Proud Beggars Page 2

  —ALYSON WATERS

  PROUD BEGGARS

  1

  GOHAR had just awoken; he had dreamed he was drowning. He raised himself on one elbow and looked around with eyes full of uncertainty, still clouded by sleep. He was no longer dreaming, but reality was so close to his dream that he remained puzzled, aware of a menacing danger. “By Allah! It’s the flood!” he thought. “The river will carry everything away!” But he made no attempt to flee the imminent catastrophe; instead, he hung on to sleep as though to a bit of flotsam and closed his eyes.

  It took him a long time to pull himself together. He began to rub his eyes, but stopped in time; his hands were wet and sticky. He slept fully dressed on a bed made of a thin pile of old newspapers on the ground. The water had submerged the lot, covering nearly the whole of the tiled floor. It flowed silently toward him with the oppressive fatality of a nightmare. Gohar had the impression of being on an island surrounded by waves; he didn’t dare move. The water’s inexplicable presence plunged him into shock. However, his initial fright abated as he regained his sense of reality. He now realized that the idea of a river in full spate destroying everything in its path had come to him in a moment of madness. He looked around and quickly discovered the source of this mysterious water; it was filtering out from under his neighbor’s door.

  Gohar shivered as if under the spell of an unspeakable terror: the cold. He tried to rise, but sleep was still in him, dulling his limbs, holding him with indissoluble bonds. He felt weak and helpless. He wiped his hands on his jacket, where the cloth wasn’t wet. Now he could rub his eyes. He did so calmly, looked at his neighbor’s door, and thought, “They must be washing the floor. Still and all, they nearly drowned me!” His neighbors’ sudden cleanliness seemed highly grotesque and scandalous. This had never happened before. No one ever washed the floor in this sordid, ramshackle house in the native quarter occupied by poor, starving people. They were obviously new tenants, smart alecks eager to impress their neighbors.

  Gohar remained inert, astounded by the revelation of this insane cleanliness. He felt he must do something to stop the flood. But what? It was best to wait; a miracle would certainly occur. This absurd situation called for a supernatural solution. Already he felt helpless. He waited several minutes but nothing happened, no occult power came to his rescue. He finally got up and stood motionless, with the hallucinated look of someone saved from a shipwreck. Then with infinite care he crossed the damp floor and sat down on the only chair in the room. Besides the chair there was nothing but an overturned wooden box crowned with a spirit burner, a coffee pot, and a jug of drinking water. Gohar lived in the strictest economy of material means. The notion of the simplest comfort had been banished from his memory long ago. He hated to surround himself with objects: objects concealed hidden germs of misery—the worst kind of all, unconscious misery, which fatally breeds suffering by its unending presence. Not that he was sensitive to the appearance of misery—he acknowledged nothing tangible in it. It stayed an abstraction forever. He simply did not want his gaze to fall on any depressing disorder. Gohar found an elusive beauty in the poverty of this room where he could breathe freely and optimistically. Most furniture and ordinary objects insulted his eyes, as they could not nourish his need for human fantasy. Only people, with their endless follies, had the power to amuse him.

  He remained pensive a moment, looking at his ravaged, now useless bed. The old newspapers which served as his mattress were completely submerged; they’d already begun to float along the floor. The primitive simplicity of this disaster pleased him. Where there was nothing, the tempest raged in vain. Gohar’s invulnerability lay in this total deprivation; he offered no target for devastation. Again, he remembered his extravagant neighbors and wondered about the reason for their unusual cleanliness. What were they trying to do? The house would never survive such treatment; it was rotten throughout and only waiting for an excuse to collapse. No doubt, they would all perish.

  As Gohar struggled to understand what these accursed new lodgers intended, a loud cry, sprung from several breasts, a long cry like a night of horror, resounded in the neighboring flat. The walls of the old house shook from the violence of the impact. The cry, reaching its peak, subsided. Then came an anguished silence, followed by sinister shrieks. At first Gohar didn’t comprehend the meaning of this appalling frenzy. Then it came to him in a flash. They were mourners, no doubt about it. He instantly realized the total horror of the episode: there was a corpse in his neighbor’s room, and the whitish, soapy water that had attacked him during his sleep was the water with which they had washed the corpse.

