He heard someone moving among the tents and then, to his surprise, for he had assumed she was otherwise engaged, he saw the blonde woman. She was wearing a long black kimono. Her feet were bare. He stepped back from the doorway. There was a swish of silk as she went past. Outside Tvardovskys tent she hesitated and then went in.
There were no moans this time, just what appeared to be a short, intense argument in a language Owen did not understand. Then the woman came out again, so quickly that he had no time to step back. She saw him standing there and smiled.
The next morning, after breakfast, the waiters arranged some armchairs beneath the palms and the financiers continued their discussion. Owen stayed on the terrace at his breakfast table. After a while, one of the waiters, a young, pleasant-looking man, came up to him.
You no talking? he said in English.
No.
Why no talking?
Theyre talking about money.
The waiter smiled.
You not got?
Thats right, said Owen. Not got.
The waiter squatted down on his haunches, ready to drift into conversation in the easy way of the Egyptians. The pressure was off the waiters now and he could afford to relax.
Me, too, he said. Not got.
Got wife yet?
The waiter looked glum.
Money first, he said. Then wife.
Same here.
That was not quite true. There were other reasons preventing, or perhaps delaying, his and Zeinabs marriage: the attitude the British Administration would probably take to one of its servants marrying an Egyptian, for a start. But then, Zeinab herself was uncertain. Did she want to marry an Englishman?
Welshman, pleaded Owen.
As Zeinab was not quite sure about the difference between the two, that made her even more uncertain. She knew that Wales was, or had been, like Egypt, an independent country and that, like Egypt, it had been conquered by the English. But where did that leave Owen? Was he, like so many young Egyptians, a secret Nationalist? But if so, how did he come to be Mamur Zapt? And what would happen when they found out? If Zeinab was doubtful about marrying one of the conquering English, she ever the realist was even more doubtful about marrying one of the losing Welsh, particularly, if as seemed to be the case, there was more than an outside chance that the English might garotte him.
The real obstacle, however, Owen suspected, was that having invested so much willpower in creating a life for herself as an independent woman, which took some doing in Egypt, she hadnt got quite enough left to take the last step, making an independent marriage.
But would her father, Nuri, in fact object? He and Owen had always got along well. But getting on well was one thing, marrying a daughter quite another. Pashas like Nuri tended to view marriage as a means of political and financial alliance. It might suit him for the moment to have his daughter close to the Head of the Khedives Secret Police but that advantage would be only as temporary as a civil servants career. As for financial advantage, Nuri knew only too exactly how little Owen earned. So, yes, it was true what he had said to the waiter: they were in the same boat.
The waiter jerked his thumb in the direction of the financiers.
They lot of money, he said. Why they want more?
Thats the way of rich men, said Owen.
True, acknowledged the waiter, still brooding, however. But why they here?
Egypt not got, said Owen.
That was even more true. In fact, it was so true that Egypts international creditors had felt obliged to set up a commission, the Caisse, to make sure that they were repaid. The British had been installed, or installed themselves, as managers on behalf of the commission, and now it was a good question who really ran the country; the Khedive, Egypts nominal ruler, the British Consul-General, whose hand was on all the strings, or the Caisse.
The waiter was silent.
Egypt rich country, he said after a while, the sweep of his hand taking in the fields with their cotton and sugar cane and fruit. Why not got?
Ah, well, said Owen. Youll have to ask the Khedive.
The waiter went into the hotel and returned with a newspaper, which he gave to Owen. It was a copy of Al-Liwa, the leading Arabic Nationalist paper. Ordinarily, he would have read it the previous night one of the Mamur Zapts duties was to read all the newspapers before publication but because he had been away he had not been able to.
He looked at the newspaper and felt vexed. They had slipped up in his absence. There on the front page was a reference to the financiers visit. What were they here for, demanded Al-Liwa? Was it to suck yet more blood out of Egypts already dried-up veins? Well, if blood was what they wanted, blood was what they would
Owen gave the newspaper back to the waiter. He was used to the sanguinary rhetoric of the Nationalist newspapers and it did not bother him. However, they had been trying to keep the visit secret. The negotiations were important and neither the British Administration nor the Khedive wanted them disturbed by any unfortunate incident.
