The Snake Catcher's Daughter (5 page)

They were all known to Owen, except one.

“Demerdash Pasha,” introduced Nuri, with a wave of his band.

The Pasha bowed distantly.

“Captain Owen. The dear boy has a
tendresse
for Zeinab,” he explained.

“How is Zeinab these days?” asked one of the other Pashas.

“The Mamur Zapt,” he heard another one amplifying for the benefit of the newcomer.

Owen saw the impact.

“Mamur Zapt?”

A little later he found an opportunity to speak to Owen.

“I knew your predecessor,” he said.

“A friend?”

“We worked together. A true servant of the Khedive.”

“As I aspire to be,” said Owen.

The Pasha looked puzzled.

“How can that be?” he said.

One of the other Pashas linked arms with him affectionately.

“Demerdash Pasha has been away for a long time,” he said with a smile.

“And where have you been spending your time, Pasha?” asked Owen.

“Constantinople,” the man said shortly.

“Demerdash Pasha is a great friend of the Turks,” said one of the other Pashas.

Demerdash turned on him.

“I am not a great friend of the Turks,” he said sharply. “I was there because the Khedive asked me to be there.”

“You are a friend of Egypt,
mon cher
,” said Nuri.

“Yes,” said Demerdash, “a friend of Egypt. But of Egypt as she was and not as she is.”

“Oh la la,” said Nuri, and led him away.

“Just the same as he used to be,” said one of the other Pashas, watching them go. “He doesn’t give an inch.”

“Well, that’s good, isn’t it?” said another Pasha.

“That remains to be seen,” said the first Pasha.

The group broke up with Nuri’s departure and Owen continued his circulation. Some time later, however, he found himself standing next to Nuri and Demerdash at the buffet table. They were talking to someone who had, apparently, just returned from the Sudan.

“And how were things down in the Bahr-el-Ghazal?” asked Demerdash.

The other man shrugged. “Hot,” he said.

“What about women?”

“All right.”

“That was where the best slaves came from,” said Demerdash. “Beautiful black ones.”

“None of that these days. They’ve got rid of slaves.”

Demerdash made a gesture of dismissal.

“Does it make any difference?”

“You’ve got to be careful.”

“The British!” said Demerdash scornfully.

“All the same—”

“Don’t tell me you spent that time there without sampling at least a few little
négresses
.”

“What’s that?” said Nuri.

Demerdash turned to him.

“
Il me dit qu’il a passé six ans au Sudan sans une seule petite négresse
!”

“Impossible!” said Nuri.

The table bowed under the weight of food. There were gigantic Nile perch with lemons stuffed in their jaws, pheasants cooked but then with their feathers replaced so that they looked as if they had just wandered off an autumnal English field, ducklings shaped out of foie gras, huge ox heads from which the tongues, cooked, lolled imbecilely.

Paul regarded these latter with disfavour.

“Exactly like a Parliamentary delegation,” he said sourly.

The reception finished about eleven. The night was still young by Cairo standards and many of the guests went off to revel less stiffly in more congenial places. Owen decided to walk home. The other side of rising with the light was that he declined with the light, and midnight always found him totally stupid.

Besides, the night was the best time for walking in Cairo. The city was at its coolest then. Shadow veiled the strident and the angular and cooperated with the moon to emphasize the soft shapes and arches. The lower level of the city disappeared and you suddenly became aware of the magical beauty of the upper parts of the houses, with their balconies and minarets, the fantastic woodwork of the overhanging, box-like meshrebiya windows, and the grotesque corbels which carried the first floor out over the street. Higher still and the moon revealed more clearly than in the day the delicacy of the domes and minarets of the mosques and the slender towers of the fountain houses. Everything was silvery. The moon seemed even to strike silver out of the fine, tight-packed grains of sand of the streets.

As Owen set out, an arabeah drew up alongside him. He waved it away but it stopped just in front of him determinedly.

“Hello!” said a soft female voice, which somehow seemed familiar. Suddenly he remembered.

“You again!” It was the girl he had found in his bed. “What do you want?”

“I want you to be nice to me. And I want to be nice to you.”

“Sorry,” said Owen. “I’m well supplied, thanks.”

“It’s not like that,” she said.

“What is it like?”

“Why don’t you come home with me and find out?”

