From this work — which he accepted as a lesser form of servitude — he made only a slight profit; for his exalted services Set Amina gave him only a ten-piaster piece from time to time. This was his sole income and more than enough to live on. His lodging was cheap and local merchants were happy to give him all the food he needed. They were enchanted by his conversation; some even considered him a prophet and cherished his peaceful vision of the world. But Gohar never took advantage of their kindness. He never asked for anything. If he happened to accept, it was so as not to offend his generous donors.
Out of breath, he stopped.
Behind the gate covered with climbing plants, which hid it from indiscreet eyes, was a yellow, two-story, middle-class house with a narrow façade. A little dirt courtyard full of rubbish separated it from the street. Gohar opened the gate, gripped his cane, straightened his tarboosh, then climbed the steps to the first floor with all the assurance he could muster. The door was closed from the inside; he knocked twice with his cane and waited, holding his breath. Nothing moved; the house seemed deserted. An ominous silence weighed on Gohar’s soul. Clearly no one was there. Yeghen might have left long ago! A wave of anxiety swept over him, and all of his organs stopped at once, as though from a fatal injection.
Finally the door opened, and Gohar breathed again. The girl before him was decked out like a candy doll at a country fair. She was wearing a short-sleeved, rose-colored silk nightgown embroidered with green flowers; she was heavily made-up, and her arms were covered in gold bracelets. Long, brown hair framed her face, strange and primitively beautiful like the portraits on local café walls. Her eyes, exaggeratedly blackened with kohl, seemed fake. Gohar knew her; she was a new girl just arrived from her home village. She was named Arnaba and was perhaps sixteen. Since she’d come, all the clients fought over her and waited hours till she was free.
Gohar greeted her, and she smiled. When she smiled, she looked like a young girl disguised as a woman.
“It’s you,” she said. “Come in. No one’s here. Set Amina went shopping in town with the girls.”
Gohar entered the vestibule that served as a waiting room. Again he returned to the shadows, and his jangled nerves calmed down. But he wasn’t completely reassured; he didn’t see Yeghen anywhere.
“Yeghen isn’t here?” he asked.
“He was sleeping on the couch just now,” the girl said, looking around. “He must have gone.”
The disappointment made Gohar pale. He was about to ask her if she knew where Yeghen had gone, but changed his mind.
“I’ll wait for him; perhaps he’ll come back.”
“Wait if you like.”
“You’re alone here?”
“Yes. I didn’t go because I wanted to wash my hair. I’m sorry now; they took a carriage.”
She seemed to hesitate a moment, then entered one of the rooms off the vestibule and closed the door. Gohar was left alone. He looked around for a chair. The bare-walled waiting room was furnished in an improvised, temporary style. There was only a couch with a plain slipcover, four or five rattan chairs, and a big ashtray perched on a round table. This was the banal decor of brothels in the native quarter. Just now, without its disparate clientele and its atmosphere of stupor and facile gaiety, it was depressing. Gohar sighed, found a chair, and sat down. The waiting room’s gloomy sadness acted on him in a treacherous, almost offensive manner. He’d never before come at this hour; everything seemed strange and hostile here. He tucked his cane between his legs, took another mint lozenge from his pocket, and began to suck it with a kind of disgust.
His drug craving had somewhat subsided, as if the fact of being in a place touched by Yeghen constituted an assurance, a moral guarantee against fate. He thought of him with real tenderness. Drugs were not the only thing behind his affection for Yeghen; he loved him like a living idea. Yeghen was an impoverished poet; he led a life without honor or glory, made up of begging and joyful mishaps. Immoderate use of drugs had led him to prison several times. An infamous legend clung to him; he was suspected of betraying his own drug suppliers to the police. This reputation as an informer plagued him with dealers; they all mistrusted him. Actually it was difficult to find the truth to this story, as Yeghen hadn’t bothered to clear himself. Whatever he was, Yeghen remained himself, full of humor and generosity, even in betrayal. His ability to disregard mental torment and pangs of conscience made him a delightful companion. He was never demeaned by the indignity of his acts; he accepted with fierce optimism all the abjectness that fate brought him. He was without dignity, but that didn’t prevent him from living. Gohar especially admired his true feeling for life: life without dignity. Just to be alive was enough to make him happy.
Gohar smiled at the thought of El Kordi, at his exaggeration of his troubles, more fictitious than real, and his constant search for human dignity. “What is most futile in man,” he thought, “is this search for dignity.” All these people trying to maintain their dignity! For what? The history of mankind is a long, bloody nightmare only because of such nonsense. As if the fact of being alive wasn’t dignity in itself. Only the dead are undignified. Gohar only valued living heroes. They, at least, were not burdened with dignity.
There was no question of returning to his room; the mourners would be caught up in their demonic screams. The vision of those monstrous females in the midst of mercenary grief made him shiver. His head felt heavy, and his eyes began to close. The house had fallen into an insidious silence that seeped into Gohar like a narcotic. It if weren’t for his desire to see Yeghen arrive, he would have let himself go to sleep. Nevertheless, to collect himself, he closed his eyes and tried to overcome his growing uneasiness.
A long moment passed; he didn’t hear the girl open the door.
“You’re asleep?”
Gohar opened his eyes. Arnaba was standing still in the doorway. The bright daylight that bathed her bedroom traced the lines of her firm, naked body through her dressing gown. Gohar hesitated, thought he was dreaming, then said, “No, I was only resting.”
“I’d like you to write a letter for me,” said the girl.
She now came toward him, still framed by the luminous doorway. As she advanced, the light around her faded, and soon the vision of her nakedness was swallowed by shadow. Gohar rubbed his eyes; he was extraordinarily aroused by this voluptuous apparition. The girl finally stopped before him, an enigmatic smile on her painted lips. She truly had the look of a depraved young girl.
“Who is the letter to?”
“To my uncle; he lives in the country. I haven’t written him since I arrived. He must be worried.”