The Mingrelian Conspiracy (10 page)

‘
Another
one?’

‘So he says. The Edge of the Knife.’

Mustapha was silent for quite some time.

‘Two of them,’ he said at last. ‘
Two
of them. God, how many more?’

‘ “Oh! Oh! Oh!” cried the names as the blind man landed on top of them. The blind man felt the bag with his hands “Got you!” he said triumphantly. There was a long silence, about as long as it takes for a dog to drink a bowl of water, and then one of the names said: “Got who?” “Why, Rice Pudding’s new name, of course!” said the blind man. “Ah, yes, but how will you know which one of us it is?” Well, the blind man thought and thought—’

The storyteller was seated on the stone mastaba, or bench, which ran along the front of the café. Around him, some sitting on the mastaba beside him, others on the ground, yet others, detained by the story as they passed by, standing in the street, was a circle of listeners. At the back of the crowd, engrossed, was Selim. Owen edged his way round towards him.

‘ “I know,” he said at last. “I’ll feel you.” And he put his hand in the bag and caught hold of one of the names. “Get your hands off me, you great, rude, dirty fellow!” said a shrill little voice. “That doesn’t sound like Rice Pudding’s new name,” said the blind man, “and it doesn’t feel like Rice Pudding’s new name, either. It’s all hard and sharp.” And he dropped the name back in the bag and caught hold of another one. This one was soft and round. “Hello, big boy!” it said in a low, husky voice—’

‘This is beginning to get interesting,’ said Selim.

‘Now the blind man knew very well that this was not Rice Pudding’s new name but he allowed himself to be beguiled. “I’ll just have another feel to make sure,” he said to himself—’

‘Very sensible,’ said Selim, ignoring Owen’s signals.

‘—when, all of a sudden, something wriggled out of the bag and ran off down the street. The blind man made a grab for it but it was too late. Even worse, he had left the top of the bag open and all the other names began to scramble out and run away. All sorts of names came scrambling out of the bag. There were red names and green names, fat names and thin names, old ones and young ones. There were men’s names and women’s names; and there were names from all the peoples of the world.’

‘In the bag?’ said someone in the front row.

‘Yes.’

‘All the peoples in the world?’

‘Yes.’

‘Including English?’

‘Certainly.’

‘That doesn’t seem right,’ objected someone in the second row.

‘You’ve got to draw the line somewhere!’ declared a man at the back.

Owen at last succeeded in prising Selim away.

‘I’ve got to go,’ said Owen. ‘Will you be all right on your own for a bit?’

‘Oh, yes, Effendi,’ Selim assured him, with a glance over his shoulder towards the kitchen.

‘I’ll send some more men down. I can only spare two for the moment, unfortunately. We’re very stretched just now.’

‘Send Abdul, Effendi. He’s simple but strong. And Fazal. He’s a mean bastard, just the man.’

‘I’ll do my best. I don’t think they’d better be actively in the café, though. It would be too noticeable. Perhaps they’d better hang around outside. Not in uniform, obviously.’ Selim didn’t like this.

‘Effendi, it’s bad for those idle bastards to have nothing to do. Especially when I’m working. Look, I’ve got a better idea. My wife’s got a cousin, he’s a Nubian wrestler, big, really big, half savage, too, they’re all like that down there. It’s all right in the women, adds a bit of something, you know— where was I? Oh, yes, Babakr. Well, as I say, he’d break your back as soon as look at you. Now, for a few piastres—’

‘So,’ said Mahmoud, ‘you think it’s a criminal gang, do you?’

Owen nodded.

‘Pretty sure. It’s based on the Fustat. The man we took yesterday comes from near the ferry and I wouldn’t be surprised if the rest did too. They don’t operate outside the Fustat much, which is another thing that makes me think they’re not a club. The clubs stick mostly to the schools and El Azhar all in the modern city, and that’s where the targets are, too. This chap said they kept south of the Citadel.’

‘What were they doing up here, then?’

‘Someone asked them to do a job for him. Actually, I’d like to know about that. Who asked them and why? It could still be political.’

Mahmoud nodded. In principle—and Mahmoud was the sort of man for whom principles stick up all over the place— the distinction Owen was making was one that he could not accept. The Parquet, in his view, should be responsible for all judicial investigation and he objected strongly to the Mamur Zapt having reserved powers in cases where a political dimension was suspected. In practice, he understood the distinction very well.

‘So,’ he said, ‘what is it that you are proposing?’

