The Snake Catcher's Daughter (12 page)

“Oh, I don’t know,” protested Owen, who had been looking forward to spending a complete day with Zeinab. “He can hardly help having a birthday, can he?”

“Yes, but this is his second this year already!”

“Well, it’ll be popular.”

“Popular?” said Garvin dourly. “I hope so. Because the highlight of it is going to be a big parade in front of the Abdin Palace at which my job will be to see that one of those subjects with whom he’s so popular doesn’t take a pot-shot at him!”

“Keep them at a distance.”

“And put plenty of soldiers between them and him, yes, I know. I tell you,” said Garvin bitterly, “the amount of money and time wasted on a thing like this is immense.”

He sat down heavily in his chair.

“What was it you were going to ask me?”

“The Philipides business. His orderly was a man named Hassan.”

“Oh. I remember him,” said Garvin. “A nasty piece of work. He got out just in time. Otherwise he’d have been in the dock along with the others.”

“It may only have been deferred. Can you tell me anything about him?”

“Not much. He was a go-between, the man who put the bite on. There were rumours of violence and coercion. I was sufficiently bothered to put a guard on Bakri.”

“Very wise. Anything else?”

“It’s a while ago now,” said Garvin, shaking his head.

“I’m trying to track him down. You’ve no idea where I might look, have you?”

“Afraid not.”

“He’s been seen in the Gamaliya.”

“He used to know that district, certainly. He was at the sub-station there for several years before he moved to the Citadel. I remember, because I checked to see if there was anyone else like Bakri.”

“And was there?”

“If there were,” said Garvin, “they weren’t saying.”

As Owen walked through the city the following day, there were signs of the coming celebrations. Bunting hung across some of the streets and clusters of brightly-coloured balloons dangled from the overhanging windows. Little boys were decorating their sheep before the open doors of their houses.

As soon as he penetrated into the older part, however, the bunting disappeared. In these medieval streets the Khedive was a parvenu. The allegiances they acknowledged were older. “The sheikh? Certainly, effendi. I will show you.” ‘Sheikh’ was a courtesy title extended to anyone of venerable years and a reputation for piety or learning. Genuine scholars—Sheikh Musa, for instance—might have challenged this particular application on both counts. Ordinary people, however, thought it prudent to recognize with respect the peculiar knowledge that the ‘sheikh’ laid claim to. He was the man who supervised the spiritual exercises of the Rifa’i when they withdrew for their annual period of re-preparation.

“I have heard about you,” said the sheikh. “You are no friend of the Rifa’i.”

“On the contrary,” said Owen, “I have come because I am their friend.”

“You are the Mamur Zapt?”

“Yes.”

“The Mamur Zapt is the friend of the great. He can never be the friend of the Rifa’i.”

“Because he is the friend of the great, he can sometimes avert the wrath of the great.”

“Why should the wrath of the great be turned on the Rifa’i?”

“Because one of the Rifa’i has done a bad thing.”

“If he has, then the fault belongs to him and not to the Rifa’i.”

“That is true, and that is what I think, too. And so I am anxious to separate the man from the Rifa’i.”

“How might that be done?”

“It would need your help.”

“Tell me what you want,” said the sheikh, “and then I will tell you if I will help you.”

“Men come to you for preparation,” said Owen. “Some have come to you recently. I would like you to give me their names.”

“That is a secret.”

“Think for a moment,” said Owen. “A snake catcher is known by repute. If I wish, I can find out the names of all the snake catchers in the city. I can find out, too, those that were away at the time. Such knowledge is no secret. I could find it out myself.”

“If you can find it out for yourself,” said the sheikh, “why ask me?”

“So that I can find out more quickly. Before more harm is done.”

The sheikh considered.

“It is true,” he said after a while, “that there are bad men among the Rifa’i.”

“Let us separate the two,” said Owen, “so that I look at the men and not at the Rifa’i.”

The sheikh regarded him thoughtfully.

“The Khedive’s birthday!” said McPhee the next day. “Splendid!” The parade had passed off without anyone taking a potshot at their sovereign. The reception, held safe behind the iron railings of the palace, had been undergone. The Khedive had at last retired thankfully to his private apartments; and everybody else had taken to the streets.

