He rummaged briefly through the pile of kites and finished by digging up one that was still in a skeletal state, but whose frame, made from reeds that he’d trimmed down and cinched together with string, suggested a kite of astonishing size. He grabbed a pair of scissors, some rolls of colored paper, and a dish, in which he mixed flour and water to form a paste. Returning to the terrace with this assortment of materials, he laid the frame of the kite on the flagstone floor, crouched down, and set to work with the focus and intensity of an expert building a rocket to the moon.
Lost in his work, Karim took no notice of the pathetic character who’d come onto the terrace and now stood near the door to the stairwell, trying in vain to catch his breath. This pale, miserable individual, some fifty years of age, carried a folder under his arm and in his hand a closed umbrella, on which he leaned, trembling. He continued to gasp for a moment, then suffered a coughing fit which, returning repeatedly, nearly choked him. At the first sound of the violent cough Karim lifted his head and stared, dumbfounded, at the intruder. The man returned his gaze like someone meeting an acquaintance in a crowd without much pleasure.
“Are you Karim?”
“Yes, that’s me. What’s this about?”
“Police,” said the man. “I’ve been ordered to conduct an investigation with regard to you.”
Without taking his eyes off the man Karim jumped to his feet. Funny kind of cop! In this heat he was dressed to endure the rigors of a harsh winter, in a dark, heavy suit with a wool scarf around his neck. His thin face bore a wary, concerned look but not a severe one — the sort of gravity commonly found on the faces of people condemned to an early death. And he was on the brink of exhaustion. For a man of his age, the six flights he’d just climbed must have constituted a dangerous feat. Out on the terrace in the blinding sun, he couldn’t see clearly; he opened his umbrella and, in its welcome shade, began to scrutinize the young man. This comical pose restored Karim’s confidence; his worries fell away. He walked up to the policeman.
“So what’s the subject of this investigation?”
“Couldn’t we go inside? I’d like to sit down. I need to speak to you.”
“It would be an honor!” Karim said. “Come in!”
The policeman closed his umbrella and entered the room. Unfazed, Karim followed. He wondered, though, what the reason for the investigation could be. It had been a long time since he’d tangled with the authorities. That they could have identified him — so quickly! — as the man behind the bogus beggar was inconceivable. Unless they were psychic! Hardly likely. Well, it would soon become clear. The face of this timid, asthmatic policeman seemed like a good omen to him.
Karim never forgot his manners.
“Please, Your Excellency, have a seat! I do hope you’ll forgive the mess. I’ve just moved in.”
“Not a problem. This isn’t a social visit.”
The policeman sat, gasping as before, but more weakly now. Karim discreetly reached for his jacket and put it on, covering his bare chest; he’d just remembered that it was important to be properly attired in front of a representative of the law — even one who was suffocating to death from asthma. Since he’d known Heykal — that is, since he’d come to appreciate the comic side of life, with its many ridiculous passions — Karim had renounced all dignity in his dealings with people who possessed even a modicum of power. Better to play the fool, to act dumb as a post; it was the only way to throw them off. Heykal had explained to him that dignity existed only between equals who shared a mutual respect. Maintaining your dignity before a police officer, or any other agent of the powers that be, meant absolutely nothing. Faced with a mad dog, the only intelligent thing to do is run. As to those individuals who, in the immensity of the world, deserved to be treated with dignity, they were few and far between. The risk of running into one of them was negligible.
Karim buttoned his jacket and sat down. Then, as if expecting a message of the utmost importance, he said:
“I’m listening.”
The strange policeman opened his folder. He pulled out a piece of paper and consulted it.
“Have you lived here long?”
“About a week. As you can see, I’m still settling in. I’m going to completely renovate the place. I’d lined up a carpenter, but unfortunately he just lost his wife, and I’ve been left hanging. I need to find another one.”
The policeman sighed and shook his head, as if it was painful for him to destroy such a beautiful plan.
“You’d do better to hold off,” he said.
“Why?”
“Because you can’t live here. It won’t be permitted.”
“What do you mean ‘permitted’?”
The officer’s eyes narrowed to a point, and he leaned toward Karim as if to reveal a terrible secret.
“Did you know, my friend, that this building lies on a strategic route!”
This declaration could only provoke hilarity, but Karim remained imperturbable. Not the slightest smile crossed his face. On the contrary, he appeared to be deeply impressed by what he’d just heard. In a tone of contrition — the tone of a citizen thoroughly invested in the well-being of the state — he replied:
“The cliff road, a strategic route! I had no idea, Your Excellency! On my honor, I didn’t know.”
“Well, I am informing you now. You should know that the cliff road is a strategic route of the utmost importance. Politicians, heads of foreign states, and prestigious military officials often take this road.”
“That’s true,” said Karim, “but I don’t see what that has to do with me.”
“You really don’t see?”
“No, by Allah I don’t! I’m trying to understand, but I don’t.”
“Well, I’ll have to tell you then. It’s like this: You are a dangerous man.”
“Me? What do they have against me?”
“Nothing, at the moment,” the policeman admitted. “But you’re on our black list. We’ve had dealings with you in the past, right?”
“That’s true, I won’t deny it. But it was years ago, under the previous government.”
Again the policeman shook his head, gazing with pity at Karim: such arguments were beyond stupid. Really, these revolutionaries were disarmingly naive.
“If you didn’t like the previous government,” he said, “there’s no reason why you should like this one. We know all about hotheads like you.”
Karim was dumbstruck by the brilliant accuracy of this analysis. What could he say? And yet he wasn’t going to be thrown off track by the whims of one lousy cop. He had to go all the way to the end.
He protested his good faith.
“How wrong you are, Your Excellency! Me, dislike the government? You’d have to be blind not to love it. Look at me: Am I blind? I’ll tell you in all frankness that I look up to the current government the way I look up to my own father. What more can I say to show my respect?”
“Since you brought it up, where is your father?”
“He’s dead,” Karim replied. “I’m an orphan.”
Either out of gratitude — the scene was a gift from heaven — or because he wanted to play his role of repentant rebel to the hilt, Karim was soon on the verge of tears. With his head in his hands, he began mumbling — almost sobbing — about his bad luck, about the unhappiness he’d endured since childhood. He did everything he could to make the whole melodrama seem real, and though he may not have been entirely convincing, the policeman appeared to relent a little at last, remaining silent as he waited for the painful moment to pass. But Karim kept going, talking about his poor mother, dead from a mysterious disease (strongly resembling asthma), the symptoms and effects of which he described with the precision of a trained physician.