‘Well, in the ordinary way of things, if I thought something was criminal, I’d pass it over to the Parquet. But there’s a question mark about this.’

‘Who commissioned the job?’

‘Yes. But not just that.’

He told Mahmoud about the possibility that a second gang was involved.

‘I suppose I ought to hang on to it until I’m sure, but the fact is I’ve got a lot on at the moment and if it’s just criminal I’d rather hand it over to the Parquet right away. There’s work to be done on it and if we hang around it might all go cold.’

‘Pass it on, by all means,’ said Mahmoud amiably.

‘The trouble is, I’m not absolutely sure. The other gang, you see, if there
is
another gang, might turn out to be a political club. I was wondering—is there any possibility of your taking this on yourself? Then if there turned out to be a political dimension we could probably handle it between us, and if there wasn’t, well, so much the better.’

Mahmoud considered. In principle he was against this kind of thing. It blurred lines of responsibility; by agreeing you suggested that you condoned the system; and it was all horribly pragmatic. Mahmoud, again on principle, was against pragmatism. There was too much of it about and it mucked up system. And system was what Egypt all too plainly needed.

On the other hand, the system was clearly mucked up and you had to do what you could.

‘Well,’ he said, weakening, ‘I suppose you could say I’m already involved.’

‘Already?’

‘So far as cafés are concerned. Those soldiers the other night,’ he supplemented.

‘You’re still on that?’

‘I certainly am. There is a major issue of principle—yes, well, I’m still pursuing it. But as to getting your case assigned to me if you transferred it—well, I could probably arrange it—’

They got down to details. Ali, it was agreed, would be handed over to Mahmoud as soon as the case was formally transferred. Selim would be left for the moment where he was. As for reinforcements, Mahmoud, to Owen’s surprise, favoured the Nubian wrestler.

‘It’s only a few piastres,’ he said. ‘Wouldn’t your budget stand it?’

‘Well, yes, but—’

Experience had, however, given Mahmoud a realistic sense of the rival merits in a brawl of the average Cairo constable and a Nubian wrestler.

‘The Nubian wrestler every time,’ he said, ‘especially if Selim has a few more friends like him. Besides, it’s better if they’re not too obviously policemen.’

Owen promised to have a word with Selim.

At the end they sat back.

‘Of course,’ said Mahmoud, ‘this doesn’t alter the principle.’

‘Principle?’

‘That there should be just one body responsible for investigation.’

‘That’s what the Army thinks too,’ said Owen.

Back in his office, Owen felt pleased. He would have liked to have kept the café business to himself just a little longer, but Mahmoud would handle it all right and meanwhile he really ought to be concentrating on the Grand Duke’s visit. Nikos was finalizing arrangements but they would need to be talked through with the people concerned and he himself would have to do that. The procession remained the real problem, the time when Duke Nicholas would be most at risk, but Owen had cunningly delegated entire responsibility for that to the Army. ‘Unified command,’ he had muttered, and Shearer, dumb idiot that he was, had nodded agreement. So if anything went wrong he was the one who would get it in the neck.

In fact, judging by the reports of Owen’s agents, the various protest meetings were unlikely to issue in anything serious. The groups which had come together had promptly fallen apart. Only down in the Babylon, according to Georgiades, were there still rumours of action. The committee formed there after the public meeting which Owen had witnessed was still divided over its terms of reference. However, some of the more vehement members, including Sorgos, had walked out and it was rumoured that they had set up a caucus which was pressing ahead with ideas for action. Owen decided to go and see Sorgos.

It was not Sorgos, however, who opened the door but Katarina.

‘The Mamur Zapt?’ she said, surprised.

‘Again!’ said Owen.

‘My grandfather is not in.’

‘That may not be a bad thing.’

‘Oh?’

She looked at him suspiciously.

‘What sort of visit is this?’ she demanded.

‘It’s not matrimonial, anyway.’

Katarina started to smile, then caught her lip.

‘He has been to the bazaars. I am expecting him back at any moment,’ she said. ‘You may come in.’

All over the floor were papers.

‘What are these?’ asked Owen.

‘Stories.’

‘Stories?’

‘I handle that side of the business while my father is away. Are you interested in stories?’

‘There is one I especially like. It is one of the Sultan Baybars stories. Its chief character is a man named John. He’s a Europeanized Christian who happens to have studied Muslim law. On the strength of this he wangles his way into being Kadi of Cairo and then from this position as supreme Law Giver he proceeds to subvert all the laws. A sort of Mamur Zapt figure.’

Katarina giggled.