  First confusion, then disgust nailed him to his chair, leaving him breathless. He looked gloomily at his trembling, wet hands and his clothes soiled by death. Then he brusquely shook himself to chase away the deadly germs of death and ran for the water jug. But the jug was empty; in his distress, Gohar looked around wildly for a non-existent faucet. How could he wash his hands? He held them away, wondering what sickness had killed his neighbor. Perhaps he’d caught a contagious disease. “Germs!” he thought anxiously. But immediately the fear of germs seemed silly. “If we could die from germs, we’d all have died long ago.” Even microbes lost their virulence in this ludicrous world. He sat down again and thought at length about the humor of his situation. He grew calmer, all was clear and easy, extraordinarily deceptive. No calamity had the power to drive him to sadness. His optimism conquered the worst catastrophes. With a feeling of absolute detachment, he again contemplated the flooded ground, the scattered old newspapers, the unreal bareness of his room, and a strange smile illuminated his gentle, ascetic face.

  In the next room the mourning women had settled down to their wild grieving; their howling had reached an unrelenting volume, creating an atmosphere of a bloody and permanent tragedy. No human will could stop them in their dizzying task. Gohar was under the spell of their sinister lamentations. He was possessed by a desire to discover an enjoyable aspect to their cries, but these unnatural shrieks, coming from hired throats, struck his ear like the call from a strange universe. He couldn’t recognize the mark of a human, fraternal world. This universe of sorrow, false and shrill, filled his head with a poisonous roar and made him dizzy.

  He had been woken abruptly, at an unusual hour, and he was still sleepy. How could he fall asleep again with these cursed women on the other side of the wall? They would have no pity. Gohar trembled, he was cold. He stiffened, let a moment pass, then rose from his chair. He had decided to go out.

  He picked up his tarboosh, which was lying in a corner of the room untouched by the flood, stuck it on his head, took his cane, and went out on the landing. His neighbor’s door was wide open. Gohar hesitated, a little wary. His instinct told him to be prudent—he feared the worst from these raging busybodies. Seeing a man, they might let themselves go even more, if only for appearance’s sake. Gohar shivered at this idea, and, without thinking, dashed onto the wobbly staircase, carrying with him the fleeting vision of a pack of giant women dressed in full black melayas, squatting on the ground in a circle, their faces and hands painted with laundry blueing. They were beating their breasts while uttering their demonic cries. Gohar suddenly felt he was fainting and that the staircase was vanishing under his feet. He never knew how he reached the street.

  It was almost noon. On El Azhar, a wide street teeming with a carefree motley crowd, Gohar recovered his full faculties. This was his familiar world, among this lazy crowd that spread itself indifferently on the sidewalks and in the street, despite the busy traffic of cars, cabs, donkey carriages, and even streetcars that sped by like meteors. The gentle winter sun poured its bountiful warmth over this tangled throng. Kites hovered high above, plunged into the crowd, then flew off carrying bits of stolen meat in their beaks; no one paid attention to their clever maneuvers. Groups of women stood in front of fabric stores, haggling for hours over the purchase of some printed handkerchief. Children amused themselves by enraging drivers, standing
deliberately in their path. The drivers cursed them, swore at them and their absent mothers, then ended by running over a few. From all the cafés that lined the street, radios poured forth the same whining voice of a famous singer. The musical accompaniment was sad; as for the words, they explained at length his sorrows and regrets on the subject of a thwarted love. Gohar recalled his dead neighbor, the mourners’ strident cries, and stepped up his pace. But there was no way to escape this gloomy voice, it was everywhere, rising above the tumult in the street.

