In the next room the mourning women had settled down to their wild grieving; their howling had reached an unrelenting volume, creating an atmosphere of a bloody and permanent tragedy. No human will could stop them in their dizzying task. Gohar was under the spell of their sinister lamentations. He was possessed by a desire to discover an enjoyable aspect to their cries, but these unnatural shrieks, coming from hired throats, struck his ear like the call from a strange universe. He couldn’t recognize the mark of a human, fraternal world. This universe of sorrow, false and shrill, filled his head with a poisonous roar and made him dizzy.
He had been woken abruptly, at an unusual hour, and he was still sleepy. How could he fall asleep again with these cursed women on the other side of the wall? They would have no pity. Gohar trembled, he was cold. He stiffened, let a moment pass, then rose from his chair. He had decided to go out.
He picked up his tarboosh, which was lying in a corner of the room untouched by the flood, stuck it on his head, took his cane, and went out on the landing. His neighbor’s door was wide open. Gohar hesitated, a little wary. His instinct told him to be prudent — he feared the worst from these raging busybodies. Seeing a man, they might let themselves go even more, if only for appearance’s sake. Gohar shivered at this idea, and, without thinking, dashed onto the wobbly staircase, carrying with him the fleeting vision of a pack of giant women dressed in full black melayas, squatting on the ground in a circle, their faces and hands painted with laundry blueing. They were beating their breasts while uttering their demonic cries. Gohar suddenly felt he was fainting and that the staircase was vanishing under his feet. He never knew how he reached the street.
It was almost noon. On El Azhar, a wide street teeming with a carefree motley crowd, Gohar recovered his full faculties. This was his familiar world, among this lazy crowd that spread itself indifferently on the sidewalks and in the street, despite the busy traffic of cars, cabs, donkey carriages, and even streetcars that sped by like meteors. The gentle winter sun poured its bountiful warmth over this tangled throng. Kites hovered high above, plunged into the crowd, then flew off carrying bits of stolen meat in their beaks; no one paid attention to their clever maneuvers. Groups of women stood in front of fabric stores, haggling for hours over the purchase of some printed handkerchief. Children amused themselves by enraging drivers, standing deliberately in their path. The drivers cursed them, swore at them and their absent mothers, then ended by running over a few. From all the cafés that lined the street, radios poured forth the same whining voice of a famous singer. The musical accompaniment was sad; as for the words, they explained at length his sorrows and regrets on the subject of a thwarted love. Gohar recalled his dead neighbor, the mourners’ strident cries, and stepped up his pace. But there was no way to escape this gloomy voice, it was everywhere, rising above the tumult in the street.
Gohar stopped instinctively, as though intuiting a peaceful zone, the promise of a delectable joy amid the surrounding din. In front of an empty store, he saw a well-dressed older man sitting with dignity on a chair, with a detached and royal air, watching the crowd pass. The man had a strikingly majestic appearance. “Here’s a man after my own heart,” he thought. This empty store and this man who sold nothing were a priceless discovery. The store, Gohar guessed, was simply decorative; it served as a place to receive his friends and to offer them coffee. This was the height of opulence and generosity. Gohar greeted him like an old friend, and the man answered with a pleasant smile, barely perceptible, as if he understood that he was being admired.
“Honor me,” said the man. “Please be so kind as to accept a cup of coffee.”
“Thank you,” said Gohar. “Another time. Please excuse me.”
They looked at each other with visible pleasure, almost tenderness, then Gohar resumed his walk through the crowd. He was perfectly happy. It was always the same thing: this amazement he felt before the absurd easiness of life. All was simple and ludicrous. He only had to look around to be convinced. The swarming poverty that surrounded him was not at all tragic; it seemed to conceal a mysterious opulence, treasures of a strange, unknown richness. A prodigious indifference seemed to preside over the destiny of this crowd; here, every humiliation assumed a pure and innocent character. Gohar swelled with brotherly affection; at each step the futility of all this misery appeared to him and delighted him.
A yellow streetcar crossed the road with an infernal noise, clanging its bell to clear a path through the crowd which blocked the tracks. Gohar passed a restaurant that sold boiled beans; the smell of food made him vaguely uneasy. He stopped, leaned on his cane, and waited. No, it wasn’t hunger. Hunger had no effect on him; he could last several days with nothing but a piece of bread. This queasiness meant something else. He took several steps, realized the nature of his discomfort, and was alarmed. The drug! He had forgotten his drug. The death of his ignorant neighbor had outrageously disturbed his habits. Gohar normally woke at dusk; now it was still too early to buy drugs. His only supplier was Yeghen, and Gohar wouldn’t be able to meet him until evening. It was impossible to find Yeghen now; he had no fixed address, he didn’t live anywhere.
How could he last until evening without drugs? The prospect unnerved him a little; he knew he would suffer, and he calmly prepared for this suffering. He drew a little rumpled bag from his pocket, took a mint lozenge from it, and diligently began to suck it. It didn’t have the bitter taste of a hashish ball, but it was enough to calm him.
A little farther on he smiled, seeing the faithful beggar squatting in his usual place. The same rite always unfolded: each time he passed by, Gohar had no money, so he would apologize, and they would enjoy a fascinating conversation. Gohar had known him a long time and cherished his company. He was a special kind of beggar, for he made no lamentations and suffered no infirmity. Quite the contrary, he shone with good health and his djellaba was almost clean. He had the piercing look that marked the professional beggar able to judge his client with a single glance. Gohar admired him for never having dreamed of saving face. In the general pandemonium, no one seemed to attach importance to his condition as a healthy and flourishing beggar. Amid so many real absurdities, the act of begging seemed like any other work — and the only reasonable work, at that. He always occupied the same place, with the dignity of a bureaucrat behind his desk. People would throw him a penny in passing. Sometimes he challenged the donor: he had just come across a counterfeit coin. An interminable palaver followed, in which insults had the weight of eternity. He threatened to call the police. It always ended in his favor.
Gohar stopped to greet him.
“Peace be with you,” said the beggar. “I saw you coming from afar; I waited for you.”
“I’m sorry,” said Gohar. “I have no money; next time I will.”
“Who told you I wanted money?”