Even if he had called the guns in, said Owen placidly, all that it probably would have shown us was that it was one of the financiers. And I dont think they were very anxious to show that.
But that, too, is wrong. You cannot have the law applying to some people and not others. We would have treated him fairly. We understand about accidents. Why cannot they trust us? said Mahmoud bitterly.
They do trust you, said Owen quickly. Of course they trust you! It could come out of the blue, this touching of the Egyptian nerve.
Even from their point of view it is a mistake. It makes you ask questions. It made me ask questions. When the Mudir couldnt answer them I went round to the Russian Consulate, because Tvardovsky was, after all, one of their nationals, but they well, it wasnt as if they werent interested, rather that they suddenly closed down. They wouldnt tell me anything. And then I went to the Khedives office the Khedive was the host, after all and got the same response from them. They wouldnt even give me a list of who was there. And so I thought: why wont they? Is it that they have something to hide?
They arrived at the hotel in late mid morning. It was beginning to get very hot and people were already returning from excursions along the bank of the lake. The hotel, which had been emptied of its guests to accommodate the Khedives party was full again with its normal clientele: Greek and Levantine businessmen escaping the heat of the city with their families, old hands of the Administration who had done all the sights and were looking for something green, somewhere, perhaps, that would remind them of England, a few foreign tourists complete with Kodaks.
They went at once down to the lake. The foreshore was now lined with boats. Fishermen were shovelling their catch into wickerwork baskets. Every so often one of them would lift a basket on to his shoulder, step over the side of the boat and splash ashore. Gulls would swoop down even as he was carrying and snap at the fish. The baskets were taken to an outbuilding of the hotel, where the fish were emptied out on to the floor. Through the open door Owen could see the grey-and-silvery pile growing and growing.
The heaps of fish inside the boats were diminishing rapidly. From time to time one of the fish would give a squirm and a jump and then fall back again. Some of the fishermen had turned to coiling their ropes and spreading their nets out on the ground to dry.
Mahmoud went across and began to talk to some of them. They pointed along the bank to where the shoot had taken place. The reeds were thick at this point, about six feet high and spreading out in a little headland. The shoot had taken place just off the headland. Around the other side, where ducks crowded in such numbers as to make the water white.
Mahmoud climbed into one of the punt-like boats and two of the boatmen prepared to paddle him over. He asked Owen to go with him.
The men had been on the shoot itself, in the boats where the bulk of the party had been stationed, in the open water beyond the headland, just at the edge of the reeds, where the reeds would conceal them. They were describing to Mahmoud what had happened, putting their arms up to mimic the shooting.
It hardly seemed possible it could be the same place. Then the air had been torn by shooting, there had been a kind of tension. Now everything seemed incredibly peaceful. Ducks were dawdling in and out of the reeds, hardly bothering to register their presence. The sun was warm on the woodwork, the blue lake sparkled in the sun, as still as a mirror. He found it hard to reconcile with his memory.
Of course, he said to Mahmoud, we werent out there. We were in there.
He pointed vaguely towards the reeds.
We? said Mahmoud.
Tvardovsky and I. In two separate boats.
Just the two of you?
Yes.
Why was that?
We had different boats. They could go in among the reeds.
How did you come to have different boats?
Owen shrugged.
Accident. Maybe we arrived later than the others. The other boats were all taken.
Mahmoud took the boat over to the reeds and peered in. They were impenetrable to a boat like his.
How would you see to shoot? he asked.
You would be shooting upwards. You would see the birds against the sky. He tried to remember. You wouldnt have long. Of course, he added, Tvardovsky wasnt shooting.
Mahmoud sat there for some time thinking. Then he told the boatmen to take the boat back to the land. There Owen saw him talking to the man who had been Tvardovskys boatman.
He came back towards Owen.
You were in a separate boat, he said. Where is your boatman?
Owen looked around and couldnt see him.
Mahmoud spoke to some of the men.
Hes gone to visit his mother, he said.
