The Fig Tree Murder (6 page)

They were sitting on the ground just beyond the outer ring of Sheikh Isa’s listeners, far enough away to demonstrate their independence, yet close enough to hear what was being said. The barber had temporarily moved his shop there; that is, his chair, his bowls and his implements.

And also his cronies. This was a different congregation from Sheikh Isa’s: younger, more dissident, free-thinking. It included, besides the wounded Ja’affar, several of the men who worked on the railway, among them the man who had acted as their spokesman in the confrontation over the removal of Ibrahim’s body. It also included the dead man’s brother.

‘You’re right,’ said the man who had acted as spokesman. Wahid appeared to be his name. ‘Ordinarily I wouldn’t agree with the old sheikh either. But he’s got a point. If this working-on-the-Sabbath idea goes ahead, soon they’ll have us all working on the Sabbath. You, Ja’affar, me, Ismail—not you, though,’ he said, looking at Owen.

Owen had come there to pay his dues. It had turned out, however, that a
hakim
had not in the end been sent for.

‘He would have had to have come all the way from the city, Effendi,’ explained the barber. ‘Besides, to what end? What is a broken collarbone? I can fix that.’

‘You said it didn’t need fixing,’ said Ja’affar accusingly. ‘You said it would get better of its own accord.’

‘And so it will. The sling is there just to support the arm so that it will not put weight on it. And to show old man Zaghlul that there really is something wrong with you.’

Ja’affar had seemed not just satisfied but mending, so Owen had contented himself with settling the barber’s bill, an action which had endeared him both to Ja’affar and to the barber and his ring of cronies.

‘I work all the time,’ said Owen, smiling.

He had accepted a cup of tea and sat down in the circle with the others; from where he could, conveniently, hear what Sheikh Isa said and at the same time sample local opinion. One thing the issue of Friday-working did appear to have done was to have pushed Ibrahim’s death out of the forefront of men’s minds. If it had, that would help Mahmoud. It would give him more time in which to track down Ibrahim’s killer and prevent the whole thing from turning into a revenge feud. If, of course, the killing was purely a local matter.

But now what was this? Sheikh Isa was connecting the two things.

‘How many more signs does God have to send? First, the Tree; then poor, murdered Ibrahim! Are not the signs there to be read? And is there a man so stupid that he cannot read them? Lust, adultery and death everywhere; discord and disharmony. God piles sign upon sign. Nature revolts. Yesterday, but yesterday, here, yes, here in this very village, an ostrich breaks out and savages a man! What is this but God’s way of showing us that we have gone too far, that if we transgress the bounds of order, so too with Nature! Stop now! Turn back this foolish thing, this monster, this sacrilegious beast! Stop this railway now!’

Wahid, the labourers’ spokesman, stood up and applauded vigorously.

Owen suddenly had trouble at home. It began auspiciously enough with an invitation to dinner from Zeinab’s father, Nuri Pasha. When he arrived, Zeinab, who was coming independently, had not yet got there so Owen took off his shoes and climbed up on the
liwan
beside Nuri for a good chat. The
liwan
was a dais at one end of the
mandar’ah
, or reception room, where the host would lie, on large
divans
, or cushions, and, if his guests were sufficiently favoured, invite them to recline also.

Nuri was a traditionalist when it came to comforts and beside the
liwan
was a stand on which he kept his coffee-sets, water-pipes and dishes of Turkish delight and nougat. His comforts extended more widely, too, and on the floor above was a harem-room well stocked with wives and concubines. Nuri, however, was growing older and no longer found the performance of the concubines as satisfactory as he had once done, something which he attributed to the declining standards of the age.

He had never, in any case, found anyone to match Zeinab’s mother, who had once been the most famous courtesan in Cairo. Nuri had loved her dearly and recklessly, proposing marriage to her on a number of occasions. His conduct had been for several years the scandal and glee of Cairo society. Zeinab’s mother, as independent as her daughter, had tactfully refused his proposals, unwilling, she said, to accept the sacrifice of standing and career that such a step would mean for the man she loved. Career, replied Nuri—he had been young then—was transitory; love was permanent. And, indeed, their relationship had lasted for quite a time; until, in fact, Zeinab’s mother died, leaving behind her something less transitory in the shape of Zeinab.

Nuri, a Francophile and, in those days, a modernizer, had decided to bring up his daughter in the Western manner, wanting her to grow up to be as spirited and free-thinking as her mother. Now, having done so, he was not quite so sure that it had been a good idea.

