The Beggar, the Thief and the Dogs, Autumn Quail (18 page)

           

B
y the time Said had returned to the flat, dressed in his officer's uniform, and left, it was well after one o'clock. He turned toward Abbasiyya Street, avoiding the lights and forcing himself to walk very naturally, then took a taxi to Gala's Bridge, passing an unpleasant number of policemen en route.

At the dock near the bridge he rented a small rowboat for two hours and promptly set off in it south, toward Rauf Ilwan's house. It was a fine starry night, a cool breeze blowing, the quarter-moon still visible in the clear sky above the trees along the riverbank. Excited, full of energy, Said felt ready to spring into vigorous action. Ilish Sidra's escape was not a defeat, not as long as punishment was about to descend on Rauf Ilwan. For Rauf, after all, personified the highest standard of treachery, from which people like Ilish and Nabawiyya and all the other traitors on earth sought inspiration.

“It's time to settle accounts, Rauf,” he said, pulling hard on the oars. “And if anyone but the police stood as judges
between us, I'd teach you a lesson in front of everyone. They, the people, everyone—all the people except the real robbers—are on my side, and that's what will console me in my everlasting perdition. I am, in fact, your soul. You've sacrificed me. I lack organization, as you would put it. I now understand many of the things you used to say that I couldn't comprehend then. And the worst of it is that despite this support from millions of people I find myself driven away into dismal isolation, with no one to help. It's senseless, all of it, a waste. No bullet could clear away its absurdity. But at least a bullet will be right, a bloody protest, something to comfort the living and the dead, to let them hold on to their last shred of hope.”

At a point opposite the big house, he turned shoreward, rowed in to the bank, jumped out, pulled the boat up after him until its bow was well up on dry land, then climbed the bank up to the road, where, feeling calm and secure in his officer's uniform, he walked away. The road seemed empty and when he got to the house he saw no sign of guards, which both pleased and angered him. The house itself was shrouded in darkness except for a single light at the entrance, convincing him that the owner was not yet back, that forced entry was unnecessary, and that a number of other difficulties had been removed.

Walking quite casually, he turned down the street along the left side of the house and followed it to its end at Sharia Giza, then he turned along Sharia Giza and proceeded to the other street, passing along the right side of the house, until he regained the riverside, examining everything along the way most carefully. Then he made his way over to a patch of ground shaded from the streetlights by a tree, and stood waiting, his eyes fixed on the house, relaxing
them only by gazing out from time to time at the dark surface of the river; his thoughts fled to Rauf's treachery, the deception that had crushed his life, the ruin that was facing him, the death blocking his path, all the things that made Rauf's death an absolute necessity. He watched each car with bated breath as it approached.

Finally one of them stopped before the gate of the house, which was promptly opened by the doorkeeper, and Said darted into the street to the left of the house, keeping close to the wall, stopping at a point opposite the entrance, while the car moved slowly down the drive. It came to a halt in front of the entrance, where the light that had been left on illuminated the whole entranceway. Said took out his revolver now and aimed it carefully as the car door opened and Rauf Ilwan got out.

“Rauf!” Said bellowed. As the man turned in shock toward the source of this shout, Said yelled again: “This is Said Mahran! Take that!”

But before he could fire, a shot from within the garden, whistling past him very close, disturbed his aim. He fired and ducked to escape the next shot, then raised his head in desperate determination, took aim, and fired again.

All this happened in an instant. After one more wild, hasty shot, he sped away as fast as he could run toward the river, pushed the boat out into the water, and leapt into it, rowing toward the opposite bank. Unknown sources deep within him released immediate reserves of physical strength, but his thoughts and emotions swirled as though caught in a whirlpool. He seemed to sense shots being fired, voices of people gathering, and a sudden loss of power in some part of his body, but the distance between the riverbanks was small at that point and he reached the
other side, quickly leapt ashore, leaving the boat to drift in the water, and climbed up to the street, clutching the gun in his pocket.

Despite his confused emotions, he proceeded carefully and calmly, looking neither to the right nor to the left. Aware of people rushing down to the water's edge behind him, of confused shouts from the direction of a bridge, and a shrill whistle piercing the night air, he expected a pursuer to accost him at any moment, and he was ready to put all his efforts into either bluffing his way out or entering one last battle. Before anything else could happen, however, a taxi cruised by. He hailed it and climbed in; the piercing pain he felt as soon as he sat back on the seat was nothing compared to the relief of being safe again.

He crept up to Nur's flat in complete darkness and stretched out on one of the sofas, still in his uniform. The pain returned now, and he identified its source, a little above his knee, where he put his hand and felt a sticky liquid, with sharper pain. Had he knocked against something? Or was it a bullet, when he'd been behind the wall perhaps, or running? Pressing fingers all around the wound, he determined that it was only a scratch; if it had been a bullet, it must have grazed him without penetrating.

He got up, took off his uniform, felt for his nightshirt on the sofa, and put it on. Then he walked around the flat testing out the leg, remembering how once he'd run down Sharia Muhammad Ali with a bullet lodged in the leg. “Why, you're capable of miracles,” he told himself. “You'll get away all right. With a little coffee powder this wound will bind up nicely.”