By the time Owen emerged from the palace, the Midan was full of little stalls. There were two sorts of stall. There were the ones in which the well-to-do sat and consumed Turkish delight or sherbet. These were carpeted enclosures; only the carpets were on the walls not on the floor. The walls were about four feet high so that those inside could see and be seen.

The other sort of stall was the ordinary selling stall which normally blocked most of Cairo’s streets. Usually they sold vegetables. Today they sold sweets, a source of friction between them and the ordinary sweetmeat vendors. Cairo had a sweet tooth and the chief point of occasions like this, it seemed, was to indulge it. For the very poorest there were sticks of sugar cane, to be sucked with audible gusto. Even a few milliemes, however, would purchase a bag of boiled or a jar of jellied or, more likely, a shapeless, sticky, multi-coloured mess of mucked about sugar. Young, old, Copt, Arab, Greek, Turk, Albanian, Montenegrin, all in their best boots and traditional finery, walked up and down among the stalls guzzling sweets.

“Splendid!” said McPhee, with deep satisfaction.

“They could be doing worse things, I suppose,” said Owen. “Killing each other, for example.”

“In a country like Egypt,” said McPhee seriously, “where there is so much ethnic and religious tension, it is important to relieve the tensions occasionally.”

“By eating sweets?”

“Well—?”

“A country glued together with sugar?”

“You may scoff, Owen, but traditional festivity serves a purpose and does more for social order than any amount of efficiency in the Police Force.”

“Hello!” said Garvin, coming up beside them.

“Oh, hello. We were just talking about efficiency.” Garvin looked a little surprised.

“Well,” he said, “it didn’t go off too badly, I must admit. I brought the band forward and that screened off one side. It was a good idea, don’t you think?”

“Oh, very good.”

McPhee slipped off. Garvin and Owen strolled down between the lines of stalls.

Suddenly Garvin ducked away. Owen pushed after him and found him standing over an old, scantily-dressed Arab, from the Western deserts, it looked, who was squatting beside a pile of twigs. As Owen looked, Garvin picked up a twig and put the end in his mouth.

“Haven’t had any of this since, oh, eighteen ninety-seven,” he said happily, “when I was in the Desert Patrol.”

“What is it?”

“A kind of liquorice root. Try some.”

Owen declined and left Garvin chatting away to the old Arab. One of the disconcerting things about Garvin was that when he could remember to forget about efficiency he actually knew quite a lot about Egypt.

He caught up with McPhee.

“I’ll give you an example,” said McPhee, harking back to their previous conversation, on which he had evidently been brooding. “I’m sure the C-G shouldn’t have been so cavalier over the Molid-en-Nebbi.”

“Things were getting out of hand.”

One of the highlights of the Molid-en-Nebbi, the Birthday of the Prophet, had been for the devoted to lie down in the street in scores so that the Descendant of the Prophet could ride over them. The British, possibly concerned about the risk to the horses, had decreed that the practice should no longer continue.

“Or take the Ashura as an example.”

“Well, yes, take the Ashura.”

One of the features of the Ashura procession was that it was preceded by hundreds of dervishes slashing themselves with knives and scourging their bare backs with chains.

Banned, too.

“Well, I don’t know—” McPhee began.

“I do,” said Mahmoud, who had just joined them. “It is a disgusting practice.”

“Centuries old!”

“Time it was stopped. What impression of us do you think it gives to tourists? That we go in for self-mutilation?”

“Incidental,” said McPhee. “Incidental.”

Owen fell in beside Mahmoud and they drifted away together.

“How is it that you’re here?” asked Owen. “Joining them if you can’t beat them?”

“Passing through,” said Mahmoud. “I’ve just been at a big meeting at the Ecole de Droit.”

Owen didn’t ask after the nature of the meeting, but if it had been timed so as to clash with the festivities it was unlikely to be a gathering of supporters of the regime, and if it was being held in the Law School, it was almost certainly a Nationalist meeting of some sort.

“The trouble with festivities,” said Mahmoud, “is that they are a kind of popular obscurantism.”

Owen was still trying to work out what this meant when he saw Garvin directly ahead of them. He wondered for a moment if he should pilot Mahmoud the other way. It was too late; they were on him.

They greeted each other with reserve, but politely. “Mahmoud was just saying that all this is a kind of popular obscurantism.”

Garvin understood the point in a flash.

“Distracts from the struggle, does it?”

“It’s the circus that goes with the bread,” said Mahmoud.

