Sidi Morelli was a Roman Catholic and the funeral service was being held in the Catholic church used by the Italian community. Sidi Morellis neighbours, as Muslims, would not go in. This public demonstration of grief and affection was therefore their way of participating. Some were no doubt there merely because they enjoyed a good funeral; but Owen was struck by how many in this most conservative of neighbourhoods were prepared to come out and display their feeling for an infidel.
Beside him, outside the warehouse, while the hearse was waiting, were Sidi Morellis three domino-playing friends.
The coffin was brought out of the house and laid in the hearse.
We ought to have been carrying that, said Fahmy.
Let each man die in his own way, said Hamdan pacifically.
Perhaps it is as well, said Abd al Jawad. For it is a long way to the church and he is a heavy man.
There would have been many to assist, said Fahmy.
The hearse moved forward a few paces and another carriage drew up outside the house. Signora Morelli and members of her family got in. As she came out of the house she saw the three friends and came across to them and said something. The men were openly moved.
The carriages advanced. The road filled up behind them. Hamdan, Abd al Jawad and Fahmy put themselves formally at the head of the procession.
As the ranks passed in front of him, Owen suddenly saw among them the alert figure of Ibrahim Buktari, Mahmouds prospective father-in-law. He was talking animatedly to the efficient young Egyptian whom Owen had noticed at the coffee house. He waved an arm when he saw Owen and Owen fell in beside them.
This is Kamal, said Ibrahim Buktari; and this, he said to the young Egyptian, is a friend of Mahmoud El Zakis. A soldier, like yourself.
Soldier? said the young Egyptian, surprised. I wouldnt have thought Mahmoud would have had any friends who were
He stopped, embarrassed.
Soldiers?
British soldiers.
A hundred years ago, said Owen. Im not a soldier now.
Once a soldier, always a soldier, said Ibrahim Buktari.
Where are you stationed? asked Owen.
At the Abdin Barracks, at the moment. Ive just got back from the Sudan.
Ah, said Owen. Have I met your uncle? Wasnt he one of Sidi Morellis domino-playing friends?
Thats him up there, said Ibrahim Buktari.
Fahmy Salim?
Thats right, said the young Egyptian.
He was worried about your being sent to the front.
What front? said Kamal bitterly. The British are keeping us away from any front.
Ibrahim Buktari clicked his tongue reprovingly.
Youll get your chance, he said.
But when? asked the young man. And who against? Its not the Sudanese that I want to be fighting.
It doesnt matter who its against, said Ibrahim Buktari. The important thing, for a young soldier, is to be fighting.
Kamal laughed and laid his hand on Ibrahims arm affectionately.
Youre a fine friend for my uncle to have! he said. Ill tell him what you said!
Tell him! And then Ill tell him that the one thing a young officer wants is war. Thats the way to quick promotion.
Yes, I know. Thats what they all say. But thats not the only thing, you know. You need to be fighting on the right side.
Nonsense! cried Ibrahim Buktari, greatly enjoying himself. There is no such thing as the right side. Not here in Egypt, there isnt. Sides are all over the place, and the only thing that counts is to be on the winning side!
Shocking! cried Kamal. To have respectable elders leading young men astray! What is the country coming to!
They embraced each other, laughing. This was obviously a continuing pretend argument between them.
Then they sobered up and the young Egyptian excused himself.
I must go and walk beside my uncle. It is a long way in the heat and he is much stricken by Sidi Morellis death. He may need help before the end. And perhaps, he said to Owen, you can talk some sense into this old firebrand. The only people he listens to are the British!
Outrageous! shouted Ibrahim Buktari. But the young Egyptian was gone.
Hes all right, Ibrahim Buktari said to Owen. Ive known him since he was a boy. Full of wrong ideas, of course. But then, the young always have been.
That evening Owen went round to see Zeinab. She lived in the fashionable Ismailiya Quarter, and had an appartement of her own. This was unusual for a single Egyptian woman; but then Zeinab was unusual in many respects.
