Nearer at hand, over to his right, a pair of humped oxen, blindfolded, were working a sagiya, or water-wheel. Its groan followed him as he walked.
Far to his left, above the mud parapet which hemmed in the waters of the Nile, he could see the tall sails of gyassas, like the wings of huge brown birds, gliding along the river. Closer to was the great white gash of the advancing end of the new railway. It was somewhere over there that he must have been two days before.
The track led through a vast field of young green wheat, away in the middle of which an ancient obelisk thrust upwards at the sky.
McPhee, he told himself, would have loved it: both the biblical landscape and the reminder of something even older, the original Heliopolis, City of the Sun, where Plato and Pythagoras had walked and talked, buried now, perhaps even beneath this very field of wheat.
McPhee was not the ordinary sort of policeman. His interests were in the Old Egypt rather than in the New; in the Egypt of the Pharaohs and the Ptolemies and Moses rather than in the Egypt of the Khedive and the occupying British and the foreign developers.
Owens mind, however, was gripped more by the New Egypt than by the Old. For he was the Mamur Zapt, Head of Cairos Secret Police, responsible for political order in the city, and the chief threat to that order came from the new forces that were emerging in the country, to do with nationalism, ethnic and religious tension, and the growing impatience with the traditional rule of the Pashas.
If it were not for the fact that the Old Egypt had a habit of rising up every so often and giving the New an almighty kick in the teeth!
Chapter 2
The Tree was in a bad way. It lay prone on the ground and although it was green at the top it was very brown underneath. Its bark was gnarled and twisted and much gashed where the irreverent, or, possibly, the reverent, had carved their names.
Thats why I had to put a railing round it, explained the man who claimed to be its owner, a Copt named Daniel.
There was a wooden palisade all round the Tree. It, too, was covered with names.
It costs ten piastres to put your name on, said the Copt.
Ten piastres! said Owen, aghast.
That includes the hire of a knife, said the Copt defensively, brandishing a large blunt-edged instrument.
But ten piastres!
Think, Effendi! said the Copt persuasively. Your name bound to a holy relic for perpetuity! That will surely count for something on the Day of Judgement!
You dont think overcharging may also count for something on the Day of Judgement?
The Tree has many virtues, Effendi, said the Copt, smiling.
Evidently. But does it not, from what I hear, have vices, too?
That is a calumny put about by the Muslims.
But is there not some truth in it? For I have heard a man lies dead because of the Tree.
That is a story got up by Sheikh Isa. For his own ends.
Ah?
He wishes to drive me out. So that he can take over custodianship of the Tree himself.
But why would he want to do that? If the Tree lacks virtue? And isnt the Tree a Christian relic rather than a Muslim one?
It is a Muslim one too. As for the virtue, that would return if the Tree were in proper hands. Muslim ones. They say.
And what do you say?
That Sheikh Isa is a greedy old bugger who just wants to get his hands on the cash! said the Copt wrathfully.
The Tree is cursed, said Sheikh Isa. Anyone can see that. Otherwise, why would it be lying on its side?
Old age?
Sheikh Isa brushed this aside.
The question is: why has it been cursed? And the answer is obvious. The Tree fell down a year ago. At exactly the time, said Isa with emphasis, that they began to build this new city.
So?
Well, its plain, isnt it? God doesnt want them to build the city. Its an abomination to him. So he cursed the Tree to show us his anger.
Why does he abominate the city?
I dont presume to know Gods mind, but I can make a guess. Its to be a City of Pleasure. Thats what they say, dont they? Now God is not against pleasure, but I think his idea of pleasure may well be different from that of the Pashas. Do you think he wants to see such a holy place turned into a Sodom and Gomorrah?
Holy place?
Not here, said Sheikh Isa impatiently. The Birket-el-Hadj.
Ah, of course!
The Birket-el-Hadj was the traditional rendezvous for the Mecca caravan. It was about three miles north of Matariya.
Do you think God wants a place like that just where they should be beginning to put their thoughts in order for the Holy Journey?
Perhaps not. But, of course, fewer and fewer people are travelling that way now. They prefer to go by train-
Train? roared Sheikh Isa, almost foaming at the mouth. Go to Mecca by train?
Just to the coast-
Train? shouted Sheikh Isa. They heap abomination upon abomination! Shall we stand idly by when Gods will is set at naught? Has he not sent us a sign that all can read? Does not the Fall of the Tree spell the Fall of the City-?
Why dont you just lock him up? said the Belgian uneasily.
On what grounds?
Causing trouble.
Thats not an offence.
It bloody is in my eyes. Anyway, doesnt the Mamur Zapt have special powers?