What, for example, about marriage? A match with a wealthy Pasha or Pasha’s son was the obvious thing, but Pashas and sons alike were frankly terrified of her. Besides, the years were going by and she was now twenty-eight. Girls got married at half her age.

Zeinab herself was beginning to be uncomfortably aware of this. Owen, fortunately, was not, and for the time being she intended to make the most of a relationship with someone who thought she was normal.

Nuri poured out these and other woes to Owen as they lay on the
liwan
, and Owen replied, as he always did, that Zeinab would make up her own mind about these things and that nothing either he or Nuri did would alter this in the slightest.

They were in full, contented flow when Zeinab arrived, brandishing a large gilt-edged card.

‘What is this?’ she demanded.

Nuri took it gingerly.

‘It is an invitation to a reception to mark the formal opening of the Racing Club at Heliopolis,’ he replied.

‘What have I to do with Racing Clubs, what have I to do with jumped-up, parvenu places like Heliopolis?’ she demanded. ‘What, more to the point,’ she said, looking fiercely at Owen, ‘have you to do with them?’

‘Nothing,’ said Owen. ‘I’m just going to the reception, that’s all.’

‘It’s that girl,’ said Zeinab.

‘What girl?’ said Owen, bewildered.

‘That one I saw you with the other day. In Anton’s.’

‘Salah-el-Din’s daughter? She’s just a child.’

‘I know what she is,’ said Zeinab, ‘and it certainly isn’t a child!’

‘Who’s Salah-el-Din?’ asked Nuri, interested.

‘The new mamur at Heliopolis.’

‘And he shops at Anton’s?’

Nuri looked thoughtful.

‘It’s odd that you should have been invited,’ said Owen, puzzled. Egyptian women, even if they were Pasha’s daughters, were hardly ever invited to public events.

Zeinab, however, was in a mood to take umbrage.

‘You don’t want me to be there, is that it?’ she demanded, switching tack.

‘Of course not. I’m just puzzled, that’s all. You’ve never had anything to do with racing. How did they come to pick on you?’

He took the card from Nuri. The names of the Club’s new committee were printed at the bottom.

‘Malik?’ he said. ‘Do you think it could be Malik?’

‘That man I told Anton to throw out?’

‘Malik?’ said Nuri. ‘Which Malik?’

‘Abd-al-Jamal’s son,’ said Owen.

‘You told Anton to throw him out?’

‘Certainly.’

‘Oh, my God!’ said Nuri.

‘He’s a gross pig.’

‘Yes, but Abd-al-Jamal’s son!’

‘What difference does that make?’

‘Abd-al-Jamal’s very powerful. And very rich. Besides—’

‘Yes?’

‘I’ve been talking to him recently,’ said Nuri unhappily.

‘So?’

‘Well—’

‘What,’ said Zeinab in sudden fury, ‘have you been talking to him about?’

‘Well—’

‘If,’ said Zeinab ominously, ‘you have been talking to him about marriage—’

‘No, no, no!’ said Nuri hastily. ‘Only in general.’

‘Because if it gets particular—’

‘No question of that. No question at all… he is, of course, very rich.’

Owen could see it all too clearly. Nuri’s finances were permanently straitened; and what better way of relieving them than marrying off his daughter to the son of one of the wealthiest Pashas in Egypt?

‘No!’ shouted Zeinab, stamping her foot. ‘I won’t!’

‘There’s absolutely no question—’

‘I would kill myself first!’

‘No question—’

‘No, I wouldn’t,’ said Zeinab, suddenly stopping.

‘You wouldn’t?’ said Nuri, heart beginning to lift.

‘No. I would kill him. In fact,’ said Zeinab magnificently, ‘I will go and kill him now!’

And swept out.

Nuri and Owen sat for a moment in stunned silence.

‘You don’t think—?’ said Nuri hesitantly.

‘Not immediately,’ said Owen.

‘She is a resolute girl.’

‘It takes a bit of time.’

‘Abd-al-Jamal’s an old friend of mine. I would hate—’

‘I’ll talk to her. I’ll suggest she waits until the contingency arises.’

‘It was only in passing. We were really talking about my investment.’

‘What investment is this?’

‘In the Heliopolis Oasis Scheme.’

‘I thought you hadn’t any money?’

‘I’m hoping this will give me some.’

They wouldn’t give him some for nothing, thought Owen. Nuri was too astute not to know this. So what was he giving them? Zeinab? But surely he must have known what her reaction would be? Even if he hadn’t known that she had already taken a dislike to Malik.

But Zeinab herself had been behaving a little oddly lately. What was she going on about that girl for? If the kid had been a bit older he could have understood it. But she was just a child! He couldn’t make it out at all.

