“But you are rich, Master. All the gold on earth couldn’t make you richer. What you call my ‘gifts’ are only small tokens of friendship, to keep you from forgetting me. I know you’re going to laugh at me again, but with all due respect, I confess I’m afraid of vanishing from your memory as soon as I’ve finished my work.”
“Why would I forget you? You will always be welcome in my home, here or elsewhere. So, tell me, where did you get this idiotic idea?”
Nahed was slow to answer; her features tensed, and her face became unsightly again, as though to underscore her painful confession. “Well,” she said, avoiding Karamallah’s gaze. “I know you only like women who are very young and very pretty. And I am old and ugly. That’s why I thought you wouldn’t want to see me again.”
She stopped speaking and then looked Karamallah in the eye, awaiting his verdict.
Without the slightest warning, Karamallah was first stupefied and then beset by remorse, like a slowly spreading ache — remorse for his thoughtless cruelty. Had he wounded the girl by being aloof and perhaps even betraying his displeasure without realizing it? She had risked prison in order to leave him mementos of her, and Karamallah could not erase this fact through mockery of any kind.
“Forgive me if I’ve never complimented you on your looks,” he said, with the air of an actor not quite sure of his lines. “Such fawning methods for charming a woman have always repulsed me. But since you bring up the subject, I must tell you that you are more than beautiful — there is something enigmatic and at times unsettling about your seemingly ordinary face, something that none of the pretty girls whom you suspect me of loving will ever possess. Are you satisfied now? And do you believe me?”
“I believe everything you tell me, Master. Even when you seem to be joking. .”
Karamallah silently congratulated himself. He had just avoided one of those ruses that only women can invent, the mechanisms of which no philosophy — ancient or modern — has ever managed to lay bare. Having extricated himself so brilliantly, he was encouraged to settle a question of decorum that had long been up in the air. Nahed particularly annoyed him by behaving like a submissive, respectful disciple, and Karamallah scorned the praise of a society that only respects scoundrels. He experienced any and all admiration for him as an insult in disguise. In essence, he didn’t think anyone deserved the slightest veneration. In this cemetery invaded and degraded by the misery of the living, only the dead — discreet and silent — had the right to his respect.
“Nahed, my child! You don’t owe me any respect. All people think they are, or aim to be, respectable. Do me the honor of not confusing me with that mob of morons.”
Ever since Karamallah had pointed out the ambiguous charm of her face, Nahed had had a faraway look in her eyes, as if observing herself in an imaginary mirror. Karamallah’s request forced her out of this sublime contemplation.
“I never confuse you with anyone else. But it would be insolent not to respect you.”
“That’s exactly what I want you to be. Insolent. It would enliven our conversation a bit; your respect bores me and puts me to sleep.”
Nahed stood, collected her notebooks, and placed them in her imitation-leather schoolbag, then bowed ceremoniously to Karamallah, entering her phase of youthful insolence with this parody. She was wearing a sleeveless black cotton dress, emblematic vestments for venturing into a cemetery. Karamallah wanted to tell her that she did not need to dress in mourning to gain access to his mausoleum, but then he realized that this might be the girl’s only frock and so he refrained from saying anything. He followed her to the door and watched her move off in the distance, a dark and fragile silhouette in the sun’s brutal brightness, swinging her schoolbag like a weapon against the injustices of fate.
Karamallah was about to go back inside his mausoleum when he saw two men arriving in the dusty alleyway. He recognized one of them — despite an attempted metamorphosis — as Nimr, the famous pickpocket, an amusing acquaintance from his prison days. He was accompanied by a young man dressed in the latest fashion who appeared to be asleep, and was walking like a somnambulist eager to return to his bed. Quite obviously these two characters had come to see him, because no funeral procession preceded them. And so he waited for them, assured of spending an afternoon full of surprises and agreeable discussions.
Karamallah had found Nimr vastly entertaining when they were cellmates. Even though he was illiterate, Nimr was a true wise man who spoke with authority about his eventful career as unlucky thief and outstanding educator of juvenile delinquents. But who was the eccentric-looking young man and for what obscure reason would Nimr, who was in hiding, expose himself with an individual capable of drawing out the local populace with his flamboyant attire? Faced with this enigma, Karamallah had no doubt that their visit held delights in store.
The two men were now in front of him and Nimr bowed as if he were placing his shaved head before the master as an offering. For Nimr, Karamallah was the incarnation of the supreme truth, a truth that all nations of the world combat as if it were a contagious virus. He kept his bow for a moment, then raised his head and said in the mournful voice of a man whom destiny had mistreated:
“Forgive me for disturbing you, Master! But we are dealing with an exceptional matter. Allow me first to introduce one of my former pupils who has been stunningly successful in an unjustly disparaged profession.”
“So I see,” Karamallah stated ironically. “You’d have to be blind not to notice this success. How fortunate I am to welcome triumphant youth into my home!”
“What are you waiting for to greet the master, you son of a dog!” exclaimed Nimr, who had decided to demonstrate his authority over his former pupils, even those at the pinnacle of their art.
Ossama approached Karamallah and shook his hand with the anguish of someone come to consult an oracle.
“You never disturb me, my dear Nimr. You know that,” said Karamallah. “In fact, I was waiting for a visit such as yours. At the moment, current affairs are dreadfully dull — no financial scandals, no civil wars, no political assassinations. Nothing! It’s as if all the bastards had died or gone on vacation. But come in, come in. You and your glorious pupil are most welcome.”
Karamallah stepped back to let his visitors pass. Ossama hesitated a moment, then quickly crossed the threshold of the mausoleum; he had the distinct impression that he was penetrating another world. He was highly impressed by the courtesy and ease with which Karamallah invited them to enter a tomb. He was like a prince receiving a delegation come to his palace to bring the latest news about his kingdom. Nimr, who did not seem at all disoriented in this makeshift lodging, had not been wrong in describing Karamallah as an exceptional individual. The young man saw at once not only that Karamallah was a remarkable character but also that he moved in a world marvelously suited to him. Ossama had never imagined that one day he would find himself in such a place under the sardonic gaze of a stranger to whom he nonetheless felt remarkably close. Why had he so readily agreed to follow Nimr on this expedition? Was it not, rather, that he had been the leader and his former teacher, the follower? He convinced himself that strange, unknown forces had led him here for a meeting of the utmost importance. The idea filled him with unsettling bliss.
Karamallah invited them to be seated, pointing to a couch that he also used as a bed, while he went to his desk chair.
Ossama was breathing cautiously. He dreaded the odor of the corpses buried nearby and especially feared being contaminated
by the germs that were in all probability lurking in the room. It took him some time to get used to the situation. The few pieces of furniture that he could see and the many books piled on the desk were reassuring in their banality. On balance, the room looked like any other you might find in an apartment in the city. He forgot the cemetery and the presence of the dead as he studied their host with the eyes of an orphan choosing among several potential adoptive fathers. The man he saw had to be about fifty years old, despite his mischievous, childlike smile and his clean-shaven face that displayed constant delight, as if a divine decree had bestowed eternal happiness upon him to the exclusion of everyone else. He was dressed simply in a robe of yellow silk, his bare feet slid into red leather babouches. Ossama had to admit that their host, in his sartorial simplicity, had the more noble presence, despite his own panoply of expensive suits purchased from the capital’s finest tailors. Once he realized this, he began to feel vaguely miserable.