The Colors of Infamy Read Free Page A

alley a magnificent pair
of patent leather shoes with silver-colored metal buckles sparkled — “I couldn’t
help confessing that you’d given them to me. You’re not mad at me, are you?”
    â€œAnd you confessed that I was a thief, too?”
    â€œDon’t be angry. You know, with the life she’s been leading since
my father died, my mother’s gone a bit crazy. She can’t tell one job from
another. I could just as well have said you were a banker; it’s all the same to
her.”
    â€œMay Allah protect us! So why didn’t you tell her I was a banker?” Ossama asked in a calm, though slightly
irritated voice.
    â€œI don’t know,” Safira moaned, giving the impression she was
holding back tears. “Maybe because I’m proud of you. You’re the only thief I
know.”
    Ossama didn’t bother to ask how many bankers she knew because he
was well aware of the girl’s capacity for avoiding the obvious. Th e poor thing was going to lead him straight to the
gallows if he didn’t quickly find a way to counteract his error in having
revealed his line of work to her. Once again, compassion lay behind this
unfortunate story; he had bought her the shoes the day she showed up in a
tattered pair of espadrilles, touching his heart, and he had done so with the
perverse idea that a pair of alluring shoes would allow Safira, in exchange for
her amorous dealings, to ask for a sum of money equal to her refinement. He now
regretted this over-generous act — he had expected some gratitude, not a threat
to his career. Soon, thanks to this love-struck scatterbrain, the entire police
force of the capital would be in on his act. Dressing elegantly to feign
respectability would no longer be of any use to him if he didn’t manage to nip
this bad publicity in the bud. Of course these bitter thoughts lasted only the
span of a few sighs and in no way altered his conviction that nothing on this
earth is tragic for an intelligent man. With his tolerant and joyful ethics, he
was hardly predisposed to spite and he had to laugh at himself for thinking that
telling the girl he was a thief would turn her away from him. Instead of
alienating her, confiding in Safira had only made him more esteemed in her eyes,
convinced as she was — no doubt by the example of the very wealthy characters
popularized in the papers — that the profession of thief was synonymous with an
elevated social standing. She followed Ossama ceaselessly, accumulating
so-called “chance” encounters and giving him slyly languorous glances. Ossama
had to admit that, for an expert in feminine ways, he had gone pathetically
astray: any imbecile knew that women in love were impervious to all moral
considerations. For a moment he silently made fun of himself, an ironic smile
playing on his lips.
    Safira could only interpret this smile as implicit criticism, and
she tried to absolve herself by saying in a faintly trembling voice:
    â€œI may have made a terrible mistake. Forgive me.”
    â€œNo, there’s nothing terrible about it. Don’t worry about me. At
heart, your mother seems a very sensible person. Please thank her for her
prayers. Who knows, I might need them.”
    â€œDo you seriously mean that?”
    â€œA person who makes no distinction between a banker and a thief
cannot be classified as crazy. In fact, for evaluating mental health it’s the
only criterion. Th ere are no others.”
    Ossama failed to divulge to the girl that this criterion was of
his own devising. Even though Safira believed everything he told her, evaluating
madness according to such a simplistic standard seemed insufficient for judging
her mother’s mental state. “Are you sure?” she asked nervously.
    â€œOn my honor!” Ossama swore, placing his hand over his heart to
prove the sincerity of his diagnosis.
    â€œ Th at makes me happy. I was afraid of
seeing her go