Not got, said the waiter, jerking his thumb again, because all money go out of country to people like them!
If even ordinary waiters were saying such things, thought Owen, was it any wonder that other people were?
Tvardovsky kept, or was kept, apart from the other Russians. At lunch he came and sat with Owen.
Hows it going?
They have no vision, said Tvardovsky. They see only roubles.
What do you see?
I see fields of grain, said Tvardovsky. This was once Romes granary. It could be again.
Depending on what?
Water, said Tvardovsky, and pumps.
And money?
Well, naturally.
People, too, said Owen.
Yes, granted Tvardovsky, people are important. He looked at Owen. You know the country, he said. How would the people feel?
I think they would need to feel part of it, said Owen.
And at the moment they dont, said Tvardovsky. That is because they are serfs.
Well, not really
The next best thing to. We were serfs, too, in Russia, said Tvardovsky. I was one. Or, rather, the son of one. So I know.
I dont think its quite the same in Egypt.
They need to feel part of it. Will the British make them feel part of it?
We have done a bit, said Owen.
No, said Tvardovsky. The answer is no. But Russians could.
Owen looked at the financiers on the adjoining tables.
You said they had no vision.
Not these. Tvardovsky dismissed them with a contemptuous wave of his hand. Others. Have you heard of a Russian named Kropotkin?
No, said Owen.
He is a prince. But an unusually intelligent one. He says that cooperation, not competition, is the natural way of things. You British will not make the ordinary Egyptian feel part of things because you believe in competition. But that is not what the ordinary man wants. It is not natural to him. What is natural is cooperation. And that is what is needed here.
And Mr Kropotkin will bring it?
Alas, said Tvardovsky. It may take a bit of time.
Alas, said Tvardovsky. It may take a bit of time.
After lunch the financiers, unused to the heat, returned to their tents for a siesta. Owen took a chair, however, and sat outside beneath an orange tree, where the foliage was thick enough to give dense shade. He could have gone back to his tent, next to Tvardovskys, but from here he could see better.
At about four the financiers began to emerge from their tents and make their way to the armchair area, where they were served afternoon tea. They drank their tea, as the Egyptians did, without milk.
From time to time someone came and led one of them off. Individual interviews had been arranged with the Governor of the Bank of Egypt and the Financial Adviser. In the end, said Tvardovsky, a financier has to work alone. We do not trust each other.
Tvardovsky went for an interview, too. Owen accompanied him to the tent but did not go in.
Dinner was early in view of the shoot the next day. Tvardovsky sat at Owens table again. He drank heavily.
Steady on, said Owen. Were making an early start tomorrow, remember.
Ah yes, said Tvardovsky. The killing.
It was still dark but in the tents the lamps were on. Suffragis hurried about carrying bowls of hot water for shaving and coffee for those who needed it. Up on the terrace a light breakfast had been prepared but the main breakfast would be later, after the shoot. People were already walking down to the water.
Owen emerged from his tent carrying a gun. Tvardovsky, coming out at the same time, regarded it distrustfully.
Whats that for? he said.
Protective camouflage, said Owen. He did not expect to use it. Duck-shooting was not what he was about.
Tvardovsky himself was gunless. Nevertheless, he walked down to the boats with the others.
They were flat-bottomed boats, like punts, suitable for the shallow water at the edge of the lake and for lying among the reeds. The boatman held the boats for the shooters to clamber in, two to a boat, with a boatman there to paddle and retrieve.
At the last moment there was a hitch. There were not enough boats to accommodate everyone.
Ill sit this one out, said Tvardovsky.
So will I, said Owen.
No, no, said the maître dhôtel. No problem.
He produced two more boats. They were of the basket sort, made of reeds. Empty, they seemed to lie on top of the water. Carrying someone, they sank down and water seeped in through the sides so that there was a little pool of water inside the boat, in which the person was sitting. After that, though, they sank down no more and the level of water remained the same, matching that outside.
