“I’ve told him all that. He feels close to you, too — he already knows you better than I do. He’s often spoken of you as a man dear to his heart. And all that without ever having met you. He’s sure you won’t disappoint him.”
“What’s he planning? Has he told you anything?”
“No,” Karim admitted. “I assume he wants to speak with you first. He needs your help. I’m sure tonight he’ll bring you up to date with his projects.”
“Are you going to keep sending in your letters to the editor? That was a piece of diabolical genius! I’m still staggered!”
Of late the newspapers’ sycophantic treatment of the governor had exceeded every precedent in the history of baseness and servility. If you believed the press, the whole city was singing the odious man’s praises; his initiatives and his commitment to their success were the sole topics of conversation. Even his militaristic side was singled out for praise, as if the city were a battleground on which the governor, a former general, was staging a victorious war. This was the situation that Heykal had resolved to exploit. His plan consisted of joining the most staunch celebrants and acolytes in their folly, one-upping them with even more outrageous flattery. So he had his people write letters that were so laudatory of the governor’s actions that none of the papers could possibly refuse to publish them: they were sure they were serving the glory of their master.
“Not anymore,” said Karim. “Someone high up has forbidden the papers to publish our missives. The last ones we sent were never printed. We seem to have overstepped some limit. You remember the one I wrote myself, comparing the governor to Alexander the Great?”
“I remember it well. You read it to me. It was an outstanding letter!”
“Well, in a certain milieu that letter is still considered a masterpiece of its kind. The paper that published it saw its circulation go up by several hundred in one day. Believe me, it’ll go down in posterity as the essence of shameless servility. Government lackeys will mine it for inspiration.”
“That’s what makes me wish I could read,” said Khaled Omar. “Then I could enjoy it whenever I want.”
There was a knock on the office door and a young boy, dirty and disheveled and with a club foot, carried a tray with two coffees into the room.
“Here’s your coffee, Omar bey!”
“Set them there,” said the businessman.
The boy emptied his tray, glanced furtively at the two men, and limped away.
“Actually,” said Karim, picking up his cup of coffee, “a horrible thing has happened to me.”
“What is it? You’re worrying me!”
“Well, not that terrible. Though it’s enough to make you split your sides laughing…!”
He told Khaled Omar about the asthmatic policeman’s visit — how the cliff road had been promoted to a “strategic route.”
Khaled Omar’s laugh boomed out again.
“The scoundrels!” he said, once he’d recovered. “Unbelievable! I’m speechless! Or did you just make it up?”
“You flatter me! If only! I admit it took some serious effort not to burst into laughter when he said it. He was clearly a good man, the kind of cop who’s too much of a human being to succeed in that job. He must have been stagnating for years; he’s not young anymore and none too brilliant. I tried to corrupt him.”
“How so?”
“I asked if he had any children. When he said yes, I offered him a kite. He’d only accept a very small one. He chose it himself, then left, telling me that I’d receive a summons shortly.”
“Blessed be the day I met you,” Omar laughed. “So what can I do to get you out of this little mess?”
“Well, I think if you could reach out to him and make him accept a few kilos of sugar, he’d file a report in my favor.”
“I’ll drown him in sugar, if that’ll help. Anything else?”
“No, nothing. Thank you.”
“I’m the one who’s thankful. You are gratifying my soul by introducing me to your friend Heykal. No matter what, I’ll be in your debt forever.”
Khaled Omar had never been in love, but thinking about his meeting with Heykal he felt as impatient as a lover before an assignation. From their talk he anticipated a kind of secret, profound joy, more intoxicating than the most potent carnal pleasure. A man who had the imagination to combat violence and stupidity by praising an executioner to the sky must be something else! Khaled Omar had dreamed of this man for a long time.
4
Draped in a purple dressing gown, Heykal rose from the divan and, for the tenth time at least, walked to the window. He was at his wit’s end, but his expression remained impassive and his gait regal, as if specially learned for visiting royalty in their palaces. The chilly, unflinching glance he cast upon the street conveyed his resignation; for some time already, he’d given up hope of seeing his servant, Siri, appear. He might come back tomorrow or in a week — nobody could say, least of all Heykal. Early in the afternoon, Heykal had sent Siri with his only presentable suit to the neighborhood clothes-presser, and now, at six in the evening, he still hadn’t returned. The servant’s disappearance left Heykal in a terrible state; he felt like he’d been confined to his apartment with no possibility of leaving. All his other clothes were threadbare, more or less, and for Heykal to wear anything inelegant was out of the question. Such a demanding aesthetic would seem puerile if it hadn’t been the manifestation of his essential character. While young Karim liked to put on the airs of a lord with the whores he picked up on the street, Heykal was a lord — not by virtue of social rank but because he was endowed with a truly aristocratic nature. His striking manner of dressing, walking, and speaking wasn’t the result of rigorous training; he had been born to it.
He moved away from the window, not letting his face betray any bitterness — head high, as if to defy destiny. Siri wouldn’t return anytime soon; he’d disappeared into the void, and Heykal’s suit with him. This formal suit, already several years old, and which at the moment Heykal could only imagine was being dragged through the filth, was an object of constant concern. What maniacal ruses he’d deployed to keep it safe! Much of his leisure time was consumed by careful efforts to protect it from the slightest speck of dust.
It was an extraordinary suit, made from imported cloth in a discreet dark hue and cut with consummate art by the most capable tailor in the country. Despite the fact that Heykal wore it almost exclusively, it had held its shape well, and with age it had even acquired a certain beauty. It had cost him a pretty penny; but it had been well worth the price, for it fulfilled its role to perfection. When added to his own natural presence, the opulent suit gave Heykal undeniable cachet; he passed, even in the city’s wealthiest circles, for a young man of high rank. Though he wasn’t rich, he was also not without resources; a meager income from a small inherited plot of land was enough to let him live modestly. Nobody knew the amount of this income, and given his manners and the confidence he projected, he was usually taken to be a wealthy landowner. At thirty-two, he had yet to work; much better to make do on his meager rent than to get involved, even sporadically, with the league of bloodthirsty crooks who populated the planet. But Heykal was no idler; he was perpetually at work, uncovering the absurdity of human behavior. The world of fools pleased him. He would, in fact, have been unhappy to discover that something he’d seen or heard contained even a hint of sense. Sometimes, reading a vaguely sensible piece of news in the paper, he grew sick with annoyance. He delighted in the endless spectacle of man’s folly and, like a child at the circus, never failed to find life wildly entertaining.