But what he could make out was that someone was trying to involve Nuri in the Heliopolis Scheme. What were they after? Was it Zeinab? Who had the suggestion about the marriage come from? Nuri—or Malik? Did Malik have his eye on Zeinab? He thought it not impossible.

But the attempt to involve Nuri must have emanated from the Syndicate, not Malik, and they surely would not be interested in Zeinab. They would be after something else. And it would not be Nuri, not in himself. Pasha though he was and useful though his name might be on the prospectus, there were Pashas in plenty who would be as good and whose names were already there. No, it was something, or someone, else that they were after. And Owen was beginning to have a feeling that it might be him.

There had been a sharp wind overnight which had blown the sand in from the desert. It lay everywhere; on the slats of the shutters, on the top of Owen’s desk in a thin film, in a neat little pile inside his sun helmet hanging on the back of the door. It had got into the filing cabinet and made the papers gritty to touch; it had, despite the cloth folded lovingly by his orderly over the top of the water jug, got into the water so that it tasted of sand.

Everyone was out of sorts. In the orderly office the bearers were unusually subdued. Cleaners were going around ineffectively trying to sweep up the sand. Nikos, the Mamur Zapt’s austere Official Clerk, was in a fury, pulling open drawers and inspecting the damage, wondering, madly, whether to have all papers retyped to restore their pristine purity.

McPhee, the Deputy Commandant, normally Boy Scoutish in his cheerfulness, stuck his head in at the door dolefully.

‘More to come,’ he said, and went off up the corridor.

Yussef, Owen’s orderly, who could read Owen’s mind but nothing else, padded along the corridor with a fresh pot of coffee. It, too, tasted of sand.

The telephone rang.

‘It’s the Parquet,’ said Nikos, handing Owen the phone.

It was Mahmoud, as Nikos would normally have said. This morning, though, he felt particularly ungiving.

‘The courts are closed,’ said Mahmoud. ‘Sand everywhere. 1 was thinking of going over to Matariya. Like to come?’

Owen would like to be anywhere but in this grit-tasting office.

‘Got to go out,’ he said to McPhee as he passed him in the corridor.

‘Lucky devil!’ said McPhee, bound to his place by duty and, thought Owen, lack of imagination.

He met Mahmoud at the Pont de Limoun. All trains were at a standstill, including those going to Marg, and therefore, Matariya.

‘I’ll see if they’ve got a buggy,’ said Owen. ‘They’ll be sending something out to clear the line.’

The booking clerk now regarded him as an old friend.

‘But certainly, Effendi! At once! Only it has not come back yet.’

‘When will it come back?’

‘Ah, well, Effendi…’

‘
Bokra
?’

‘That’s it, Effendi! Tomorrow! Yes, certainly. Tomorrow.’

Mahmoud turned away.

‘Hold on!’ said Owen. ‘This is only the start of the story. Go and check,’ he said to the clerk.

The clerk went happily off. It had been a good morning; he had been able to say ‘no’ to everybody.

‘Just tell him it’s the Mamur Zapt!’ Owen called after him.

A few moments later the clerk came scurrying back.

‘Effendi! It’s just come in!’ he cried joyfully.

‘I’m against all this,’ muttered Mahmoud wrathfully, as he followed Owen up the platform.

‘Privilege?’ said Owen. ‘It doesn’t usually get me very far. But I’ve met these blokes before.’

‘Not privilege,’ said Mahmoud, frowning. ‘The way these people muck you around!’

Mahmoud lived continually in the hope of a better, brighter Egypt. He worked for it with all his energy; and he couldn’t understand why other people didn’t do the same.

The buggy was empty apart from tools and water. Owen and Mahmoud settled down and the two-man crew began pumping the vehicle along.

In the cuttings the track had escaped the drift of the sand, but out in the open it had obviously had to be cleared away. Fresh piles of sand lay beside the track.

Out in the desert the wind was still blowing. Puffs of sand raced the buggy along the track, rising up sometimes into a cloud and then dying down again before scudding on at knee-high level.

The crew pulled their headdresses across their faces.

‘It’s a waste of time clearing all this,’ one said. ‘It’ll soon be back.’

There was plenty of sand on the line already and the buggy slowed appreciably. The piles beside the track grew in size.

Ahead of them they could see men working on the line. The buggy came to a stop just short of them.

‘This is as far as we go,’ the men said.

The Belgian foreman came towards them.

