“I can’t stop an earthquake,” said Nour El Dine with comic stubbornness.
“And the bomb!” said Yeghen. “Can you stop the bomb, Excellency?”
“That madness again!” said Nour El Dine in a resigned tone. “No, Yeghen Effendi, I cannot stop the bomb.”
“So they pay you to do nothing,” said Yeghen. “What do I care if you catch a poor murderer? Ah, but if you could stop the bomb!”
Samir had remained outside the conversation; all this time he had preserved his attitude of cold disdain. He seemed visibly disgusted by the whole gathering. His curiosity, however, was fully aroused. Though he despised them, they were, nevertheless, new beings for him; he had never met their like. He had the impression that these men were spouting idiocies, but that they were doing it purposely to provoke Nour El Dine. They seemed to be heartily enjoying themselves. Samir looked at El Kordi, and without understanding why, he realized that this man at least knew. He seemed to regard Nour El Dine with a hatred almost equal to his own. Had the inspector already made a pass at him? Samir turned his head away; the annoyance he was feeling turned to anger.
He stood up.
“What, are you going?” Nour El Dine asked him.
“Forgive me, sir, but I must go. My honorable father doesn’t allow me to stay out late.”
“Give my regards to all the family,” said Nour El Dine.
“I won’t forget,” said Samir in a courteous but acerbic tone.
Head high, he turned his back and crossed the terrace.
“I beg you to excuse my young friend,” said Nour El Dine. “He is extremely timid.”
“He is charming,” said Yeghen. “Really charming. But it is time for me to go too. I regret cutting short such a profitable conversation, Excellency. The truth is that I am falling asleep.”
“Delighted to make your acquaintance, Inspector,” said Gohar, standing up. “We’ll meet again, I hope.”
“May I accompany you a little way?” said Nour El Dine.
“With pleasure,” answered Gohar. “I am your humble servant.”
Yeghen had already disappeared. El Kordi remained alone; he seemed not to have noticed that the others had gone.
Yeghen stifled a cry and stopped. A terrible doubt had just arisen in him, waking him from his torpor. He suddenly had a burning sensation throughout his body, but it was not the cold. The cold couldn’t penetrate to the regions of his anguish. He waited a moment, then feverishly plunged his hand into his pocket and withdrew a small coin. With his numb fingers he touched it, squeezed it for a long time to feel its substance and hardness, but that seemed insufficient to him. A dire foreboding was still preventing him from breathing. As quickly as possible, he had to assure himself that the coin was not fake, but how to go about it in this darkness? He had to see it in full light.
There was a streetlamp at the end of the alley; Yeghen headed for the light, suffering from an inexpressible fear. The cruelty of fate now appeared to him in all its horror. If the money were fake, there went his night’s sleep. His dream of a night of repose in a hotel room, far from the cold and the fatigue of useless walking, now depended on this single coin.
Yeghen was sleepy; he dreamed of a higher order of sleep, one with the unfathomable taste of nothingness. The light was still ten yards away; Yeghen could wait no longer and stopped to look at the coin. Trembling, he opened his hand; he brought it to eye level and, at the same time, uttered a horror-struck cry. The coin had fallen. His hand was trembling so much that he had not felt it slip. Yeghen almost threw himself on the ground, actively searching with his hands and eyes; he saw nothing, felt nothing. He felt dizzy and his brain began to rave. The streetlamp was too far away; the light it produced reached only to the edge of where he needed to search. Yeghen grew wild with impotent rage. He cursed himself for having taken the coin out of his pocket. Then he attacked the government. These two-piaster coins were really too tiny; couldn’t the government make them bigger? “Government of pimps!” How dare it make such small coins! Just to save money. It was shameful and absurd.
In his madness, Yeghen imagined carrying the streetlamp to the place of disaster. He felt capable of anything to recover his coin. Suddenly he thought of matches and jumped. All of his suffering had immobilized him as if from shock. The box of matches was in his pants pocket; he took it out, lit a match, leaned down, and moved the flame around him. The first examination showed nothing, the coin was still lost. Yeghen lit another match, took several steps sideways, his nose almost to the ground. Soon his heart jumped with joy; the coin was there before him, clean and brilliant like a diamond. He grabbed it, hastily stuffed it in his pocket, then stood flabbergasted, exhausted by the effort. The match that he had forgotten to extinguish burned his fingers.
“Government of pimps!” he shouted.
The sound of heavy footsteps was heard, and someone stopped behind him. Yeghen held his breath, then turned around and found himself face-to-face with a policeman. It was a sinister apparition; Yeghen stood petrified. It was no longer a matter of fatigue or cold or famine: he was before the official representative of all these calamities. He smiled foolishly.
“So, you insult the government!” said the policeman.
“Me?” stammered Yeghen. “I don’t insult anyone, Excellency!”
“I just heard you shout, ‘Government of pimps!’ I’m not deaf. Come on, admit it.”
“Oh, that’s nothing, Excellency,” said Yeghen. “That was just because of this match that burned my fingers.”
“We’ll take care of the match later,” said the policeman. “For the moment, tell me: Are we a government of pimps, yes or no?”
“No, Excellency! On my honor, it wasn’t our government I meant.”
“And what government was it?”
“I was thinking of a foreign government,” said Yeghen.
“A foreign government,” said the policeman dreamily. “You’re a liar. You were thinking of our government, I’m sure of it.”
“On my honor, Excellency, there has been a misunderstanding. I swear that it was a foreign government. I can even tell you the name.”
The policeman was quiet. He seemed to be reflecting. It was painful, very painful for him to reflect, so he stopped just in time. He was beginning to feel uncomfortable.
“Tell me the name of this country. Come on, quick.”
Yeghen didn’t try to find a country; the world was immense and the countries swarmed about the surface, but Yeghen did not deign to choose. The name came out all by itself.
“Syria,” he said.
“Syria,” the policeman repeated. “That’s far away. You’re sure about that?”
“Completely certain. I swear to you on my honor.”
“Very well,” said the policeman. “But I’m not letting you go yet. What were you doing here lighting matches? I was watching you for a while, you know.”
“I’ll explain it to you,” said Yeghen. “I just lost a coin and I was looking for it by lighting matches. As you see, it’s very simple.”
“A coin! What sort of story is this?”
The affair was becoming complicated. Yeghen was exhausted; he was trembling with cold. By what magic did the world contract around him? All his life he had been hunted. And now, on the threshold of a night of repose, he found himself hemmed in by this demonic power, always lying in wait for him. He hated the forces of law and order, especially these local policemen, the perfect images of brutality. However, right now he would have liked to be on the other side of the fence, to be this stupid, limited policeman. He was sick of always being on the side of the pursued. He had a crazy desire to be on the side of the pursuers, if only for one night, if only for this night. To sleep, to not be cold, to get rid of this heavy fatigue that he carried around like a burden. Yes, to be an abject policeman, but to be able to sleep.