She was the daughter of a Pasha, which explained how she could afford to own an appartement but which did not account for the audacity of maintaining a separate establishment itself. Most Pashas daughters were as harem-bound as other Egyptian women and spent their lives at home with their families until they could be suitably married. The circumstances of Zeinabs birth and upbringing were, however, mildly out of the ordinary, even by Egyptian standards.
Her mother had been one of Cairos most famous courtesans and the young Nuri Pasha had been desperately in love with her, to such an extent, indeed, that he had scandalized Cairo society by proposing marriage. To his surprise, and the even greater surprise of society, she had turned him down, preferring to keep her independence. This had endeared her to Nuri who liked a bit of spirit in his women even more, and the two had lived happily together until, tragically, Zeinabs mother had died giving birth to Zeinab.
The shattered Nuri had clutched at the baby as representing all that was left of the great passion of his life, acknowledging Zeinab as his daughter and bringing her up as, in his view, a Pashas daughter should be brought up.
This was not quite, however, as other Pashas daughters were reared. Like most of the old Egyptian ruling class, Nuri looked to France for his culture, and had brought Zeinab up to share that culture. Being Nuri, however, he had rather overdone it, with the result that Zeinab was as much a Frenchwoman as she was an Egyptian. She spoke French more naturally than she spoke Arabic.
Consistent with this approach, the doting Nuri had throughout her childhood allowed her considerably more licence than her peers enjoyed, rejoicing, indeed, in every expression of independence as reflecting something of the spirit of her mother.
True, still, to his enthusiasm for things French, especially women, he had encouraged her, as she approached womanhood, to assume the ton of the young Parisienne. Basing himself, however, largely on the latest magazines that he had received from Paris, he had tended to confuse the current normal with less widely shared notions of the New Woman, which, admittedly, he interpreted as merely the adding of a piquant new flavour to the more traditional ones of sexual attraction. The upshot of all this was that by the time she was eighteen Zeinab had come to take for granted a degree of freedom unusual among Muslim women; and what Nuri was reluctant to grant, she took.
Zeinab, too, was enthusiastic about French culture, although her interests were more aesthetic. The Cairo art world, where she found most of her friends, was heavily French in tone, and had the additional advantage of taking a more relaxed view of women than the rest of Egyptian society. She was able, therefore, to pursue her interests in painting and music more or less in peace, and sometimes thought that one day she might establish a salon along the lines of that of the great Parisian ladies.
Zeinab, too, was enthusiastic about French culture, although her interests were more aesthetic. The Cairo art world, where she found most of her friends, was heavily French in tone, and had the additional advantage of taking a more relaxed view of women than the rest of Egyptian society. She was able, therefore, to pursue her interests in painting and music more or less in peace, and sometimes thought that one day she might establish a salon along the lines of that of the great Parisian ladies.
First, however, she would have to get married, and this presented a problem, since the only man she could contemplate was someone who shared her views on personal freedom, and there appeared to be no rich young Egyptian men in that category. That only left Owen; and he, alas, was English.
Meanwhile, she was just coining up to thirty.
Mahmoud? Married? she said now, raising herself upon her elbows. She seemed disconcerted. I wouldnt have thought he was the marrying kind.
I think it was a bit of a surprise to him, too.
He told her about the evening.
School? said Zeinab. She must be about fourteen.
I think shes left school now.
Well, that, I suppose, is something.
I met her father. He seems all right.
The trouble is, said Zeinab, that Mahmoud is not marrying the father.
I know. It does seem strange. But there you are, Time passes.
Yes, said Zeinab.
Owen, Ive had a letter this morning
It was McPhee, the Deputy Commandant of the Cairo Police.
Everyones had them, said Owen.
Not just me, then.
McPhee seemed pleased. He turned to go. Then he came back.
Ive had them before, he said.
The same writing?
Its a letter-writers hand, said McPhee, who, despite his eccentricity, knew his Egypt.
Got one?
McPhee laid it before him.
Its the same as mine, said Owen. And the same as everyone elses. Whoever it is always used the same writer.
We could look out for him, I suppose, said McPhee. Though there are dozens of letter-writers in the city.
The ones to you, and to the Mamur Zapt, said Nikos, the Secrets Clerk, were both posted in the Box.