‘Oh, it’s you, is it?’ he said. ‘A fine business this is!’ He went up to the buggy and peered in. ‘Got the picks?’ He moved some of the tools. ‘They’ve sent us more bloody spades!’ he said disgustedly. ‘Picks!’ he said to the buggy men. ‘I asked for picks! The sand’s packed hard. Go back and tell them. Tell Mustapha: I want picks, picks! I’ve got to loosen the sand.’

The buggy men shrugged and got back into the buggy. A moment or two later it moved off again, slowly.

‘This bloody country!’ said the Belgian.

Owen and Mahmoud walked up the line to where the men were working. Great, deep drifts of sand lay across the track. The men were shovelling it aside with wooden spades. It was hard work and the sweat was running down their faces.

‘They’ve been working all morning,’ said the foreman. ‘You can’t expect them to go on all day. They’re supposed to be sending me another shift. When I saw the buggy I thought it was them coming. You didn’t see any signs, did you?’

‘I’m afraid not,’ said Owen.

‘Well, I’m going to give them a spell in a moment or two,’ said the foreman. ‘Let them brew up. Water’s all very well but you want something with a bit of bite in it, if you’re working like this. That’s so, isn’t it, Abdul?’ he said to one of the workmen. The man straightened up and smiled.

‘You want something to take away the taste of the sand,’ he said. He resumed shovelling.

‘They work hard,’ said the Belgian defensively. ‘I’ve never said they didn’t.’

He looked out across the desert.

‘I was hoping the wind would drop,’ he said.

‘It doesn’t look like it,’ said Owen, uncomfortably aware of the particles of sand stinging his face.

‘What will you do if it gets up?’ asked Mahmoud.

‘That’s just what I’m wondering,’ said the foreman.

A new layer of sand, blown in by the wind, was already covering the track that had previously been cleared.

‘We’ll have to get them back if it gets any worse,’ he said. ‘I’ve got some more men working further up the line. It’ll need two trips.’ He looked out across the desert. ‘Maybe it won’t come to that,’ he said. ‘I hope not. We’ve got to get this line finished.’ The wind now seemed to be dying down again.

‘I’ve got to go up the line,’ said the foreman. He looked at Owen and Mahmoud. ‘What were you here for, anyway?’

‘We were hoping to go to Matariya.’

The foreman looked dubious.

‘I don’t know if that’s a good idea,’ he said. ‘Ever been caught in a dust storm?’

‘Yes,’ said Owen.

‘Well, you’ll know what I mean.’

‘There’s more wind out here than there was in the city,’ said Mahmoud.

‘There’s more wind than there was when I came out first thing. If I were you I wouldn’t risk it. Catch the next buggy back. You lot,’ he called to the workmen, ‘can take a spell. Twenty minutes, mind! No longer!’

He marched off. The men put down their spades with alacrity and gathered in the lee of a small dune. Someone brought out a primus stove and put a kettle on it.

Mahmoud looked at Owen.

‘He’s probably right,’ said Owen.

Mahmoud nodded.

‘The buggy will be back in a bit,’ said the workmen. ‘Come over here out of the wind.’

Owen and Mahmoud lay down beside them on the dune. Several of the workmen took out coloured handkerchiefs and unwrapped bread and onions, which they offered hospitably to Owen and Mahmoud. They declined the food but accepted the hot black tea.

‘Hard work,’ said Mahmoud sympathetically.

‘It is that,’ said his neighbour.

‘The worst thing is,’ said one of the other men, ‘that we’re going to have to do it all again.’

‘This wind, you mean?’

‘It’s not going to amount to anything,’ said one of the other workmen, looking at the sky. ‘It’ll be easy enough to sweep it off the rails.’

‘We don’t want it too easy,’ said someone. ‘The longer this job lasts, the better.’

‘That’s not what the Belgians think!’ said someone.

They all laughed.

‘It’s get-it-all-done-in-a-hurry with them!’

‘That’s why they want this Friday-working.’

‘I don’t agree with that. It’s not going to make much difference to them, but it makes a lot of difference to us. You don’t want back-breaking working
every
day!’

There was a mutter of agreement.

‘You want to be able to sleep it off, don’t you? I mean, six days a week is all very well, you can cope with that. It doesn’t go on forever, after all. But if you’re doing it every day without a break, it gets on top of you.’

‘There’s not much you can do about it, though, is there? It’s all very well Wahid saying come out on strike, but where will that get us?’

Owen noticed now that Wahid, their spokesman on the previous occasion he had talked to them, wasn’t there.

‘You’ve got to do something!’

‘I don’t know there’s a lot you can do. If you walk out, all they’ll do is get somebody else in.’

‘They might not be so keen. Not if it’s Friday-working.’