“Sorry.” He shook his head. “Someone is expecting me.”

“Zeinab’s not the only girl in the world. And, anyway, she’s not expecting you. She’s at Samira’s.”

Owen stopped, astonished. How did a girl like this know about Samira, the Princess Samira? And how did she know about Zeinab, for that matter?

“You know Samira?”

“As well as I know you. Surprisingly well.”

Owen considered the matter. He was intrigued.

But then, he was intended to be intrigued.

“No, thank you,” he said, and walked on.

Later, he was sorry. Plums, after all, do not grow on every tree.

Owen went down to the Gamaliya next day to see that things were all right. He found the shop open and the Copt busy behind the counter. The shelves, though, were half empty.

“A lot missing?” asked Owen, indicating the shelves with his hand.

“No, no. I’ve just not put them up. I have to take them down at night, you see, now that the shutters have been broken. It’s not worth it. The women know what they want and can always ask for it. I keep the stuff inside now.”

An idea came to Owen.

“Do you talk to the women?”

“Of course.”

“And sometimes, perhaps, you overhear things?”

“Perhaps,” said the Copt, slightly bewildered.

“Did you know about the Zzarr?”

He caught the look before the Copt’s face became studiously blank.

“Zzarr? I don’t think so.”

Owen smiled.

“
I
think so,” he said.

The Copt shook his head.

“The reason I am asking,” said Owen, “is that I think the Zzarr could have something to do with the attack on your shop.”

The shopkeeper looked surprised.

“How could it?”

“Just believe me, that I think it could. Now, what I’m trying to do is stop it happening again. So I need to know.”

“I know there was a Zzarr,” said the shopkeeper. “That’s about all I know. Honestly!”

“Where was it?”

“It was in the house over there.”

“Show me.”

The Copt called into the house and a woman appeared. She was dressed in black like the other women in the street and veiled like them. The Copt told her to look after things while he was gone. He said he wouldn’t be long.

“Normally she doesn’t mind,” he said to Owen. “It’s just that now—”

The house was only about a couple of hundred yards away. Owen knocked on the door. No one responded.

“I think it’s empty,” said the Copt.

“Who does it belong to?”

“A Mr Abbas, I think. He lives in the Gamaliya somewhere.”

There were still some policemen about. Owen set them to work finding out where Mr Abbas lived—it was simply a question of knocking on people’s doors and asking, someone was bound to know. He himself went to a café to wait. The Copt, he sent back to his shop.

Eventually, one of the constables returned. Or rather, two of them returned. One was the man who found out; the other was Selim, who had now, on the strength of past glory, appointed himself Acting Sergeant, still, unfortunately, unpaid.

Mr Abbas owned a large store off one of the
suks
. He came out to meet Owen and then invited him into his office to take tea. They sat on a low leather divan and the tea was served on an equally low table, about six inches high. Courtesy demanded that it was some time before they got down to business, but eventually they did.

“My house, indeed,” said Mr Abbas blandly, “and sometimes I let it. But a Zzarr! Oh dear, I had no idea.”

“They gave no indication of their purpose?”

“Well, of course, I don’t handle it myself—”

The person who did, an agent who managed several properties, lived on the other side of the Gamaliya. It was another hot day and by the time Owen had reached him, his clothes were wet with perspiration. He was received again with courtesy and tea; and again given the run around.

“Well, of course, I had no idea what they wanted it for. A celebration of some sort, I believe they said. Too large for their own house so they wanted to hire a bigger one.”

“Do you have their names?”

The agent spread his hands regretfully.

“I’m afraid not,” he said.

That was unlikely, Owen remarked.

“They pay the money first,” the man said, smiling. Owen got nowhere. He walked back to Bab-el-Khalk with Selim, dripping.

“The Gamaliya’s a no-good place, effendi,” said Selim, commiserating. “Now, over by the fish market, where I live—” Owen stopped in his tracks.

“Selim,” he said, “are you married?”

“Well, yes, effendi,” said Selim, taken aback. “There’s Leila, and there’s Aisha, and there’s—”

He began, however, to look troubled.

“Effendi,” he said hesitantly, “I don’t think they’d be good enough for you. Not yet. I mean, I’m trading up. In a bit, I’ll divorce Aisha, and then I’ll look out for someone a bit classier. In fact, I know a girl already who would do. She would just suit—

“No, no, no, no!” said Owen hastily. “Not that at all.”