But had he managed to kill Rauf Ilwan? And who had shot at him from inside the garden?
Let's hope you didn't hit some other poor innocent fellow like before. And Rauf
must surely have been killed—you never miss, as you used to demonstrate in target practice out in the desert beyond the hill. Yes, now you can write a letter to the papers: “Why I Killed Rauf Ilwan.” That will give back the meaning your life has lost: the bullet that killed Rauf Ilwan will at the same time have destroyed your sense of loss, of waste. A world without morals is like a universe without gravity. I want nothing, long for nothing more than to die a death that has some meaning to it
.

Nur came home worn out, carrying food and drink. She kissed him as usual and smiled a greeting, but her eyes suddenly fastened on his uniform trousers. She put her parcel on the sofa, picked them up, and held them out to him.

“There's blood!” she said.

Said noticed it for the first time. “It's just a minor wound,” he said, showing her his leg. “I hit it on the door of a taxi.”

“You've been out in that uniform for some specific reason! There's no limit to your madness. You'll kill me with worry!”

“A little bit of coffee powder will cure this wound even before the sun rises.”

“My soul rises, you mean! You are simply murdering me! Oh, when will this nightmare end?”

In a burst of nervous energy Nur dressed the wound with powdered coffee, then bound it up with a cutting from fabric she was using to make a dress, complaining about her ill-fortune all the time she worked.

“Why don't you take a shower?” said Said. “It'll make you feel good.”

“You don't know good from bad,” she said, leaving the room.

By the time she came back to the bedroom, he had
already drunk a third of a bottle of wine and his mood and nerves felt much improved.

“Drink up!” he said as she sat down. “After all, I'm here, all right, in a nice safe place, way out of sight of the police.”

“I'm really very depressed,” Nur whimpered, combing her wet hair.

“Who can determine the future anyway?” he said, taking a swallow.

“Only our own actions can.”

“Nothing, absolutely nothing is certain. Except your being with me, and that's something I can't do without.”

“So you say now!”

“And I've got more to say. Being with you, after being out there with bullets tearing after me, is like being in Paradise.” Her long sigh in response was deep, as if in self-communion at night; and he went on: “You really are very good to me. I want you to know I'm grateful.”

“But I'm so worried. All I want is for you to be safe.”

“We'll still have our opportunity.”

“Escape! Put your mind to how we can escape.”

“Yes, I will. But let's wait for the dogs to close their eyes for a while.”

“But you go outside so carelessly. You're obsessed with killing your wife and this other man. You won't kill them. But you will bring about your own destruction.”

“What did you hear in town?”

“The taxi driver who brought me home was on your side. But he said you'd killed some poor innocent fellow.”

Said grunted irritably and forestalled any expression of regret by taking another big swallow, gesturing at Nur to drink, too. She raised the glass to her lips.

“What else did you hear?” he said.

“On the houseboat where I spent the evening one man said you act as a stimulant, a diversion to relieve people's boredom.”

“And what did you reply?”

“Nothing at all,” Nur said, pouting. “But I do defend you, and you don't look after yourself at all. You don't love me either. But to me you're more precious than my life itself; I've never in my whole life known happiness except in your arms. But you'd rather destroy yourself than love me.” She was crying now, the glass still in her hand.

Said put his arm around her. “You'll find me true to my promise,” he whispered. “We will escape and live together forever.”

           

W
hat enormous headlines and dramatic photos! It was obviously the major news item. Rauf Ilwan had been interviewed and had said that Said Mahran had been a servant in the students' hostel when he'd lived there, that he'd felt very sorry for him, and that later, after his release from prison, Said had visited him to ask for help, so he'd given him some money to start a new life; that Said had tried to rob his house the very same night and that he, Rauf, had caught and scolded him, but let him go out of compassion. And that then Said had come back to kill him!

The papers accused Said of being mad, craving for power and blood: his wife's infidelity had made him lose his mind, they said, and now he was killing at random. Rauf had apparently been untouched, but the unfortunate doorkeeper had fallen. Another poor innocent killed!

“Damnation!” cursed Said as he read the news.

The hue and cry was deafening now.

A huge reward was offered to anyone giving information of his whereabouts, and articles warned people
against any sympathy for him. Yes, he thought, you're the top story today, all right.
And you'll be the top story until you're dead. You're a source of fear and fascination—like some freak of nature—and all those people choking with boredom owe their pleasure to you. As for your gun, it's obvious that it will kill only the innocent. You'll be its last victim
.

“Is this madness, then?” he asked himself, choking on the question.

Yes, you always wanted to cause a real stir, even if you were only a clown. Your triumphant raids on the homes of the rich were like wine, intoxicating your pride-filled head. And those words of Rauf that you believed, even though he did not—it was they that really chopped off your head, that killed you dead!

He was alone in the night. There was still some wine in a bottle, which he drank down to the last drop. As he stood in the dark, enveloped in the silence of the neighboring graves, slightly giddy, he began to feel that he would indeed overcome all his difficulties, that he could disdain death. The sound of mysterious music within him delighted him.

