The Colors of Infamy by Albert Cossery

are thieves. Th at superstition goes back to antiquity, and it suits my business perfectly.”
    â€œSo, this is what learning is for! I see now that an intelligent boy like you could never be content with petty larceny! By Allah, you are the thief of the future! All those years of school served your ambition well.”
    â€œSchool taught me only to read and write. And that sliver of learning set me on the surest road to starving to death in honesty and ignorance. You were the first to open my eyes to widespread corruption. To have understood that the only forces that drive humanity are thieving and swindling — that’s real intelligence. And you didn’t even go to school. Ever since I met you, I have stolen with a clear conscience and a happy heart. Better yet, I have the feeling that my activity contributes to the country’s prosperity because I spend the money I steal from the rich in a variety of shops that would perish without me and my peers.”
    Th e certificate of civic-mindedness that Ossama was bestowing upon himself seemed to go beyond — well beyond — Nimr’s basic teachings. His student had simply swept away the prejudices tied to his profession and had fashioned a philosophy that ennobled the thief, raising him to the rank of a nationalist activist. Nimr didn’t dare believe it, but on reflection, he had to admit the accuracy of this transcendent view of every kind of thievery. It was true that thieves caused money to circulate, money that without their ingenuity would always remain in the same pockets — a deplorable situation that would cause a country’s economy to suffer greatly. By moving money from one pocket to another, theft, by means of this unilateral transfer, allowed completely depressed markets to revive. Having attained the far reaches of this realistic line of reasoning, Nimr was exhausted and eager to rest his brain, which had been dulled by several months in prison. He began to study Ossama with the eyes of a tourist scrutinizing the Sphinx in expectation of a final prophecy.
    Humility not being his long suit, Ossama pictured himself as a solid gold statue for having dazzled his former teacher with his analysis of theft as patriotic virtue.
    â€œI could become a government minister if I wanted,” he announced with the air of someone hesitating to accept a job in a grocery store.
    â€œOn my honor!” Nimr exclaimed. “Your success has driven you crazy! May Allah protect you from such a scheme!”
    â€œI’m not crazy and it could very well happen. Listen, I’m going to let you in on something unbelievable. For hours I’ve been looking for someone to discuss this with. Tell me what you think.”
    Ossama cast a glance at the few customers in the café and chased away a young cigarette butt collector lurking around their table with an insult that took in his entire family; then, leaning toward Nimr, with the excitement of a neophyte bomb carrier, he told him the story of the letter found in the real estate developer’s wallet — the man behind the genocide against some fifty tenants.
    â€œSo you see that the Minister is implicated in this scandal. What’s to say he isn’t in collusion with his brother? And if he is, then why shouldn’t a thief of my caliber be a candidate for a ministerial post as well? Minister of Finance would, I think, suit me best.”
    â€œYou’re right,” Nimr agreed. “But you’ve no gift for lying. Can you lie like a minister every day including holidays?”
    â€œIt’s just a question of habit. With your guidance I think I could manage, my dear Master.”
    Th ey broke out laughing, and in their exuberance woke an old man sleeping on a bench against the wall of the café who then lectured them about shameless youth who did not respect the sleep of workers. Th e outburst of this old man resting from his labors as a former worker only