“I’ve slept like this for years, Excellency! Why do you worry?”
“How did you fall into such misery? From the way you speak, you seem to be an educated man, I’d even say a highly cultivated one. Normally you should have occupied a high rung in the social hierarchy. But you live like a beggar. That is a mystery I’d like to understand.”
“It’s no mystery. I live like a beggar because I want to.”
“By Allah, you’re a surprising man! Your way of thinking baffles me more and more.”
“The truth, Inspector, is that you are easily surprised. Life, real life, is childishly simple. There is no mystery. There are only bastards.”
“Who are you calling bastards?”
“If you don’t know who the bastards are, then there’s no hope for you. That is the only thing you don’t learn from others, Inspector.”
Hands clenched between his knees, Nour El Dine bowed his head; he seemed to be meditating on a doleful problem.
“It’s more complex than that,” he said finally. “There are not just good guys and bastards.”
“No,” said Gohar. “I refuse to allow nuances. Don’t tell me that it’s more complex than that. Why don’t you understand that this so-called complexity only benefits the bastards?”
Resigned, Nour El Dine fell silent. Once again weariness took hold of him. This empty room gave him a feeling of peace and seemed to isolate him from the rest of the universe. He imagined himself sleeping on the pile of newspapers, happy and lazy, freed from his anguish. What was the use of continuing to search for an impossible happiness? It was true that nothing could happen between these walls, in this skillfully arranged emptiness. No doubt Gohar was right. To live like a beggar was to follow the path of wisdom. A life in the primitive state, without constraints. Nour El Dine dreamed of how sweet a beggar’s life would be, free and proud, with nothing to lose. He could finally indulge in his vice without fear or shame. He would even be proud of this vice that had been his worst torment for years. Samir would come back to him. His hatred would vanish automatically when he saw him dispossessed of his emblems of authority, washed of his prejudice and his slimy morality. He would no longer have to fear Samir’s disdain or his sarcasm.
But it wasn’t that easy to yield to temptation. He rose from the chair and took a few steps across the room; then, turning, he stood before Gohar. For a moment he admired the calm face of his host lit by the flickering candle. Doubtless this man had committed a crime, but his features remained perfectly serene. He seemed immune to fear and suffering, a stranger to the real world that surrounded him. A plaintive sigh escaped Nour El Dine’s chest. He felt he was not mature enough for this calm, this absolute detachment that a beggar’s life called for. He was still too submissive to the regulations of his work; his duty commanded him to complete his mission. He could not forget entirely that he was a police inspector responsible for enforcing the law, and that he was there to investigate the murder of a young prostitute.
“Actually,” he said, “I came here to ask you some questions.”
“I’m listening,” said Gohar. “Ask me all the questions you want.”
“It’s about that murder in the whorehouse,” said Nour El Dine, sitting back down in his chair.
“I know,” said Gohar. “I was expecting your visit. Speak, and I will answer you. While we wait, I’ll make you some coffee. Pardon me for having neglected to offer you something to drink.”
“I don’t want anything,” said Nour El Dine. “Don’t trouble yourself for me.”
Gohar lit the spirit burner anyway and began to prepare the coffee. As he poured the water in the coffeepot, he observed Nour El Dine in silence. He was curious to know how the resolution would take place. But the police inspector asked no questions. He seemed to be lost in some distant dream.
It was Gohar who asked, “Do you suspect someone?”
“Frankly, I must say that I suspect you,” answered Nour El Dine with an anxious look in his eyes.
“Well, I congratulate you, Excellency,” said Gohar. “You have seen things clearly. I am the murderer.”
This sudden confession had the effect of a catastrophe on Nour El Dine. He shook his head firmly, at the same time thrashing his hands in front of his eyes in a gesture of negation, of refusal.
“What a farce!” he cried. “Oh, no, it’s too childish, Gohar Effendi! Your young friend El Kordi already confessed. What’s gotten into you all that you all want to confess? By any chance, do you also want to reform the world?”
“God forbid!” said Gohar. “You are wrong, Excellency, to compare me to that young man. El Kordi thinks like you; he too believes that things are more complicated than they are!”
The coffee was ready; Gohar poured the contents of the coffeepot into two chipped cups, then held one out to Nour El Dine.
“I’m at your disposal,” he said. “What do you plan to do?”
“I don’t plan to do anything for the moment. I can’t arrest you on the basis of a simple confession. I need proof. Tomorrow I’ll make a decision. I must first question someone; everything depends on that interrogation.”
Suddenly a song rose up; it was coming from the next flat. In a hoarse voice, the man with no limbs was crazily singing a joyous song.
“Faster, coachman, faster!
Take me to Zouzou’s house!”
“Incredible! — he’s singing!”
“Why shouldn’t he sing?” said Gohar. “He has every reason to be cheerful.”
“Yes, no doubt. Still, I would like to understand.”
Nour El Dine brought the cup to his lips and drank a mouthful of coffee. The coffee was bitter, as bitter as his life.
The sun was shining above the peaks of the minarets when Yeghen stopped, undecided, at the edge of the square. He knew that soon, in the police station, all would be injustice and gloom. Yet he was not afraid. His indecision had nothing to do with a fear of torture. He was simply possessed by a boyish desire to prolong his walk among the crowd. He loved to stroll about, always expecting the unpredictable. He had taken his drugs beforehand, so he felt calm and clearheaded. The thought of confronting the authorities even made him oddly elated.
Yeghen had been expecting this summons. For a long time, he suspected that Nour El Dine, the police inspector, had dark plans for him. But what exactly did he know? Did he take him for the killer, or did he only suspect Yeghen of knowing the murderer’s identity? In any case, Nour El Din was hoping for some confession from him. Yeghen had no illusions about the manner in which the inspector planned to question him. Torture had become one of the favored methods in the life of civilized society. Nothing could be done against stomach cancer, and even less against the terror instituted by men to oppress other men. Yeghen put police brutality in the same category as incurable illnesses and natural cataclysms.
The police station was located on the other side of the square. It was a one-story white stone building with bars on the windows. Instead of crossing the square, Yeghen took the sidewalk to the left; he had decided to stroll a little more. It was eleven in the morning and the square was swarming with a multitude of people whose busy appearance fooled no one. Yeghen admired this perpetual stagnation amid the disorder and illusory movement. To a sharp eye, it was readily apparent that nothing urgent or sensational was taking place. Despite the noise of streetcars, automobile horns, and the strident voices of strolling merchants, Yeghen had the impression of a world where words and gestures were measured according to an eternal life. Frenzy was banished from this crowd that moved in eternity — it seemed animated by a wise joy that no torture, no oppression could extinguish.
With lucid detachment, Yeghen thought about the suffering awaiting him. It was not the first time he had undergone an interrogation; the brutality of policemen held no secrets for him. But up to now he had experienced it for minor offenses involving drug trafficking. This time, it was something else; it was a murder. The question was, would the policemen hit him harder than usual. No, Yeghen told himself. For a small drug deal or for a major crime, the force of the blows would be roughly the same. So he didn’t have to fear any weakness on his part. He knew he would never pronounce Gohar’s name. It was not a question of courage or of sacrifice for friendship’s sake. To betray his friends, or even his own mother, seemed insignificant compared to the innumerable crimes committed throughout the world. No, in this case it was not only to save Gohar but also to demonstrate to Nour El Dine the ludicrous role of the police. Nour El Dine was the personification of an absurd justice. Yeghen had to prove the grotesquery of the situation to him. With this to look forward to, he felt joyous and began to laugh.