He does. But its wisest if he uses them sparingly.
I reckon it would be pretty wise to nip this thing in the bud. Before it gets out of hand.
You dont lock up religious leaders just like that.
Religious leader? Hes a potty old village sheikh. Look, Owen, I just dont understand you. This is a very important job and were behind schedule as it is, weve got to push things along. This business of the man on the line cost us a day and a half. And now you come along and tell us theres a problem about a Tree!
Im just telling you to be careful, thats all.
Well, all right, well be careful. Hey, Ive got an idea! If that old man is bothered about the Tree falling down, why dont we just lift it up again? Prop it up with stays? I could send a truck round, we could use a hoist-
Matariya, although so near to Cairo, was in many respects a traditional oasis village, half hidden under a mass of palms, banana trees and tamarisks and clustered around an old mosque with crumbling, loop-holed walls and a crazy, tottering minaret. Probably because of the proximity to the gathering place for the Mecca caravan, many of the houses were pilgrims houses, their walls brightly decorated with pictures of the journey to Mecca.
Against one of the houses a many-coloured tabernacle had been erected beneath which old men were sitting on a faded carpet. In the middle of the carpet was a dikka, or platform, on which sat Sheikh Isa, intoning the Koran. At the edge of the carpet was a pile of shoes. A blind man was putting his foot into them to try and find his own by the feel.
The dead mans house was just beyond the tabernacle, recognizable at once from the mourning banners. The mourning was still going on. Owen could hear the womens voices in the back room, less frantic now, resigned.
A man in a dark suit and a tarboosh, the red, tasselled, potlike hat of the Egyptian effendi, was just about to go into the house. He saw Owen, smiled and waited.
It was the Parquet man who had come out to the rail-head two days before when Owen had been trying to prevent a confrontation over the body. They shook hands.
Asif Nimeri.
Youre formally on the case now?
The other day he had been sent merely because he was one of the duty officers. He was young and fresh and new, which was probably why they had sent him. Anything out of town on a hot day was for the juniors.
Yes.
He looked at Owen curiously.
Are you taking an interest?
Not really. Just making sure of some of the incidentals.
Sheikh Isa?
That sort of thing.
The Parquet man laughed.
I think hes harmless.
So do I, really.
Youre not directly interested in the case, then?
No.
Asif seemed relieved. Conducting his first case was problem enough without the additional difficulty of the Mamur Zapt.
I thought that since I was here I would look in. May I join you?
Of course!
They stepped into the house. It had only two rooms, the rear one, where the wailing was coming from, and the one they were in. It was small and bare. The only furniture was a mattress rolled up and stacked against the wall and some skins, not cushions, on the floor.
Two men came into the room, an old man, probably the father, and one much younger, the brother, or perhaps brother-in-law, of the dead man.
I come at a time of trouble, said Asif ceremoniously, but not to add to it.
Your grief is my grief, said Owen formally.
The men bowed acknowledgement. The older one, with a gesture of his hand, invited them to sit down. They sat on the skins.
A woman brought them water and a small dish of dates.
Asif complimented their host on the water and Owen praised the dates.
The water is good, admitted the old man.
The dates eat well, conceded his companion, though not as well as the dates of Marg.
God is bountiful! said Asif.
The men agreed.
Owen, used to the slow pace of Eastern investigation, settled back.
Although sometimes, said Asif, the yoke he asks us to bear is heavy.
True, asserted the old man.
Does our friend have a family?
A wife, said the old man, and two daughters.
No sons? Asif shook his head commiseratingly.
The girls are still young.
Which meant that the family would have to support them for some time yet. It would, but every extra mouth was a burden on the family.
They sat for a little while in silence.
Are you tax collectors? said the old man suddenly.
No! said Asif, startled.
Oh. We thought you might be.
You come from the city, explained the younger man.
I am from the Parquet.
The men clearly did not understand.
I am a man of law, Asif explained.
You are a kadi?
Well, no, not exactly, said Asif scrupulously. It was not for a fledgling lawyer to claim to be a judge. Besides, the two systems were quite separate. Kadis were concerned with religious law, the Parquet, after the French model, with the secular and more modern criminal law.
Who is he? asked the older man, pointing at Owen.
I am the Mamur Zapt.
Ah, the Mamur Zapt?
They had obviously heard of him. Or, rather, they had heard of the post. The position of Mamur Zapt, Head of the Khedives Secret Police and his right-hand man, went back centuries. Only things were a bit different now. The Mamur Zapt was no longer the right-hand man of the Khedive; he was the right-hand man of the British, the ones who really ruled Egypt.