He explained what he wanted.

Selim listened carefully.

“Well,” he said, “Aisha’s the one. She’s a bit of a bitch, that’s why I’m thinking of getting rid of her. Nag, nag, nag all the time, just come back late and you’re in trouble. But she’s got a good head on her. Mind you,” he looked worried, “it could give her ideas, she would start getting above herself—”

“There would be money in it,” said Owen. “For you.”

“Well, in that case—” said Selim, brightening. He thought it over. “Yes,” he said, “Aisha’s definitely the one. She could say she was possessed by an evil spirit, all right. In fact, it wouldn’t be too far from the truth…”

Garvin asked Owen if he would drop in on him before he went home. It was a request and courteous, so Owen knew that Garvin had found out that the Philipides business was about to be reopened.

He found him not sitting behind his desk, as was usually the case, but standing by the window, looking down through the shutters into the courtyard; as if he had just seen some donkeys there to which he took exception.

He was a big man, well over six feet in height and with huge broad shoulders. Despite twenty years of Egyptian sun, and Egyptian malaria, his face was fair and ruddy as if he had just arrived from English fields. The impression caught a truth about the man. Garvin came from one of the old English country families, no longer property owning but still country living. His father, a youngest son, had been a clergyman, but a clergyman of the ‘squarson’ sort, both squire and parson. Garvin had been brought up in the country and, though a university man (Cambridge), his pursuits were those of the country squire: riding, shooting and fishing. And, of course, hunting.

But there was another side to the man which the bluff exterior concealed. Garvin was no fool. He had spent two decades in the country and knew his job back to front. He knew it at all levels, too. He spoke Arabic like an Egyptian and was as familiar with the patois of the Alexandrian seafront underworld as he was with the slow rhythms of the fellahin in the fields around Cairo. Because of the time he had spent in the provinces before coming to the city, he was intimate with the background of family feuds and alliances which the fellahin carried with them when they migrated to the city. The Cairo poor were still villagers at heart; and Garvin knew them as he knew his own face in the mirror.

Yet he had been to Cambridge, too, and this gave him entry to an inner club from whose members the rulers of Egypt and India and, indeed, England were almost exclusively drawn. Mixing on equal terms with the British elite, inevitably he mixed, too, with the Egyptian elite. He knew the political preoccupations of both.

Garvin was, then, a formidable operator. He knew Egypt from top to bottom; and behind the frank, open face and the honest blue eyes was a political mind of no mean order. He played bridge regularly with the Consul-General and the Financial Secretary. Garvin was a great card player.

If there was a plot against him, the plotters would have their work cut out. The Administration would close ranks around Garvin in a way that Owen knew they would not close around him. He was not a member of the magic circle. He had not been to Cambridge. His father had died young and his family had been too poor to do other than secure him a commission in the army. He was, too, a Welshman; slightly suspect even in the army.

He was the magic circle’s servant, no closer to them, in the end, than he was to the Khedive. But they would expect him to protect Garvin. Certain things did not need to be spoken. He knew what the job was that he was being told to do.

In fact, he did not expect that to put much of a strain on him. Garvin, for all his faults, was honest. This would be a trumped-up charge, if charge it came to. It would be a political manoeuvre. Garvin, in any case, probably was not so much the object as a means: a means of hitting at the British Administration itself.

Owen sighed. He could see himself being forced to take sides. It was a thing he did not like, something he tried to avoid. Usually he got round it by interpreting his loyalty as to Egypt as a whole. There was a sense, a very real sense, as a matter of fact, in which the Khedive and the British Administration together formed the Government of Egypt. His loyalty was to that mystic concept; very mystic, he sometimes felt.

There was, though, a less mystic consideration. In a complex political game the outcome might require sacrifices. He could not see the magic circle going so far as to be ready to sacrifice one of themselves. They would be far more likely to sacrifice someone else; say, him.

Owen thought he had better take up card playing.

Garvin turned to him.

“I gather you know the situation,” he said.

Owen nodded.

“In general terms,” he said.

Garvin came back to his desk.

“Well, you’ll be raking over the details later,” he said. “That’ll be the job of the investigation. The question is, though, what’s the procedure to be?”