“McPhee would disagree with you,” said Owen. “He believes that the sugar sweetens the tensions.”

“That’s the same point,” said Garvin.

“And dissolves them.”

“Well—”

Garvin and Mahmoud looked at each other and laughed and walked on beside each other for a little while. Owen got held up by a camel. When he caught up with them they were deep in conversation.

“The
second
time he’s done it,” said Garvin. “Twice in a year!”

“Well, yes. I suppose with all the preparation—”

“Exactly. But it knocks on all the way back. Government offices—”

“The Courts—”

“Firms.”

“Business.”

“He just doesn’t realize.”

“It’s the
time
!”

“The inefficiency!”

“Yes,” said Mahmoud, slightly surprised, “the inefficiency.”

Owen, who had long ago learned that the only way of being sure, in Egypt, especially in hot weather, that a thing had been done was to go yourself and see it had been done, paid a visit to the household of Sayeed Abdullah. It was in a tiny street below the Citadel, right on the edge of the city. The houses here were single-storey, simple blocks with flat roofs. Some of them had tiny yards, in which the people did their cooking and as Owen went past he caught the wafts of fried onions. It was about the time of the evening meal, when it was still light enough to see but darkness was beginning to take the heat out of the air.

He found the house and knocked on the door. Somebody moved on the roof above him. Perhaps the family was already up there, where later they would spread the beds and sleep, trying to catch a breath of evening air. After a moment, as no one came, he stepped back to call up.

And then someone came round the side of the building, out of the shadows and put him in an expert neck-lock.

He immediately raised both his feet off the ground and then drove the heels of his shoes hard down the front of the bare shins of his assailant. The man gasped and involuntarily released the lock just enough to allow Owen to drive back with his elbow. He twisted round and broke loose enough to free the other arm. He brought his fist in hard but it was partially blocked and thudded into the shoulder, rather than against the neck as he had intended.

He didn’t get a second chance but was at once enveloped in an enormous bear hug. His feet were lifted right off the ground and he was swung round and crashed against the wall.

Every bit of breath was jolted out of him. His attacker prepared to swing again. Owen couldn’t stop him and had to take the blow. This time, though, he was able to raise his feet behind him, put them against the wall, and push off. His attacker, still holding him fast, staggered back across the street. They came out into some lamplight.

“Why, effendi!” said the surprised voice of Selim.

The mighty grip loosened.

“Jesus!” said Owen. “What’s going on?”

“You told me, effendi!”

“I just said, guard him!”

“You said no one was to get at him!”

“Yes, but I didn’t say kill anyone who approached!”

He was able to speak now and his head had not been torn off as at first he supposed. He was even able to reflect that at least Selim was obeying instructions effectively.

“Sorry, effendi,” said Selim contritely.

“It’s OK. You were quite right,” said Owen grudgingly. “Best to be on the safe side.”

“Sayeed has told me they are bad men, effendi,” Selim explained, “so I thought it best to strike first and caution afterwards.”

“In this instance,” said Owen, “you are probably right.”

“Nasty bastards,” said Selim, leading Owen into the house. “Did you see what they did to his leg? I’ve promised him that if I get the chance, I’ll do the same to them. You needn’t worry though, effendi, they’ll still be able to talk afterwards. Just.”

Selim, it transpired, was already a great favourite of the family. He and Abdul covered the guard duty in shifts. Since, when they were not assaulting astonished visitors, the duty entailed staying indoors in the shade, drinking innumerable cups of tea and spending most of the time chatting to Sayeed, they embraced their responsibilities with relish.

“We are beloved of the family,” Selim assured him.

Not too beloved, Owen hoped, and had a private word with Selim about this before he left.

“Effendi,” swore Selim, “I will not lay a finger upon her. You can rely on me. Especially as she is old enough to be my grandmother.”

Even so, Owen had his doubts. As to Selim’s discharge of the rest of his duties, he was, on reflection, rather more satisfied. A little over-enthusiastic, perhaps, but on the whole Owen thought it best not to complicate matters by urging moderation in other things as well.

The expected newspaper attacks appeared. They were aimed this time, however, chiefly at Owen. “Why me?” he complained to Paul.

“They must think you’re getting somewhere,” suggested Paul. “Of course, they’re not very well informed.”

Owen had gone to the lengths of calling on Paul in his office at the Consulate-General.

“Not because you’re bothered about newspaper attacks,” said Paul.