The boats had finished emptying their catch now. The nets had been spread out along the bank. There was a stink of fish in the air. Some of the men had gone to sit in the shade of a large boat that had been drawn up out of the water. Mahmoud stayed talking to them for some time.
Owen wandered along the bank. He came to a small bay where flamingoes were paddling on the lake. Beside them was a pair of pelicans. As Owen watched, one of the pelicans stooped down into the water and came up with a fish. Owen saw its tail disappearing into the birds beak as it was swallowed. It was a large fish and made a bulge in the pelicans neck. With horrified fascination Owen watched the bulge wriggling as it went down.
The Mudir was sitting under a palm tree chatting to some waiters. Mahmoud went across to greet him and then brought him back to a table on the terrace, where he summoned coffee. The Mudir sat down uneasily. While a Parquet officer did not count as the great, the Parquet itself was a mysterious object over the horizon from which from time to time incomprehensible reproofs would come like a bolt from the blue.
The man was dead, he said, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. What need of a postmortem?
To establish the cause of death.
He was shot. There is no puzzle about that.
Yes, but
And, besides, he was a foreign effendi.
So?
The Mudir shrugged.
You dont mess about with foreign effendis, he said, even when theyre dead.
You have a responsibility, said Mahmoud sternly, to establish how he died.
I know how he died! He was shot. There! The Mudir clapped his chest dramatically.
At what range?
What range?
How far away was the person who fired the shot?
Well, hell, I dont know. It was among the reeds and
The postmortem might be able to tell you that.
But cant we guess? The shot must have been fired from one of the boats and
The boats were scattered. I know, because I asked the boatmen. If we knew the range, it might help us to establish which boat.
Anyway, said the Mudir lamely, there was no ice.
Ice? Whats that got to do with it?
To pack the body in. If we wanted to preserve it for a postmortem. Its very hot at this time of year and
But there was plenty of ice! The hotel had lots of it.
Ah, yes, but that was ice for putting in drinks. You couldnt use that. Not for a foreign effendi. It would be disrespectful.
So what did you do with the body?
I let the effendis have it.
You what?
I let the effendis take it away. They said they would see to all that was necessary. And I said to myself, yes, surely that would be best, for they will know what is proper. Who am I to say what rites should be used for a foreign effendi? You cant expect a Mudir to know everything.
You let them take it away? Just like that? Without even getting a doctor to sign a death certificate? Have you no notion of procedure, man?
It wasnt like that, protested the Mudir, stung. These were foreign effendis, great and mighty. And, besides, Prince Fuad said if I didnt get a move on, he would kick my arse.
There is a procedure to be followed, lectured Mahmoud, and you, the Mudir, should be seeing that it is followed. No one is above the law. Neither foreign effendis nor Prince Fuad.
You try telling Prince Fuad that! said the Mudir.
3
The tables on the terrace were filling up now for lunch. White tablecloths gleamed, silver serviette rings shone. Ice buckets smoked, ice chinked in glasses. Mahmoud had gone into the hotel to see if he could obtain a list of the people who had been there on the weekend when Tvardovsky was shot. Owen was reading the wine list.
A man came out on to the terrace. He stopped when he saw Owen and then came across to him.
Why, Captain Owen, he said, what brings you here? Taking a break? Oh, no, he smiled, I was forgetting: you will be here on business. This sad Tvardovsky affair!
Owen did not recognize him.
Mirza es-Rahel, said the man helpfully. I work for Al-Liwa.
I know your writing, of course, said Owen, but the face
They shook hands. It was true. He did know his writings. And very scurrilous they were, too. The man seemed to have a knack of unearthing scandalous stories about the royal family and the politicians with whom the Khedive surrounded himself. But the face was unfamiliar.
Which was surprising, for Owen thought he knew most of the important Nationalist journalists who worked in the city.
Im based in Alexandria, the Egyptian explained.
That, too, was surprising: for it was Cairo that was the hub of government, the place where the Khedive and his ministers resided, and where one would naturally expect to find journalists of Mr es-Rahels ilk. He said as much.