  Gohar stopped instinctively, as though intuiting a peaceful zone, the promise of a delectable joy amid the surrounding din. In front of an empty store, he saw a well-dressed older man sitting with dignity on a chair, with a detached and royal air, watching the crowd pass. The man had a strikingly majestic appearance. “Here’s a man after my own heart,” he thought. This empty store and this man who sold nothing were a priceless discovery. The store, Gohar guessed, was simply decorative; it served as a place to receive his friends and to offer them coffee. This was the height of opulence and generosity. Gohar greeted him like an old friend, and the man answered with a pleasant smile, barely perceptible, as if he understood that he was being admired.

  “Honor me,” said the man. “Please be so kind as to accept a cup of coffee.”

  “Thank you,” said Gohar. “Another time. Please excuse me.”

  They looked at each other with visible pleasure, almost tenderness, then Gohar resumed his walk through the crowd. He was perfectly happy. It was always the same thing: this amazement he felt before the absurd easiness of life. All was simple and ludicrous. He only had to look around to be convinced. The swarming poverty that surrounded him was not at all tragic; it seemed to conceal a mysterious opulence, treasures of a strange, unknown richness. A prodigious indifference seemed to preside over the destiny of this crowd; here, every humiliation assumed a pure and innocent character. Gohar swelled with brotherly affection; at each step the futility of all this misery appeared to him and delighted him.

  A yellow streetcar crossed the road with an infernal noise, clanging its bell to clear a path through the crowd which blocked the tracks. Gohar passed a restaurant that sold boiled beans; the smell of food made him vaguely uneasy. He stopped, leaned on his cane, and waited. No, it wasn’t hunger. Hunger had no effect on him; he could last several days with nothing but a piece of bread. This queasiness meant something else. He took several steps, realized the nature of his discomfort, and was alarmed. The drug! He had forgotten his drug. The death of his ignorant neighbor had outrageously disturbed his habits. Gohar normally woke at dusk; now it was still too early to buy drugs. His only supplier was Yeghen, and Gohar wouldn’t be able to meet him until evening. It was impossible to find Yeghen now; he had no fixed address, he didn’t live anywhere.

  How could he last until evening without drugs? The prospect unnerved him a little; he knew he would suffer, and he calmly prepared for this suffering. He drew a little rumpled bag from his pocket, took a mint lozenge from it, and diligently began to suck it. It didn’t have the bitter taste of a hashish ball, but it was enough to calm him.

  A little farther on he smiled, seeing the faithful beggar squatting in his usual place. The same rite always unfolded: each time he passed by, Gohar had no money, so he would apologize, and they would enjoy a fascinating conversation. Gohar had known him a long time and cherished his company. He was a special kind of beggar, for he made no lamentations and suffered no infirmity. Quite the contrary, he shone with good health and his djellaba was almost clean. He had the piercing look that marked the professional beggar able to judge his client with a single glance. Gohar admired him for never having dreamed of saving face. In the general pandemonium, no one seemed to attach importance to his condition as a healthy and flourishing beggar. Amid so many real absurdities, the act of begging seemed like any other work—and the only reasonable work, at that. He always occupied the same place, with the dignity of a bureaucrat behind his desk. People would throw him a penny in passing. Sometimes he challenged the donor: he had just come across a counterfeit coin. An interminable palaver followed, in which insults had the weight of eternity. He threatened to call the police. It always ended in his favor.

  Gohar stopped to greet him.

  “Peace be with you,” said the beggar. “I saw you coming from afar; I waited for you.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Gohar. “I have no money; next time I will.”

  “Who told you I wanted money?”

  “Why wouldn’t you? I might think you’re spurning me.”

  “Such a thought is far from me,” the beggar protested. “The sight of you enchants me; I love to chat with you. Your presence is worth more than all the treasures on earth.”

  “You flatter me,” Gohar said. “Business going well?”

  “God is great!” answered the beggar. “But business isn’t important. There are so many joys in life. Have you heard the story of the elections?”

  “No, I never read the paper.”

  “This one wasn’t in the papers. Someone told it to me.”

  “All right, I’m listening.”