Actually, said the maître dhôtel, youll find them more suited for shooting. The boatmen will be able to take you right in among the reeds and youll get a better shot.
Tvardovsky shrugged and climbed in. That was the snag. The boat could only take him, not Owen. Owen was being marshalled towards a similar boat lying alongside. Tvardovsky looked up at Owen.
I wont be far, said Owen.
Tvardovsky shrugged again.
Where gun? said the boatman.
No gun, said Tvardovsky.
No gun? The boatman turned to the maître dhôtel, bewildered.
No gun, said the maître dhôtel. Just watch.
The boatman exchanged glances with the man holding Owens boat. The shrugs were ever so slight.
Owen got into his basket. At once the water seemed to rush in.
All right, said the boatman, grinning. Not sink.
For a moment Owen was not so sure about that; nor about the general stability of the craft. It rocked crazily and he grabbed at the plaited gunwales on either side. Then the boat settled. He found himself sitting in water. After the first shock it was not disagreeable: pleasantly warm, almost languorous sensuous, even. He settled the gun between his knees.
Then he remembered and cursed. He felt down into his pocket. Never mind that gun, it was the other one that mattered. He pulled it out, dried it against his tunic and then stuck it into his breast pocket.
His boatman gaped.
This one, he said, tapping the gun between Owens knees. He pointed to the small arm. No need, he said, shaking his head.
I hope youre right, said Owen. It hadnt felt very wet. He hoped the chamber had not been affected.
The boatman pushed the boat out and then got in. He began to paddle.
In the other boats the boatmen stood up and poled their craft along. This close to the shore the water was very shallow and the trick was not to get out but to get in, among the reeds. This was where the basket boats had the advantage. The other boats had to hold themselves out on the edge of the reeds. The basket boats could go right in.
The boatman pushed the reeds aside with his paddle and edged through. Tvardovskys boat was just ahead of them.
You stay close to that, Owen directed.
The boatman nodded.
The reeds had closed all around them so that it was as if they were in a little enclave of their own. All they could see was the sky, which was, of course, all that they needed to see.
They settled down to wait. While they had been paddling out there the darkness had cleared and the sun was just coming up over the top of the reeds, a great ball of red.
The reeds were very still. But then, as the sun came up and the warmth began to touch the water, there were little rustles of movement. The lake was waking up.
The boatman reached forward and touched the gun.
Owen shook his head.
The boatman mimicked putting it to his shoulder and firing.
He doesnt like shooting, said Owen in Arabic, jerking his head in Tvardovskys direction. He just wants to watch.
The boatman shrugged, accepting.
Tvardovsky sat sombrely in his boat, a little apart from Owen. Owen tried to catch his eye but Tvardovsky was staring into the reeds.
Suddenly there was a loud report and then from all along the shore, birds flew up into the sky. For a moment all was confusion as the birds scattered and squawked but then there were more reports and suddenly, from over to their right, the ducks came flying. They came with almost unbelievable speed, heading right across their front and out towards the centre of the lake.
At once, raggedly, almost in panic, the shooting started. From somewhere very near them, just beyond the reeds, a veritable barrage opened up.
Tvardovsky put his hands over his ears. The noise was deafening.
The fusillade seemed to have no effect on the ducks. They just flew on and on, an endless number of them.
But then suddenly they were gone. The shooting died away. The lake returned to its quietness. It was as if nothing had happened; only now, here and there among the reeds, Owen saw bunches of feathers and in the water the occasional floating spot of red.
The boatman gave an exclamation and then paddled the boat swiftly to one side. He poked the reeds apart with his paddle, reached out and lifted a bird, hanging limply, into the boat. He paused for a second, eyes searching the reeds and then drove the boat on again, just a few yards. Another bird was handed into the boat.
And then, surprisingly, two last birds came in towards them.
Effendi, Effendi!
The boatman thrust the gun into Owens hands.
Almost without thinking, Owen put the gun to his shoulder and fired.