Fastened to the wall outside the Governorate was an old wooden box in which from time immemorial it had been the habit of the citizens of Cairo to deposit petitions, complaints about the price of bread, denunciations of their neighbours and accusations against their neighbours wives, together with sundry informations which were thought might be of interest to the Mamur Zapt. And some of them were.
McPhee had told him once McPhee was a fount of such curious knowledge that it was like the Bocca del Leone at Venice, a letterbox decorated with a lions head, into which Venetians could drop communications which they wished to bring to the attention of the authorities. In Venice the communications had to be signed. In Cairo the informant could remain anonymous, but Owen, who liked the custom, felt that didnt matter. In principle it was a way of giving every citizen a chance to communicate with the highest in the land; although these days the Mamur Zapt was not, as he once had been, the right-hand man of the Sultan, the most powerful of all his Viziers.
The point is, said Nikos, whose duty it was to unlock the Box every morning and bring its contents to Owen, we could have the Box watched.
Neither Owen nor McPhee liked the idea. To McPhee it was an affront to the spirit of the city. Owen was uncomfortable with the idea too, though he rationalized his discomfort away on the utilitarian grounds that once the anonymity of the Box was breached, its value as a democratic means of communication would be lost.
Nikos, the ever-realistic Copt, shrugged. He wasnt, after all, the one who had been receiving the death threats.
For some days now the weather in Cairo had been unusually hot. Fans were whirring overhead in all the offices. The green shutters on the windows were kept closed. The windows themselves hung open and a little air, and a thin sunlight, came through the slats. In Owens, as in all Cairo offices, a vessel of drinking water stood in the window where the incoming air might cool it. Not today, however; the water was lukewarm. Owen summoned the office orderly and asked for some ice.
The orderly spread his hands.
Effendi, there is none in the ice box. There has been a run on it this week. Everyone else has thought the same as you; only they have thought of it first.
Owen looked at his watch. It was a bit early to go to the Sporting Club.
However, said the orderly cheerfully, the ice man comes this morning and when he comes I will bring some ice along for you.
He still hadnt come by lunchtime, but when Owen went down into the yard he saw the donkey with its great heavy bags on either side coming in at the gate.
No, Effendi, I am not late, protested the ice man. I am very busy, thats all. All the offices want ice, but Ive only got one donkey, havent I?
Well, have you? said Owen. I would have thought there were other donkeys that might be called on. And other ice men, too, at a time like this when you need help.
Effendi, they are as I am: working themselves to death. In this heat everyone wants ice. The palace wants ice, the hotels want ice, all the barracks want ice. So they cannot help me when I do the government offices. And the government offices want ice most of all. Fortunately I am a man of diligence and resource and so they get ice. Eventually.
He fished in one of the saddlebags and produced a loadshaped block of ice wrapped in sacking.
You want ice, Effendi? You have it. So what are you complaining of?
Once the funeral was over, the Signora assumed control of the business. The auctions started again.
I thought you said there was some cotton? said the crumpled Greek.
There is, said the Levantine wearily, but its still in the warehouse. As I told you, the Parquets interested in it.
Still? said the Greek, aghast.
Still.
You dont know when ?
The Greek thought for a moment.
Presumably youve got loads coming into your warehouse all the time?
Thats right.
With cotton?
Sometimes.
Any coming in soon?
There is, I believe, said the Levantine coldly, a load coming up from the Delta sometime.
Ah, the Delta? The Greek seemed interested; indeed, strangely, cheered.
Itll be coming in next month.
Alexandria, said the Greek with satisfaction. I like the sound of that.
What? said the Levantine.
Alexandria. The Delta. Thats much better than Sennar.
Sennar? Whats that got to do with it?
Its a hell of a place.
The cottons the same said the Levantine, puzzled.
Ah! said the Greek, laying his finger alongside his nose.
Perhaps its different to people who know, said the Levantine, impressed.
Its not the cotton, its the place, said the Greek.
The Levantine looked puzzled, then shrugged his shoulders and moved away.
The Greek went on poking round the lots that were coming up for auction.