He cast a parting glance filled with brotherly affection at the man in rags, then wended his way toward the steps that led to Talaat Harb Street; he climbed down them cautiously (they were covered with a thick layer of dust that could damage his shoes), and found himself on the right-hand sidewalk, which was, for the moment, in shade. A voluptuous calm spread through his body on contact with the air — tepid and sticky but how refreshing after the furnace he had just left! His clothes felt lighter and he struck the pose of a prodigal, carefree young man as he set out to mingle with the crowd. He avidly listened in on the discussions of the passersby strolling beside him, catching incredible bits of conversation shot through with irony and invective regarding the ruling hierarchy, illustrating that mixture of insolence and arrogance that poverty bestows upon its chosen ones. And as he listened, it seemed as if each speaker prided himself on being descended from the Pharaohs. The fact that all these beggars laid claim to some imaginary nobility was pleasantly appealing; Ossama believed the most ostentatious indigence was the irrefutable sign of true grandeur. All along the street, store windows displayed the full panoply of a consumer society, a society still limited in scope, but firmly determined to profit from its offerings. One could see household appliances of all kinds, radios, televisions, VCRs, refrigerators, expensive jewelry, roll upon roll of silk fabric, Persian rugs, fashionable women’s clothing, luxurious limousines with gleaming chrome, and, most absurd of all, travel agencies advertising snow-covered landscapes in a kind of reverse exoticism. The crowd on the whole remained indifferent to these primitive enticements imported for the most part to satisfy the voracity of a tribe of vultures. Only a few individuals, either from fatigue or out of infantile curiosity, stopped to contemplate all these objects beyond their comprehension, wondering what unjust fate had caused them to be so poor in a country so rich.
The Cosmopolitan Café, which at one time owed its fame to the social and intellectual standing of its clientele, was now overrun by an assemblage of people without any particular status, and was slowly spiraling down toward marginalization and opprobrium. It had lost its glorious terrace — gradually eroded over the years by the devastating tide of passersby — and no longer kept anything outdoors other than a few tables protected by a dead-end alley too short to tempt strollers. Ossama sat down at a table in that alley spared from the crowd, ordered a lemonade from the waiter, and began to keep an eye on the opposite sidewalk where an old apartment building still retained some vestiges of its opulent architecture, like a courtesan worn out by time in whom one can catch a glimpse, despite her wrinkles, of some meager residue of buried beauty. This deterioration of a building once so opulent-looking had, it must be admitted, nothing compelling to hold Ossama’s attention, with the exception of a wrought-iron gate with open double doors flanked by a black marble plaque on which the words “Club of Notables” were inscribed in golden letters, thereby signifying to the people that it did not recruit its members among the rabble. Several times in the past, this den of the mercenary aristocracy had been a fruitful source of personal gain for the young man. The members of this club were not only “notable” (as the sign proclaimed) because of their ill-gotten gains; it went without saying that they also carried in their wallets a tiny portion of their wealth, and Ossama was kind enough to relieve them of that during an imperceptible brushing of bodies. The operation was amusing and easy, and was coupled with the pleasure of the gambler, for Ossama never knew who his next victim would be or how much he might collect. In truth, he was a tolerably frivolous thief, interested more in the pleasantly risky aspect of the adventure than in any financial gain. His cynical and prankster-like concept of theft shielded him from the gloomy, anxious attitude of the ordinary thief obsessed with the foolish morality of the well-to-do. His heart was gripped with joyous excitement and he watched the entrance to the club as if the lascivious and divinely beautiful woman imagined by idle men in their erotic fantasies were about to emerge.
It was not this sort of ideal woman, but a young girl, barely seventeen, who appeared at his side and said in a timid, almost plaintive tone:
“May I please sit with you?”
Ossama recognized the voice and he turned to look at the girl who was standing in front of him, slender and fragile in her short cotton print dress and her cheap jewelry gleaming in the sun. For a moment he was seized with panic; the girl’s intrusion was going to jeopardize his plans and lead him into a pointless, poignant conversation detrimental to his optimism. But very soon he smiled and said, with the ill humor of a lover annoyed by his lady friend’s willful obtuseness:
“Of course, Safira, you can sit down. Why all the formality? Really, you make me sad.”
“I don’t want to bother you.”
“You never bother me. By Allah, don’t you know that?”
The girl sat down, her eyes suddenly lit by a glimmer of gratitude. It was obvious that coming across Ossama was a joy for her — perhaps her only joy. The pallor that could be seen through her lightly made-up face betrayed how ill-nourished she was and the hardship of her charmless existence. This face expressed the pain of immutable poverty, but, even more so, resignation and shame, and it was not at all attractive to Ossama; still, he was always compassionate and friendly with the girl. Aware that she was hatching some romantic scheme that concerned him personally, he was trying to protect himself by pretending to be corrupt and without a future.
“It’s unbelievable!” Safira suddenly exclaimed, as if she were in raptures over some miracle. “When I went out today, I was sure I was going to run into you. Isn’t that amazing?”
“I’m as delighted as you are,” Ossama answered, suspecting that the girl had traveled the entire city to find him. “Believe me, I bless the good fortune that set me on your path.”