‘I recognize the story,’ she said. ‘Just.’

‘Allow for a little subversion,’ said Owen.

Things were getting promising but just then there were sounds at the door.

‘My young friend from the mountains!’ cried Sorgos delightedly.

Katarina scuttled out, all confusion. Sorgos looked at her retreating back in surprise; then with sudden miscomprehension.

‘Ah!’ he said, pleased. ‘I have returned too soon!’

‘Not at all! Not at all!’ said Owen hastily.

Sorgos came into the room. As he stepped forward without his stick he stumbled slightly, overbalanced by the large bag he was carrying.

Owen sprang forward.

‘Let me assist you!’ he said, putting his hand under the old man’s arm and taking the bag from him.

‘It is nothing,’ said Sorgos, letting Owen’s arm take his weight, however.

Owen helped him to the divan and eased him gently down on it.

Sorgos looked at the bag a trifle anxiously and Owen put it down beside him. It was extraordinarily heavy. But that was not surprising. For Owen had looked inside the bag and seen what it contained. Gold dust.

Owen took an arabeah at the Place Ataba-el-Khadra and drove down the Musky, the long street which connects the European with the other quarters, until he reached the area of the bazaars. Just before the Turkish bazaar he turned left into the Khordagiya but there the way became so blocked with people, carts, stalls, donkeys and camels that he dismounted and paid off the driver. He was in any case almost at his destination: the goldsmiths’ bazaar.

The street at that point was lined with the showcases of the goldsmiths hard at work at their smithing in the narrow, dark lanes of the bazaar. For much of the manufacture was actually carried on in the bazaar itself. It was not just a place for selling. The smiths had their workshops in the little, three-feet-wide lanes that ran back off the Khordagiya and in the darkness you could see the flames from their braziers and the little lights of their blowpipes.

The area was so densely packed with people that it was difficult to move. All of them were Egyptian—the tourists made straight for the Turkish bazaar opposite—and most of them were women, heavily veiled and in featureless black; only, incongruously, their ankles showed beneath their heavy robes. And that, in fact, was the point, for almost every single one of the women wore heavy silver or gold anklets which she was anxious to display. Owen, once, taken by the workmanship, had bought one of them for Zeinab, thinking it a bracelet. Zeinab had patted him on the head and told him to give her the money next time. Between the chic Zeinab and her sisters there was something of a gap, which, she pointed out, despite his efforts, she was anxious to preserve.

The more ordinary women of Cairo liked to carry their wealth, such as it was, about with them. No keeping it safe in dark corners for them! Perhaps surprisingly, their husbands concurred, feeling, possibly, that in this way at least their wealth was under their eye. Whatever it be, the fact was that almost every woman, except for the very poorest, carried around with her a considerable weight of gold and silver on her feet. And the goldsmiths’ business thrived!

There they were now, the women, almost indistinguishable as individuals in the shadows in their black, massed in front of the open, glassless cases, inspecting the anklets, bracelets, necklets, talismans, rings and even diadems (when did they get a chance to wear these, Owen wondered?), all in filigree and almost all in unusually pure metal. The women’s tastes ran to the heavy, the solid and the barbaric and the work did not correspond at all to the inclinations of the tourists, who preferred the Europeanized shops of the large bazaars where the work was more delicate if far pricier.

Owen began to move down the lanes, taking his time, stopping to chat in each workshop. In his tarboosh, and with his dark Welsh colouring, he might well have been an Egyptian; not a policeman, certainly.

Eventually, he found the one he wanted. Yes, an old man, not Egyptian, not Greek, something in between, Turkish, perhaps, had called asking about gold.

‘Funny thing to ask for, isn’t it? That’s why I remember. You’d expect him to go to one of the suppliers. But he didn’t seem to know about them. I didn’t tell him, either—you don’t give all your trade secrets away, do you? Not if you’ve any sense. Maybe he’s thinking of starting a business up of his own; not him, perhaps, but a son, say, or a son-in-law. We’ve got enough people in the trade as it is, we don’t want any more.’ A funny thing to ask for, Owen agreed. Had he said what he wanted it for?

‘They’re working on some ikon. Down in one of the churches. Or so he said. “In that case,” I said, “you’ll not be wanting brick, you’ll be wanting dust.” No, he said, he’d prefer brick. “Well,” I said, “you’re probably not an expert, but I’m pretty sure that what you really need, if it’s an ikon you’re talking about, is dust. In any case, dust is all I can let you have. I get plenty of that left over. But if you’re talking about material to work, well, I only get as much as I need. You’ve got to pay cash.” Well, he went away, but then he came back and said he’d like dust. I sold him some but then he wanted more and I said, I haven’t got any more, not for a week or two, that is. And he said, it’ll be too late then. So I said, you’d better go and ask someone else, then. And that’s what he did, I think.’