  “Well! This took place some time ago in a little village in Lower Egypt during elections for mayor. When the government clerks opened the ballot boxes, they discovered that the majority of the ballots had the name of Barghout on them. The clerks didn’t know this name; it wasn’t on any party list. Bewildered, they made inquiries and were amazed to learn that Barghout was the name of a donkey renowned in the whole village for his wisdom. Nearly all the people had voted for him. What do you think of the story?”

  Gohar breathed happily; he was delighted. “They are ignorant and illiterate,” he thought, “but they’ve just done the most intelligent thing the world has seen since there’ve been elections.” The behavior of these peasants lost in the depths of their village was the true consolation, without which life would become impossible. Gohar was overwhelmed with admiration. His joy was so piercing in nature that he remained dumbfounded, looking at the beggar. A kite landed on the street nearby, scratched around with its beak for something rotten, found nothing, and flew away.

  “Wonderful!” Gohar exclaimed. “And how does the story end?”

  “Naturally, he wasn’t elected. What do you expect? An ass with four feet? The high officials wanted an ass with two feet!”

  “You deserve something special for such a marvelous story. You’ve made me happy. What can I do for you?”

  “Your friendship is enough,” the beggar said. “I knew that you would appreciate it.”

  “You overwhelm me,” Gohar said. “We’ll meet again soon, I hope.”

  Gohar turned left, entered a sordid, relatively quiet alley, and headed for the Mirror Café. He knew he wouldn’t find anyone at this hour, but he liked to give miracles a chance to happen.

  The Mirror Café was located at the junction of two alleys; it occupied most of the dirt street, forbidden to heavy vehicles, where only the handcarts of strolling merchants ventured. Immense awnings stretched over the winding terrace like at a covered market. An impressive number of mirrors in sculpted and gilded frames hung everywhere, even on the façades of neighboring hovels. The Mirror Café was famous for its green tea and the eclecticism of its clientele, composed of carters, intellectuals, and foreign tourists thirsting for local color. Just now there wasn’t a crowd. Gohar crossed the terrace, gliding between the tables in search of an acquaintance. A few important-looking people were smoking water pipes with a minimum of effort; others played backgammon while drinking a glass of tea. Some rare specimens of the tribe of cigarette-butt scavengers, awake before the others, went about their work with debonair indifference; they weren’t afraid of competition.

  “Greetings, Master!”

  Gohar turned around. El Kordi was half out of his chair, offering his hand.

  “What!” Gohar said. “You didn’t go to the ministry today?”

  “I went, but I left right away; I just couldn’
t work. Master, I’m extremely unhappy.”

  “What’s wrong, my son?”

  “I’ve just been there,” El Kordi said mysteriously. “She’s sicker than ever. I let her sleep.” Then, seeing that Gohar was still standing, “But sit down, Master.”

  Gohar sat down; El Kordi called the waiter.

  “What would you like?”

  “A tea,” answered Gohar.

  “Me too,” said El Kordi.

  The waiter went off shouting his order in the musical voice of an invert. With a mischievous gleam in his eyes, Gohar looked at El Kordi. El Kordi seemed completely miserable; that is, he was doing everything possible to appear so. He was a good-looking young man, carefully dressed in a spotless tarboosh, with slightly slanted eyes and a bitter, sensual mouth. His job as a clerk in some ministry embittered his romantic soul. It could easily be seen that he was enamored of justice.

  “I can’t leave her like that,” he said. “I must do something. Help me, or I’ll kill myself.”

  Gohar didn’t answer right away. He continued sucking his mint lozenge, savoring this counterfeit that made him forget his craving for drugs.

  “Why kill yourself?”

  “You don’t understand. I must take her from the brothel. I can’t let her prostitute herself this way, sick as she is. And that beastly madam, Set Amina. Can you believe she wouldn’t even let her rest? When I think of all the money she brings her. It’s shameful! I’m telling you, I’ll kill myself.”

  Gohar was not impressed by this confession. El Kordi’s troubles always had this morbid, merciless character. Now he seemed to be carrying all the world’s troubles, but it was only a state that he assumed from time to time so as to believe in his own dignity. For El Kordi deemed that dignity was the prerogative only of suffering and despair. It was his reading of Western literature that had deranged his mind so.