The Colors of Infamy by Albert Cossery Page B

mind.”
    Nimr was not sure what these words meant. His former student continued to surprise him with his eloquent language. For a moment he thought that Ossama, to have attained such a high degree of intelligence, must have been smoking hashish.
    â€œWhat about you?” Ossama went on. “Were you tortured as well?”
    â€œI’m a thief. You don’t torture the ones who keep you alive. Policemen’s salaries depend on people like me. I’ve never dreamed of overthrowing the established powers and I’m happy with any and all governments. No political regime will keep me from stealing. I’m certain I’ll always be able to practice my trade. And this guarantee doesn’t exist in any other profession. Have you ever seen an unemployed thief?”
    â€œExcellent reasoning,” Ossama admitted. “Unless they tortured you to find out who had taught you to steal!”
    At this, they were overcome by frenzied laughter broken up by insults directed at all torturers and their evil employers. Th e irascible old fellow sleeping on his bench opened his eyes, looked sadly at the laughing men, but made no comment, no doubt because he was exhausted. A few people had stopped to gawk in front of the café, admiring this energetic display of hilarity as if it were a puppet show. Ossama told them all to go gape at the belly dancer exhibiting herself in a fashionable cabaret on the road to the Pyramids, which was his sarcastic, disdainful way of chasing them from his sight. Th en he turned back to Nimr.
    â€œWhere can we find this man? From what you’ve said, I’ve been searching for him my whole life. He’s already my brother. Do you know where he lives?”
    â€œOf course. He lives in the City of the Dead. I went to see him when I got out of prison. He inherited his parents’ mausoleum and that’s where he lives, because he has no income. Th e government has ordered publishers and newspapers to turn down everything he writes. He still owes several thousand pounds in fines. Th ey’re looking for him to seize his goods. Since the mausoleum is the only property he has left, they’d have to sell the dead buried there. I’m sure he’s waiting impatiently for that to happen.”
    â€œWhen can we go see him?”
    â€œAny time — he only goes out in the evening. We can go right now if your business allows.”
    â€œI have no intention of working this afternoon. Besides, my clients take their naps at this hour.”
    Th ey rose as one and took a shortcut through the muddy alleyways cluttered with household trash piled up over the years like witnesses to past lives. Oddly, Ossama hardly seemed disgusted by this environment that was inflicting dreadful damage on his elegant attire. He hopped in puddles of viscous water, and stepped gracefully upon abominable refuse without worrying about splattering the hem of his trousers or his lovely suede shoes. All his thoughts were moving in the direction of this unknown brother, this prophet of derision who lived in a cemetery.

III
    I t was not because he had a predilection for funerary steles, nor because he wanted to perfect his knowledge of metaphysics by having subtle conversations with the dead that the highly educated Karamallah had chosen to live in a cemetery that had become known throughout the world when some thousands of homeless people had settled there without asking anyone’s permission. Indeed, no one had dared take offense at this stampede of the downtrodden, with the possible exception of some of the atrabilious deceased, enemies of humankind. Behind Karamallah’s choice of so austere a residence lay the despotism of a government impervious to humor and ferociously hostile to all information having any relationship whatsoever to the truth. He had been sentenced to prison and prohibited from publishing because he had insulted a foreign head of state; on his release, he found