“A misdirected bullet has made of me the man of the hour!” he declared to the dark.

Through the window shutters he looked over the cemetery, at the graves lying there quiet in the moonlight.

“Hey, all you judges out there, listen well to me,” he said. “I've decided to offer my own defense for myself.”

Back in the center of the room he took off his nightshirt. The room was hot, the wine had raised his body heat. His wound throbbed beneath the bandage, but the pain convinced him it was beginning to heal.

“I'm not like the others,” he said, staring into the dark,
“who have stood on this stand before. You must give special consideration to the education of the accused. But the truth is, there's no difference between me and you except that I'm on the stand and you're not. And that difference is only incidental, of no real importance at all. But what's truly ridiculous is that the distinguished teacher of the accused is a treacherous scoundrel. You may well be astonished at this fact. It can happen, however, that the cord carrying current to a lamp is dirty, speckled with fly shit.”

He turned to a sofa and lay down on it. In the distance he could hear a dog barking.
How can you ever convince your judges, when there is a personal animosity between you and them that has nothing to do with the so-called public welfare? They're kin to the scoundrel after all, whereas there's a whole century of time between you and them. You must then ask the victim to bear witness. You must assert that the treachery has become a silent conspiracy: “I did not kill the servant of Rauf Ilwan. How could I kill a man I did not know and who didn't know me? Rauf Ilwan's servant was killed because, quite simply, he was the servant of Rauf Ilwan. Yesterday his spirit visited me and I jumped to hide in shame, but he pointed out to me that millions of people are killed by mistake and without due cause.”

Yes, these words will glitter; they'll be crowned with a not-guilty verdict. You are sure of what you say. And apart from that, they will believe, deep down, that your profession is lawful, a profession of gentlemen at all times and everywhere, that the truly false values
—
yes!—are those that value your life in pennies and your death at a thousand pounds. The judge over on the left is winking at you; cheer up!

“I will always seek the head of Rauf Ilwan, even as a
last request from the hangman, even before seeing my daughter. I am forced not to count my life in days. A hunted man only feeds on new excitements, which pour down upon him in the span of his solitude like rain.”

The verdict will be no more cruel that Sana's cold shyness toward you. She killed you before the hangman could. And even the sympathy of the millions for you is voiceless, impotent, like the longings of the dead. Will they not forgive the gun its error, when it is their most elevated master?

“Whoever kills me will be killing the millions. I am the hope and the dream, the redemption of cowards; I am good principles, consolation, the tears that recall the weeper to humility. And the declaration that I'm mad must encompass all who are loving. Examine the causes of this insane occasion, then reach your judgment however you wish!”

His dizziness increased.

Then the verdict came down: that he was a great man, truly great in every sense of the word. His greatness might be momentarily shrouded in black, from a community of sympathy with all those graves out there, but the glory of his greatness would live on, even after death. Its fury was blessed by the force that flowed through the roots of plants, the cells of animals, and the hearts of men.

Eventually sleep overtook him, though he only knew it when he awoke to find light filling the room and he saw Nur standing looking down at him. Her eyes were dead tired, her lower lip drooped, and her shoulders slumped. She looked the very picture of despair. He knew in an instant what the trouble was; she'd heard about his latest exploit and it had shocked her deeply.

“You are even more cruel than I imagined,” she said. “I
just don't understand you. But for heaven's sake have mercy and kill me, too.” He sat up on the sofa, but made no reply. “You're busy thinking how to kill, not how to escape, and you'll be killed, too. Do you imagine you can defeat the whole government, with its troops filling the streets?”

“Sit down and let's discuss it calmly.”

“How can I be calm? And what are we to discuss? Everything's over now. Just kill me, too, for mercy's sake!”

“I don't ever want harm to come to you,” he said quietly and in a tender tone of voice.

“I'll never believe a word you say. Why do you murder doorkeepers?”

“I didn't mean to harm him!” he said angrily.

“And the other one? Who is this Rauf Ilwan? What is your relationship with him? Was he involved with your wife?”

“What a ridiculous idea,” he said, laughing so drily it was like a cough. “No, there are other reasons. He's a traitor, too, but of another sort. I can't explain it all to you.”

“But you can torture me to death.”

“As I just said, sit down so we can talk calmly.”

“You're still in love with your wife, that bitch, but you want to put me through hell all the same.”

“Nur,” he pleaded, “please don't torture me. I'm terribly depressed.”

Nur stopped talking, affected by a distress she could never have seen in him before. “I feel as if the most precious thing in my whole life is about to die,” she said at last, sadly.

“That's just your imagination, your fear. Gamblers like me never admit to setbacks. I'll remind you of that sometime.”

“When will that be?” she asked quietly.

“Oh, sooner than you think,” Said replied, pretending boundless self-confidence.

He leaned toward her and pulled her down by the hand. He pressed his face against hers, his nose filling with the smell of wine and sweat. But he felt no disgust and kissed her with genuine tenderness.