“The Parquet will be responsible, presumably.”

The Parquet, or Department of Prosecutions of the Ministry of Justice, was responsible for carrying out all investigations. The police merely reported a crime. A lawyer from the Parquet was then at once assigned to it and he was thenceforth responsible for investigating the circumstances, compiling the evidence, taking a view, and then, if the view was in favour of prosecution, presenting the case, as in the French judicial system, which the Egyptian closely resembled, to the appropriate court.

“Yes,” said Garvin, “but if they get that far it will go to the Mixed Courts.”

The Mixed Courts were a feature unique to the Egyptian judicial system. Where cases involved foreigners, they were heard not by the native courts of law but by a court on which sat judicial representatives from the foreigner’s own native country as well as the Egyptian judges.

“That being so,” said Garvin, “and, considering that one of the people involved is a senior member of the British Administration—me—it would seem desirable that a representative of the British Administration was attached to the case from the outset. Then, if it came to prosecution, the case that was presented would have the support of both countries.”

“Quite,” said Owen. “If it came to that. But will the Parquet agree?”

“You must be joking!” said Paul in the bar that evening. “The most they’ll agree to, with their arms twisted high up behind their backs and the army indicating that it’s about to come out on manoeuvres, is to the attachment of an observer.”

“That’ll do,” said Owen.

“It will have to,” said Paul. “Though it’s not at all the same thing. The observer just observes. He doesn’t join in the presentation of the case. Nor in the decision as to whether the case is to be presented. He can stick his oar in when it actually comes to the court but only as a secondary witness. The Old Man’s not happy about that but it’s as much as we’ve been able to get.”

“Do they genuinely want a conviction?”

“Probably not. They almost certainly know there’s nothing to convict. What they’re looking for, I suspect, is the publicity of its coming to court. It makes the British look bad to the outside world and it makes them look good to their own supporters.”

“It won’t make them look so good if the case is a real shambles.”

Paul smiled.

“We’ve already tried that,” he said. “I tried to get them to appoint some real duds to carry out the investigation, the likes of Mohammed Isbi. Said how greatly we respected his judgement, how much he had our confidence. Any case presented by him would be sure to have our support.”

“Well?”

“They wouldn’t wear it, of course. They’re not that daft. They know he’s as thick as a post.”

“So who have they appointed?”

“Their best and brightest. Mahmoud.”

Mahmoud el Zaki was one of Owen’s oldest friends. The two were actually very much alike, young men on the rise. They had met on one of Owen’s earliest cases, which had turned out to be one of Mahmoud’s first cases, too, and since then their careers had kept a parallel course. They were both self-sufficient, not exactly loners—Owen was quite gregarious—but standing a little apart from their fellows.

They were both to a certain extent outsiders: Owen because he stood outside the charmed circle of those who had been to public school and the ancient universities, and because of the ambiguity of the post of Mamur Zapt, responsible to the Egyptian and British Administrations; Mahmoud because he, too, was not by birth a member of the Egyptian elite. His father, a first generation graduate and, like Mahmoud himself, a lawyer, had died young while establishing a position and Mahmoud had inherited both the family’s expectations and its lack of wealth and social connections. He had had to work hard to rise, to do it all himself. There was quite a lot in common between him and the Welsh grammar school boy from an impoverished Anglican family; not least a tendency to define for oneself a social identity by siding with the suppressed Nationalist opposition.

Mahmoud was in fact formally a member of the new Nationalist Party, which did him no harm in the Parquet but which left him politically and socially uneasy when it came to encounters with representatives of the Egyptian elite. He was, for example, completely at sea when it came to talking to Zeinab. This was, however, only partly because she was the daughter of a Pasha. Like most educated young Egyptians, Mahmoud had hardly ever met a respectable young woman and did not know exactly how one should behave. Besides, he wasn’t completely sure that Zeinab
was
respectable and when they met usually finished up looking down between her feet with embarrassment.

He and Owen were sufficiently close for Owen to be able to ring him up and say: “Hey, about this Garvin business; can we have a talk?”

“Yes, yes!” cried Mahmoud at once. “Come right over!” Then he thought again. “Um, well, perhaps you’d better not. Not here, at any rate.”

“Lunch? Marsalis?”