“Them? Oh no, it’s something else.” He hesitated. “Actually, I do feel I might be getting somewhere. Only I’m not going to do it in time. Before Wainwright gets here. Or, at least, before he leaves England in order to get here. In which case it will be too late to stop him.”

“He will be leaving England the day after tomorrow,” said Paul.

“You don’t think—if he could just be delayed a little?”

“Tried that,” said Paul, “but he wants to get out in time for the Flower Show.”

He was, however, thinking. Suddenly, he squared his shoulders.

“I have a duty,” he said. “A duty to obstruct anyone who goes to a Flower Show other than by accident. I will try again. This time I will raise my game.”

He took a pad of Governmental telegram forms from a drawer in his desk and picked up a pen. A few minutes later he stopped and rang his bell. A worried middle-aged man appeared.

“Wilson, what do gardeners do in the garden in England at this time of the year?”

“Not much.”

“They must do something. My mother is always out there.”

“Dig?”

“Something technical.”

“Water dahlias?”

“That will do nicely. Thank you, Wilson.”

When he had finished, he passed the result to Owen. “How’s that?”

Consul General to Wainwright deeply grieve to inform you Flower Show cancelled.

“Paul,” said Owen, “it’s not been cancelled!”

“Think he’ll check?”

He picked up the pen and made an alteration.

Flower Show likely postponed.

“Paul,” said Owen, “won’t he check that too?”

“Ah, yes, but I’ll get the Old Man to ask the Committee if it
ought
to be postponed. In view of the heat. They’ll argue about it for days and by the time they’ve made up their minds it’ll be too late to do anything other than postpone it.”

“He may wonder why it’s postponed.”

“The heat. I’ll put that in.”

Postponed due to extreme heat. Likewise judicial investigation.

“Paul, do you think that’ll convince him? I mean, he’s been out here, he knows about the heat.”

“Should I make it stronger? Perhaps: Due to extreme heat and political unrest.”

“
The Flower Show
? Postponed because of political unrest?”

“Certainly. There’s always political unrest about Flower Shows. My mother—”

“Paul, that’s in the Cotswolds. In England.”

“All right. I’ll make it clear that it’s the inquiry that might be affected by political unrest. How about this?”

Deeply grieve to inform you Flower Show postponement due extreme heat.

In view judicial inquiry also likely postponed political unrest suggest delay departure. Will inform you when situation changes. Further consideration your part: danger dahlias.

McPhee and Owen arrived together. Selim met them beaming and ushered them at once into the small yard. Every inch was decorated with bunting and the air was heavy with the scent of sweet peas, huge bunches of which were scattered everywhere. Along one side of the wall was a low table on which stood vast bowls of hot rice and buttered beans. “Heavens!” said Owen. “How many are you expecting?”

“No one, effendi,” said Selim, with a broad flash of white teeth.

This was, as McPhee pointed out, the correct ritual answer. In theory, namings were modest domestic occasions, kept deliberately low-key in order to avert the wrath of malign spirits which might envy the good fortune of the family if too ostentatious a display was made. In practice, of course, no one could resist the chance of a binge and Selim had invited the whole street.

Plus a few more. Owen recognized many faces from the Bab-el-Khalk, together with those of constables and orderlies from many of the city’s substations. He had also noticed Sayeed Abdullah, who greeted Owen with his usual deferential bob of the head.

“Well, I couldn’t leave the poor old chap at home by himself, could I?” Selim excused himself.

“What about the family?” said Owen, a trifle anxiously.

“Oh, they’re here too,” Selim assured him. “Inside.”

Which was where, for the moment, all the women were. If there were as many of them as there were of men in the yard there were more than a hundred in the tiny, two-room house. Owen could not believe that to be possible. Mother and baby, of course, were inside, too.

“How’s the baby?” he asked, again with some anxiety.

“Baby?” said Selim, a little vaguely. “Oh, yes, baby. Oh, very well, very well.”

He showed Owen and McPhee up to the place of honour on the roof. Two rickety cane chairs had been placed on the very edge, where there was a good view down into the yard.

Selim clapped his hands.

“Beans for the Effendis! And lemonade. Good lemonade,” he whispered to Owen with a nudge.

“Not for the Bimbashi,” Owen whispered back.

“Not this time, no,” said Selim, with a great laugh.

