joke. For an instant Medhat stared at him harshly; then, caught up in Teymour’s contagious laughter, he too began to laugh.
Just then a shabbily dressed young man with a gaunt and woeful face appeared on the terrace, threading his way stealthily among the tables. Medhat abruptly broke off laughing and called to him:
“Hey, Rezk, come here! I want you to meet my friend Teymour.”
The young man came over to them, bowed and extended his hand to Teymour hesitantly, as if he feared intruding on a reunion where he would not be welcome.
“I am honored,” he said with an air of contrition, smiling ever so faintly.
“Have a cup of coffee with us,” said Medhat. “I’m happy to see you.”
“I’m terribly sorry,” said the young man, “but I cannot stay. I must go. Excuse me.”
He turned his head and made as if to go on his way, but Medhat grabbed his jacket sleeve and said, with misplaced intensity:
“Why don’t you like us, Rezk, my brother?”
“I!” exclaimed Rezk, bringing his hand to his heart. “My word, how wrong you are. Believe me, I love you all.”
“So, sit with us then. Just for cup of coffee. Please. Do me this favor.”
For a few seconds Rezk seemed extremely discomfited; he grew even paler and his feverish eyes scanned the terrace as if looking for help. Then, with a resigned smiled, he grabbed a chair and sat down without saying a word.
“There, that’s better,” said Medhat. He called the waiter and ordered a cup of coffee for the young man.
The new arrival’s personality was of less interest to Teymour than the passionate tone Medhat had used to scold him for refusing to sit down with them. This was yet another mystery that Teymour was incapable of illuminating, and in fact more obscure than any he had encountered since leaving his father’s house. This sickly young man in his threadbare suit was behaving like a frightened young girl; he didn’t remember ever having met him; most likely he’d been a boy when Teymour left the country. Just what was his role in the crucial conspiracy that Medhat had cleverly mounted in this city in order to safeguard his pleasures?