‘There’s plenty who’d jump at the chance. It’s only for a month or two, isn’t it? And you get extra money.’

‘You work extra for it, though, don’t you?’

‘There are plenty who wouldn’t mind that. We’ve done all the work; why should we give them the money?’

There was a general mutter of agreement.

‘You’ve got to do something, though.’

‘Yes, but what?’

‘We should get Wahid to speak to them. In everybody’s name.’

‘A fat lot of good that would do! Where did it get Ibrahim that time?’

‘At least he made the point.’

‘Yes, but where did it get us? They went on just the same as they’d always done. If you don’t like it, they said, you know what you can do.’

‘I don’t reckon it’d be so easy for them to say that this time. They’ve got to get the job done quickly. That’s what all this is about.’

‘They’re more likely to get rid of us, then, aren’t they?’

‘No, they’re not. It’d take time to get other men in.’

‘Not that much time. About a day, I’d say. And anyway, where would that get us? Out of a job!’

The discussion continued, not very animatedly. On the whole the workmen seemed resigned to the prospect of Friday-working.

‘After all,’ they said, ‘it’s only for a few weeks, isn’t it?’

The foreman came into view, walking along the track towards them.

The workmen stood up and picked up their spades.

‘Where’s Wahid, then, this morning?’ Owen asked one of them. ‘Isn’t he with you?’

The men looked around.

‘He’s up the line, I think.’

‘Come on, then!’ said the foreman, hurrying up. ‘Back to it!’

The men pointed back along the line. The buggy was approaching, crammed full with men.

‘It’s the next shift,’ said the foreman, relieved. ‘That’s more like it.’

Owen and Mahmoud went back with the buggy. As they left the Pont de Limoun, Owen said:

‘Well, a pity. But not altogether wasted.’

‘No,’ said Mahmoud. ‘Definitely not!’

‘If it’s that kind of information you’re after,’ said the Syndicate’s voice on the other end of the telephone, ‘then the man you want is Salah-el-Din.’

‘Salah-el-Din? The mamur of Heliopolis?’

‘That’s right.’

Owen was surprised. He had been unaware of this side of Salah’s activities.

‘Would you like to speak to him?’

‘Yes. But things are a bit disrupted between here and Heliopolis. The sand—’

‘We can put you through if you like.’

Owen was surprised again. So far as he knew the police station at Heliopolis wasn’t connected up yet.

‘It’s his home number.’

‘Home number!’

Owen had never met anyone with a home telephone before. Even the Consul-General didn’t have one. The Ministries were now connected by phone and so were the banks and some of the biggest companies. It was catching on, no doubt; but telephones at home!

‘Well, yes, please. If it’s not too much of a problem.’

‘No problem at all.’

And in a moment or two he heard Salah’s voice on the line.

Yes, he could certainly supply Owen with the information he needed, would be glad to, in fact. Perhaps they could meet?’

‘I’d come over,’ said Owen, ‘but things are a bit disrupted—’

It was better now, Salah assured him. The Syndicate had pulled all stops out in an effort to get communications working again. The roads were virtually clear, he could come up on the buggy if he liked, and the train to Marg, calling at Matariya, was functioning normally.

Perhaps that would be the best bet, if Owen didn’t mind taking the trouble. He, Salah, would be glad to come into the Bab-el-Khalk, if Owen would prefer. But he had to go over to Matariya Station anyway this morning, to read the owner of the ostrich farm the riot act, and if Owen wouldn’t mind meeting him there—

The sand had, indeed, been removed from the line and the train ran smoothly. The wind had died down and the sky cleared and when Owen got off the train at Matariya he found the air unusually clean and fresh and for the first time felt inclined to believe the Syndicate’s promotional literature about the quality of the atmosphere at Heliopolis.

Salah was waiting for him with outstretched hand, some chairs in the shade and a flask of rather good coffee.

‘Yes, I’ve got to see him,’ he said. ‘They’re always breaking out. I know that this time there was an excuse—the wind blew down part of the fencing—but really, we can’t go on like this. Suppose a stray one frightened the horses? During a race? I mean, the racing is about to start, and there’ll be a lot of money riding on the horses, and you just can’t have the whole thing being interrupted by ostriches! We’d become a laughing stock!’

‘Does it happen that often?’

‘Oh yes. There was one the other day—you saw it, I believe. Malik tried to shoot it. It would have been a good thing if he had. But he had bad luck, I understand. No, they’re breaking out all the time. There was another one two or three days before, caused a lot of damage.’

‘Well, I suppose it’s all part of the mamur’s job. At Heliopolis, at any rate.’

Salah laughed.