The lemonade, in Owen’s case, turned out to be marissa beer. He sipped it contentedly and looked down on the spectacle below.

“Where’s that bitch of an Aalima?” said Selim crossly.

Down in the street there was a thunderous knocking. A little later the Aalima appeared. She went round the yard sprinkling something on the ground.

“Fennel and maize,” said McPhee, “the fruits of the earth. Fertility symbols, obviously. And salt.”

“Salt?”

“To avert the evil eye. That’s what she’s singing. ‘Salt in the eye of the evil beholder.’ ”

“Is she doing that right?” asked Selim anxiously.

“Oh, I think so.”

“If she’s not,” said Selim, still only half-convinced, “I’ll put some salt on her tail all right.”

“No, no,” said McPhee, “she knows her stuff.”

“It’s just that after what Sayeed said—”

“What was that?” said Owen. “What did Sayeed say?”

“About the evil eye,” said Selim. “We don’t want any of that here.”

“Ssh—!” whispered McPhee. “This is the important bit.”

The baby was brought out into the yard. First it was paraded round the yard to general appreciation. Then it was given to its mother, who had now appeared in the yard and was seated on a special chair festooned with flowers and coloured handkerchiefs. An older woman brought out a brass mortar which she put right next to the baby’s head and then struck repeatedly with a pestle.

“That’s so that it doesn’t grow up to be frightened of mirth and music,” said McPhee.

Finally, the child was placed in what looked to Owen very like an ordinary sieve and shaken.

“What’s that? A sieve?”

“It’s to prevent tummy upsets,” said McPhee.

The baby survived these and other ordeals and then was brought up to the roof for presentation to Owen and McPhee.

Owen knew, at least, about this bit and produced some coins, which the baby’s mother tied into its hair.

Everyone waited expectantly.

“What is its name going to be?” whispered McPhee.

“Name?”

“Mahbuba,” whispered Selim.

“Fatima,” whispered his wife.

Selim glared at her.

“Khadija,” said Owen, “Khadija Mahbuba Fatima,” and hoped that everyone was satisfied.

“Well, that’s that,” said Selim. “Now, perhaps, we can get on with things.”

Owen asked if the baby and mother would like to stay on the roof in the cool air.

“Stay on the roof?” said Selim, astonished. “The place for them is indoors.
I’m
on the roof.”

Baby and mother disappeared below.

“Lemonade?” said Selim happily. “There’s plenty. Don’t hold back!”

For some time a set of bagpipes had been trying without success to push its way into the densely-packed yard. At last someone saw it.

“The musicians! God be praised! The musicians have arrived.” A way was not exactly cleared but found: bagpipes and man were hoisted into the air and passed over the heads of the crowd until they reached the opposite wall, where the bagpipes player established a perch for himself. He was shortly joined by two drummers and a cymbals player, transported likewise. With a roll on the drums the music began.

Down in the yard, men began to writhe. That was about all there was room for. It soon became evident, however, that some men could writhe better than others and it was not long before they attracted a certain space and following. Women now began to appear in the doorways and at the edge of the yard, watching admiringly. Whatever might be the case in the houses of the rich, where troupes of female gipsy
Ghawazi
dancers might be hired for the occasion, in more lowly houses it was the men who danced.

Selim, monarch for the moment of all he surveyed, was content for a while to sit on the roof imbibing prodigious quantities of lemonade. Then his limbs began to twitch and his haunches to wriggle; and shortly afterwards he leaped to his feet and rushed to join the pullulating throng below.

“Greek, would you say?” said McPhee thoughtfully. “Demeter? Persephone?”

“The Aalima? Oh, yes, definitely.”

McPhee looked pleased.

“Glad you think so, too. Cultic, I’m pretty sure.”

Owen would have liked to have gone down into the yard, not so much to dance—he regarded that as impossible—as to talk to some of the people there. At one point he did, indeed, descend the steps but the bottom of them was as far as he got. He stood there for a little while exchanging remarks with people he recognized.

Among those he recognized was Sayeed Abdullah, not dancing himself because of the decorum of age and his injured leg. He sidled round to Owen and greeted him shyly.

“Nice to see you here, Sayeed Abdullah.”

“Selim invited me. I said: You will have enough without me. But he said: No, no, the more the merrier. He is, indeed,” said Sayeed Abdullah gratefully, “a most munificent person.”

“He is indeed.”