he saw him. And whenever Luqman saw him, he was seized with an overwhelming desire to kick him. Didn’t he ever sleep?
If Luqman still owned his Range Rover, he would have slowed down a little to give the beggar the idea that Luqman would offer him a bit of money. That way, the beggar would stop and wait. Suddenly, at the last minute, Luqman would turn the wheel and run the beggar down. He would enjoy the screech of his rubber tires crushing bone. If only...
The mendicant half-human raised his hand with a pack of cigarettes. Luqman reached down to pay and take it. The beggar smiled! Oh, well. Luqman would put off the kick until the next time. Today he would forgive him on account of the smokes and his own good mood, and especially because of the festival.
But one morning, Luqman would get up just for him. This dead man who was up for sale. Or rather, this dead man who was free for the taking. Let’s say half a dead man. And when there was no one who would demand blood money, isn’t half a dead man better than a whole?
--
He arrived to find they had beaten him there.
A surging human sea of mixed ages, inclinations, religions, colors, and associations. They gathered together in every open space. The edges of the crowd hung like bunches of grapes from balconies, rooftops, electrical poles, and delivery trucks.
Goddamn them! When did they wake up? Most likely they had spent the night here to arrive before him, he and all the other sleepers.
Luqman forced his way with difficulty between shoulder-to-shoulder lines of humanity, heading for the edge of the square where someone had put up a tent with some low chairs underneath.
Out of breath, Luqman said, “A cup of coffee, please.”
The vendor said, “I wish I could! Between yesterday morning and dawn today, I’ve sold more than I normally sell in a week. I don’t have any coffee left. What would you say to a cup of tea?”
Luqman nodded in assent.
The vendor went on, “Man, everyone has been bored to death! We kill ourselves for festivals!”
Luqman looked over to where the people were gathering. “No kidding, and what a festival it is!” he responded. Meanwhile, his eyes roamed over the tables, covered with breakfast, that formed a circle around the square with the platform in its center. The platform was roped off to prevent the onlookers from getting too close.
The occasion was marked by a festive commotion.
Coffee, juice, and snack vendors made their way among the people, who had come alone and in groups. Vendors clinked glasses and tapped colored bottles with metal bottle openers, urging everyone to have fun and celebrate.
There were cookies, grilled corn, boiled fava beans, sandwiches, sweets.
Mothers spread blankets on the ground and took out their breasts to suckle their babies in plain sight.
Old folks were carried from their homes and set on low folding chairs.
Soldiers and police officers gathered here and there. They spoke in low voices as they smoked and watched the crowd out of the corners of their eyes.
There were photographers, reporters, tape recorders, cameras, telephoto lenses.
There were Boy Scout troops, civil defense squads, and other groups. Placards on sticks bore illustrations and slogans supporting one thing or another.
A pack of teenagers carried a drum and a small tambourine, improvising the cheering section that would have been seen at a soccer game or a wedding.
Girls wore their Sunday dresses and adorned themselves with their prettiest bracelets and necklaces. Perhaps they would turn some heads or catch the long-awaited husband.
And the men! Such manly men! Fathers and sons. They played backgammon, twirled their mustaches, or scratched their heads with a satisfied air, all the while guarding their women from stray glances and wayward thoughts.
“How did they know?” Luqman asked the vendor while dissolving an extra spoonful of sugar in his plastic cup.
“How did they know?” the vendor repeated. “From every television and radio! They’ve been announcing the news, day and night for a week.”
Luqman said, “Sure, but they didn’t specify the date, only the place.”
The vendor said, “That’s the way they are. They always think they are smarter than the people. All the same, the news leaked out. Don’t ask me how, but it leaked. Of course, if they had announced the date, you would have seen the entire country on the march, and—”
The vendor had not finished his sentence when he noticed movement in the front rows surrounding the platform. He dropped whatever he was holding and ran. Luqman followed.
A convoy arrived, composed of a truck, together with some cars and motorcycles, their sirens blaring. They stopped. A number of police officers got out and formed a solid perimeter between the public and the area near the platform on all sides. As Luqman watched them, a smile came over his face. “They think they’re in a movie, and—God!—they are acting it up!”
The crowd applauded. The teenagers’ drum resounded with vigorous pounding. The graceful torsos of girls who were born to dance swayed back and forth.
The vendor grumbled, “Man, come on! We’re tired! What are they waiting for?”
Luqman shrugged his shoulders. He turned away, having decided to move out of the vicinity so the vendor wouldn’t spoil the spectacle for him with his chattering questions and stupid comments.
“God! It’s an awesome sight!” he heard one person say as he forced his way with effort through the compact throng.
A woman shouted, still chewing her food, “Where are these heroes? Let’s go! Bring them out so we can see them!”
If it were up to Luqman, he would have rained down blows upon her and kicked her fat belly. He would have yanked her hair back and spat in her dirty mouth, full of food. If only...Ah, rest in peace, Albino! Everything you said about them is true. Scum! I swear to God, they are even worse than scum. A herd. Animals deserving slaughter at the guillotine!
Luqman stopped in despair. An immense desire to go back home to bed would have overpowered him had he not noticed that elegant, pretty blond standing nearby, apart from all the rest. She carried a radio transmitter in one hand, and she was fixing her hair with the other.
A huge man mounted the platform and said in the loudest imaginable voice, “If it isn’t completely silent this very instant, I’m going to clear the place out!”
Complete and total silence reigned.
The rear door of the truck opened. The two “heroes” got out and stood holding onto each other. The crowd went wild. Women trilled, children whistled. The two men lowered their eyes in shame. No, not shame. Something like a daze. Just like what happens to amateur performers when they go up on stage for the first time and are surprised by the size of the audience.
Luqman looked at the broadcaster. He saw her lifting the transmitter to her mouth and pouring into it a veritable flood of words mixed with saliva. What could she be saying?
He turned back to the “heroes” of the festival. They were clinging to each other even more than before. Oh, well. He’d leave them for a while and then return. Strictly speaking, these were only the preliminary preparations. The decisive moment, the essential moment he ought not to miss, was when they mounted the platform. Everything else was just details.
Luqman drew away from the throng in order to approach the broadcaster and come into her line of sight. She turned towards him. He smiled at her, and she smiled back flirtatiously. Then she returned to her transmitter, spitting out her stream of words.
A radio broadcaster! Luqman felt a stab of disappointment, and he pursed his lips. He would have preferred the smile to come from a television broadcaster.
He stood