“Yes, yes!” said Mahmoud, eager to make amends. “Today! This afternoon!”

“Right, then. One o’clock.”

One o’clock found him in a little street just off the Mouski, far enough down to be away from the clangs of the trams in the Ataba-el-Khadra, not so far down as to be completely within the purview of the old part of the city where the cafés tended to be pavement ones and you squatted on your haunches around a large tray on the ground and dipped your bread in; all very well, but not good for weighty conversation.

Mahmoud jumped up at his approach and threw his arms around him, Arab style.

“It’s been so long!” he said enthusiastically (about a week). “What have you been doing?”

“As little as possible,” said Owen.

“I know! The heat! It’s been impossible in the courts. Two witnesses collapsed yesterday. Mustapha Kamil”—one of the senior judges—“said he’d have to bring the sessions to an end early if things didn’t improve. I’d be against that, though,” added Mahmoud seriously. “It would merely add to the backlog. We’re six months behind as it is.”

Mahmoud was a strong believer in hard work and efficiency. He and Garvin were birds of a feather.

“It can’t be long before the sessions end anyway, can it?”

“Two weeks. But really, there’s so much still to get through, we ought to extend it.”

“That would be popular!”

He sometimes thought Mahmoud was a bit unyielding. A broad smile spread over Mahmoud’s face, relaxing the intensity.

“It doesn’t stand a chance!” he said.

The waiter took their orders.

“At any rate,” said Mahmoud, “it will give us plenty of time to settle the Garvin
affaire
.”

“Is it the Garvin affair?” asked Owen. “Or is it the Philipides affair?”

Mahmoud shrugged.

“It’s the corruption affair. That’s the only way to look at it. We don’t make any judgements until we’ve had another look at the evidence.”

“Where are you going to start?”

“With the original sub-inspector. That’s ultimately where the charges came from. His name’s Bakri.”

“Mind if I sit in?”

“Not at all.” Mahmoud hesitated. “But as a friend,” he said, “a colleague. Not as an official observer.”

“I thought that had been agreed?”

“It has and it hasn’t. What’s been agreed is that your status must be informal. But the people making the agreement were not—well, they were politicians, not lawyers. ‘Observer’ expressed what they thought they meant. But there is no provision under the legal system for an observer. In a case like this I think it’s important to keep to the letter of the law. So, no observers. But as a friend and colleague you are most welcome.”

“Doesn’t it amount to the same thing?”

“In practice, with you, yes. But the judicial system must be free, and be seen to be free, from political interference. It’s a question,” said Mahmoud firmly but, looking at Owen, a little anxiously, “of principle.”

Mahmoud was strong on principles.

“There must be no British finger in the scales,” he said determinedly.

Abdul Bakri was still a sub-inspector.

“No, it didn’t go through,” he said. “Then or later. When you’re involved in something like this, you know, they don’t forget. People don’t like it.”

“Those who were involved at the time may not have liked it,” said Mahmoud. “But they’re all gone, surely?”

“No one likes it,” said Abdul Bakri dispiritedly. “When you’ve done it once, whoever’s your boss after that thinks you’re going to do it again.”

“It will only worry them if they’ve got something to hide.”

“We’ve all got something to hide,” said Abdul Bakri. “Everyone bends the rules at some time.”

Mahmoud, who never bent the rules, was shocked into silence for a moment.

“It’s your mates, too,” Abdul Bakri went on. “They don’t like it.”

“They’re the ones who benefited!”

“Well, I don’t know about that.”

“They didn’t like having to pay for promotion, surely?”

“Well, at least you knew where you were. Forty pounds would get you an inspectorship. All you had to do was to save up. Cost you a bit, of course, but then you wouldn’t want everybody becoming an inspector. The point is, if you could find the money, you were all right. There was none of this funny business of people deciding how good you are. You see, that sort of thing makes it really chancey. You might have served in the force for twenty years and then someone comes along and says: ‘No, you can’t be an inspector because you’re too lazy’ or not clever enough. Now, I don’t call that fair at all. Whereas if all you had to do was find the money, it couldn’t go wrong, could it?”

“I see,” said Mahmoud. “And you’re still a sub-inspector.”

“That’s right,” said Abdul Bakri, aggrieved. “Spoiled my chance of promotion, that’s what he did, Garvin effendi!”