Do Flowers Really Fade?
Move closer. Tell me, where were you yesterday before your arrest?”
“Before my arrest? I was at home.”
“But we picked you up from. . . . How’s that possible?”
“I don’t know, Sir. I was at home.”
“Weren’t you at the café as usual?”
“No.”
“Tell me the truth.”
“I wasn’t at the café.”
“And how about your friends? Can you guess where they were?”
“No. I don’t know.”
“Why?”
“Because I don’t know.”
“Don’t be smart.”
“I’m not being smart. I’m telling the truth.”
“What about so-and-so?”
“I don’t know.”
“And so-and-so?”
“I don’t know.”
“And so-and-so?”
“I don’t know.”
“And so-and-so?”
“I don’t know.”
“Tell the truth, or I’ll take you back down below. Where do they usually spend their time?”
“I don’t know. Maybe at the café.”
“Anywhere else?”
“I don’t know.”
“Fine. We’ve always seen you all at the café, arguing, your hands gesturing wildly and your mouths opening and shutting. What would you all be arguing about?”
“Nothing in particular. Sometimes we talk about women.”
“Is that so? Talking about women doesn’t involve the kind of intensity you were all displaying at the café.”
“I swear, all we do is talk about women. We sit in the café so we can watch them.”
“That doesn’t mean anything. Isn’t there some other way of watching women?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Why? There are other cafés and houses.”
“Women don’t go to cafés, because it is considered wrong. Houses are completely out. My friends and I don’t have houses of our own. You know, Sir, it’s not easy for an ordinary man like me. . . .”
“Enough of that. It’s no concern of mine. Tell the truth, what do you usually argue about?”
“Nothing in particular, Sir. About women sometimes.”
“Okay, so you talk about women. What about the books and magazines you had in front of you?”
“I love to read. I like reading. That’s all.”
“Why are you so fond of reading? Why don’t you like movies, for example? What about your friends?”
“I don’t like movies, Sir. I hate dark places; they make me scared.”
“Do you know why we arrested you?”
“No, Sir.”
“Okay, so relax and take a deep breath. Breathe slowly. We arrested you because you are involved in politics. Do you realize that?”
“No, Sir. I’m not involved in politics. I don’t belong to any political group.”
“And yet you’re a revolutionary. You and your friends are revolutionaries. Do you deny that too?”
“There’s no proof that I’ve engaged in revolutionary activities, Sir, or that I even have any political opinions. In any case, all political parties are banned in my country in one way or another, so how can you claim that I belong to one?”
“Why are you saying that? Now you’re talking about politics. Do you realize that?”
“I’m sorry, Sir.”
“Head up!”
“Here I am, Sir, head up.”
“Tell the truth now. Do you belong to any secret organizations?”
“No, Sir. Are there any?”
“In your house we found a whole lot of books about socialism. Does that mean you’re a communist?”
“No, Sir. I’m not a communist. It’s never occurred to me to become one.”
“So, what are you?”
“Nothing, Sir. I read a lot, then go to the café. But I never discuss what I’ve been reading with my friends. Believe me, Sir. We only talk about women.”
“Don’t you realize that that’s punishable by law as well?”
“Pardon me, Sir; I don’t know of anyone who’s been arrested for talking about women.”
“Stop talking such nonsense. That’s forbidden too. How dare you talk about respectable women that way?”
“We don’t talk about respectable women, Sir. We only discuss the ones who pass by in front of us. They tempt us by dressing the way they do and shooting glances at us.”
“Do you realize that you’re corrupting the morals of our society?”
“I’ve never harassed a woman in the street, Sir. Many men take women to their apartments or to the Corniche. But we don’t do such things, Sir. We don’t have . . .”
“You keep talking about a group. Who is this ‘we’?”
“My friends, Sir.”
“Aha! Revolutionaries, Communists! So are you going to tell me the truth or not? If not, I’ll take you down . . .”
“Which truth, Sir?”
“Stop screwing around. Which political group do you belong to? What secret organization?”
“Nothing, Sir, nothing. There’s no secret group. We’re just a group of lost young men.”
“Lost!? What do mean? Are you implying that the government’s neglected you?”
“Oh no, Sir. I don’t mean that at all. What I mean is that we can’t figure out what to do. That’s why we hang out at the café.”
“Why do you go to the café?”
“Because there’s nothing else to do.”
“What are you trying to say? Explain yourself. Do you mean that the government is failing in its duty toward you and isn’t finding you a job?”
“No, Sir. That’s not what I mean . . .”
“So, what do you mean then?”
“Give me time, Sir. My thoughts are all confused inside my head. I can’t give you a clear answer now.”
“Okay then, take a break. You can go back downstairs again and smell the foul stench. That’ll clear your brain for you.”
He went back downstairs and collapsed like a worm. He felt cold, then warm. Staring into the darkness, he emptied his bowels and ate his own shit.