‘Can you sell dust?’

‘Oh yes. There’s some people who want it. But what would be the point of selling it, if he’s only just bought it? And bought it from the likes of me? I mean, we’re not going to let him have it cheap, are we? I wouldn’t say we’re making a fortune out of it, but it’s not in our usual line of business and you naturally charge a bit extra. He ought to go direct to a supplier. But then, if he did that, they’d always be able to undercut him, wouldn’t they? If he was trying to sell it on!’ Owen agreed it was a funny business and asked how much dust the old man had purchased.

‘How many ikons is he doing?’ he said. ‘This seems a lot, if there’s only one.’

‘And he wanted more! “You’d better check your particulars,” I said. “With gold, you want to get it right.” ’

‘You certainly do,’ agreed Owen. ‘Did he say which church it was?’

‘No. It’s down in the Babylon somewhere.’

‘Oh!’ said Owen. ‘The Babylon?’

Owen had arranged to meet Georgiades in the old Greek cathedral. Arriving a little early, he climbed up to the roof to orientate himself. Babylon was spread out below him. Right at his feet were the vineyards which sheltered the seven ancient churches; and, at this height, the walls of the Ders, the fortified precincts, were plainly visible. At ground level it was sometimes difficult to distinguish them. Within the walls the people were going about their daily business: the little boys to school, the women to the pumps and wells for water, or perhaps making an early visit to the
suk
, the men to the little shops and workshops often set in recesses of the walls to begin their day’s work. Beyond the houses in one direction he could see the Nile, and Roda Island, with its Nilometer, and the ferry crossing the river, and on the other side the village of Gizeh and the pyramids. Turning round, he could see Saladin’s great aqueduct stealing along the sandhills of the Fustat until it reached modern Cairo with its minarets and domes and Saladin’s Citadel on its rock.

It was against the Muslim invaders that the Copts had built the Ders. For the Copts had been here before the Arabs, before even the Romans. They were the original inhabitants of the place and had clung on to their identity despite successive waves of invaders. Was there not a lesson here for Sorgos, Owen wondered?

If there was, he was not sure that he liked it. For the Copts had survived by going underground: underground literally, beneath and behind their great walls, but underground in other ways too, burying themselves in the general population, distinguishable by their clothes and their features, but never seemingly asserting themselves. If there was a nationalism here, it was a secret, covert one, though perhaps none the less tenacious for that.

Owen preferred to look at the Ders from up here. At ground level he had too much of the feeling of being in a ghetto. You were too conscious of the walls barring out the rest of the world. And everything seemed somehow underground. It was an effect, perhaps, of the architectural search for shade, but it made everything dark, claustrophobic.

He heard footsteps on the stairs. Georgiades emerged, breathing heavily.

‘Grandmother’s pleased,’ he said.

‘What?’

‘Pleased at me coming here,’ he said. ‘To the cathedral. She thinks there’s hope yet.’

‘I didn’t know you had a grandmother.’

‘Not mine, Rosa’s. She used to come here regularly when the family first came to Egypt. They lived down here for a while before moving up to the city.’

He came across to the parapet and stood beside Owen. The catheral was built into a bastion of the old Roman fortress.

‘It’s the vineyards, too. Like home, she says. Greece.’

He bent over the parapet.

‘It’s over there,’ he said, pointing.

‘Al-Mo’allaka? The church where they’re restoring ikons?’

‘Yes. You can’t really see it from here.’

‘I’ve been there, I think.’

‘If you had, you’d remember it. Shall we take a look?’ They went back down the stairs and out into the cloisters. Within a few yards Owen lost his bearings. Cloisters became tunnels, tunnels, dark alleyways and then cloisters again. They went through underground arcades where the shops were illuminated only by candles. Eventually they emerged into sunlight, the sunlight of a small palm-tree court with a fountain in its middle. From one end of the court a staircase led upwards. Al-Mo’allaka, the Hanging Church, was at the top of that.

The church got its name not from the fact of being actually suspended, but from its having been built high up in one of the ancient gateways of the old Roman fort. To reach it you had to climb up the staircase. At the top was a kind of atrium and the church opened off this.