But it is Alexandria where the money is, said the Egyptian, smiling again, and I have always found the financial connection the most promising of threads to pursue.
Not sex?
That, too, Mr es-Rahel conceded. But sex is for pleasure: money is something you take seriously. He laughed. Or, at least, the Pashas who rule us do.
And which is it that brings you here, Mr es-Rahel? Business or pleasure?
Pleasure. Though not, Im afraid, of the sexual kind. Merely taking a break. I was feeling a bit jaded. Alexandria, you know, fills up at this time of year with holiday-makers. I felt a day or two in the quiet by the lake would do me good. He looked across to the main building and saw Mahmoud coming out of a door. You are here with Mr El-Zaki?
Yes.
Seeing that he does not find out too much?
The conciliating laugh took the sting out of his words.
Helping him.
I am sure he will need help. With so many obstacles in his way.
Are there?
Well, yes, Captain Owen. You know that as well as I do.
What sort of obstacles?
The usual ones. The ones that always block Egypts attempts at freedom.
The Capitulations, you mean?
Exactly.
I am not sure they are relevant here.
No?
In any case, said Owen, theres not a lot I can do about them.
Perhaps not. But, you see, Captain Owen, if you were really helping Mr El-Zaki, it would make his task a great deal easier. That is why I asked what was your role in the case.
Why are you interested in Tvardovsky?
The journalist spread his hands.
The general good, Captain Owen. The general good. This is a sad loss to Egypt.
A sad loss?
Es-Rahel caught the note of incredulity and stared.
Why, yes, Captain Owen. Mr Tvardovsky was a man who might have done a great deal for Egypt.
That was the point of the gathering, certainly.
Ah, yes, but you know how these things go. So many people there who were not really interested in Egypt, interested only in how much money they could make out of it. Mr Tvardovsky was not like that.
You knew Tvardovsky?
Of course.
Of course?
We journalists mix in a variety of circles.
Including that of millionaire financiers?
Well, perhaps not directly, the Egyptian admitted. But we do sometimes meet them in other circles.
Such as?
Émigré ones. Mr es-Rahel smiled. Radical ones, Captain Owen. But then, the Mamur Zapt wouldnt know about that sort of circle, would he?
Mahmoud joined them.
Ah, Mr El-Zaki! said the journalist warmly. And how are you getting on with your inquiries? Successfully, I hope. Mr Tvardovsky was such a sad loss to us all!
Mahmoud looked at him distrustfully.
Mirza es-Rahel, said the journalist, shaking hands.
He works for Al-Liwa, said Owen.
Oh.
Mahmoud was not on easy terms with the press. Partly it was his natural caution. As a Parquet lawyer, Mahmoud had had too much experience of journalists not to know that anything he said would be taken down and used in evidence against him. But partly, too, it was a slightly puritanical dislike of their overstatement and distortion. Why couldnt they just put it down straightforwardly and rationally like a law report, for instance?
I was just urging Captain Owen to give you all the help he could, said es-Rahel.
Oh, yes? said Mahmoud distantly.
I am afraid you will need it, said the journalist, with all there is ranged against you.
Oh, yes?
You can, of course, count on our support. But in a case like this the Mamur Zapts support, if indeed, you have it, will count far more.
Well, thank you, said Mahmoud.
For Mahmoud, as for most Cairenes, Africa began one mile south of Cairo. In the wilderness that was the provinces, what hope was there for observance of proper procedure? For efficiency and competence of any sort? For rationality itself?
Be fair! remonstrated Owen. Hes only a Mudir. And when hes up against someone like Prince Fuad
That is true. It is wrong for me to blame the ones lower down when it is those at the top who are at fault. What you said is true. It is not the Mudir who is to blame, it is those who have made him what he is!
He brought his fist crashing down on the table. A waiter, misunderstanding, hurried to replenish their coffee pot.
It is not the man who is at fault, it is the system. The Pashas, with their interest in keeping people ignorant, the Khedive, the British