Owen stopped for a moment in the doorway to let his eyes get used to the darkness. The church was lit by old hanging lamps and the light that came from their tiny flames was hardly enough at first for him to be able to make anything out. But then he saw the antique columns of marble taken, so Georgiades said, from some Roman temple, which broke the space up into the traditional three parts of a Coptic church: the place of the women, the place of the men, and the place of the priests. Gradually he became aware of the old barrel roof, bolted to open woodwork like the timbers of a ship: and then of the low Moresco arches, outlined in ivory, which led to the sanctuary. His eye came back to more marble, that of an incredibly finely carved pulpit, very long and narrow, standing on delicate marble shafts. Only very slowly, because of the darkness of the wood, did he become aware of the backdrop to everything, a screen which, unusually, ran right round the church and which seemed, unbelievably, to glow in the darkness.

He went forward into the church and saw that the screen was covered with golden ikons. The gold caught the light from the swinging lamps and seemed both to absorb and reflect it, to take it into itself as a kind of inner energy and then to release it again, slowly.

Georgiades touched his arm. At first he did not see, but then Georgiades pointed and he realized that over in a corner a man was working on one of the ikons.

They went across. The man looked up. Owen couldn’t see him well but saw enough to know that he was not an Arab. Or a Copt, for that matter.

‘Fine work!’ said Owen.

‘Just the finishing touches,’ said the man. They spoke in Arabic but although the man spoke it well, it was not his first tongue. ‘We do most of the work in our workshop out the back.’

‘You have a lot of work here, then?’

The man nodded.

‘We are working on five. Just restoring, of course.’

‘Difficult, with the materials. Is that real gold?’

The man smiled.

‘Dust,’ he said, ‘fixed with paint. I wouldn’t try to get it off.’

‘Still,’ said Owen, ‘not cheap!’

‘We’re the ones who are cheap,’ said the man, cheerfully, however.

‘Even you have to be paid for, though.’

‘There is a cost,’ the man agreed.

‘I didn’t know the Church was that rich,’ said Owen.

‘Oh, this kind of thing isn’t paid for by the Church. It’s financed by donations.’

‘And someone has given the money for you to do these?’

‘Enough for five of them only, unfortunately.’

‘Well, I suppose the cost adds up. I mean, the dust by itself…How much dust would you need to do a job like this?’

‘Very little,’ said the man. ‘That’s why it’s not worth your trying to take it off!’

Owen laughed.

‘I’ll have to find some other way of getting rich.’

They stood watching the man for a little while.

‘The workshop’s out the back, if you’d like to put your head in.’

Owen followed Georgiades down the stairs and out into the court with the palm trees and the fountain. A high wooden trellis of fine old
meshrebiya
work divided off a small garden at one end, on the other side of which were what looked like low cloisters. A man was working in one of them.

‘Just been talking to your mate upstairs,’ said Owen.

‘Oh, yes?’

The man stayed bent over his work. It was another ikon and he was gently brushing the face. Out here in the daylight the ikon seemed flatter, had lost its glow.

‘Difficult work,’ said Owen.

‘Not when you know how.’

‘Ah, yes, but it’s the knowing how! Not many people with your skills, I fancy.’

‘Not many,’ said the man, ‘but too many.’

‘Too many for the jobs available?’

‘You could say that.’

‘Churches aren’t the best customers. Still, from what your mate was saying, someone else is paying this time.’

‘Lucky for once.’

‘A sick patron?’

‘A dead patron. This was a bequest.’

‘Ah, so there won’t be any more when it’s finished?’

‘That’s right.’

They watched for a while and then turned away. Back up in the church a priest was lighting candles.

‘The bequest? All very fine, but it won’t buy salvation. Not by itself, that is. God isn’t bribable. Though Arturos probably thought he was. He certainly thought everyone else was.’

‘It’s a genuine bequest, then?’

‘In what sense?’

‘The church has actually received the money?’

‘Oh, yes.’

‘And decided to allocate it to restoration of the ikons? Or was that Arturos’s idea?’

‘Ours.’

‘Ah! A considerable sum?’

‘Considerable in Arturos’s eyes.’

‘Enough to restore five ikons?’

‘That’s about it.’

‘The materials are costly,’ Owen observed.

‘We’re used to tight budgeting.’

‘And Arturos himself, what sort of man was he? Interested in the Church?’

‘When he thought he was going to die, yes.’

Owen laughed.

‘A lot of us are like that.’

‘Everyone is like that,’ said the priest.

He walked with them to the door. In the court everything was still. Even while they had been inside, it had grown appreciably hotter.