The Snake Catcher's Daughter (11 page)

“Your father? Demerdash?” said Owen incredulously.

“And the Khedive. What is wanted is a return to the old order, the old ways of doing things, the way it was before the British got here and the Nationalists started uprising, before all the rot set in.”

“And your father believes all
that
?”

“Of course not. But—he’s a politician, or was a politician, and, once a politician always a politician. You’re always awaiting, if not exactly expecting, the call. Who knows? It could come again. And if it does, he doesn’t want to be left out.”

“So he listens to Demerdash?”

“Let’s say he’s more concerned about my morals than you might think.”

“But, damn it, he’s hardly in a position himself—”

“It’s one thing for men, another for women. And how can he appear a pillar of the old virtues if his daughter—?”

“Old virtues?” said Owen. “Old virtues?”

Selim’s bulk filled the doorway.

“Effendi—”

“Oh, it’s you. Come in. You wanted to see me, I gather?”

“Yes, effendi. It’s, well, it’s a private matter. I—I wish to ask a favour.”

“Ask away.”

“Effendi, one of my wives has just had a baby.”

“Oh, congratulations! Very pleased to hear it. Not—that wouldn’t be Aisha, of course.”

“No, effendi.”

“Leila, was it? But I thought—?”

“No, no, effendi, not Leila either. Fatima.”

“I don’t think I’ve heard about her.”

“Well, no, effendi, with the baby coming, you understand—”

“Quite so. Not so central in your life.”

“Exactly, effendi!” Selim beamed. “But now the baby’s come—”

“Well, very pleased to hear it. Pass on my congratulations, will you?”

“I will indeed, effendi. Effendi, I was wondering—”

“Yes?”

“Well, it was Aisha who put it in my head. She said: ‘The Effendi has shown you favour. Ask him if he will extend it to the child.’ ”

“Well, of course—”

“If you could come to the seventh day naming, that would be a great honour.”

“A pleasure.”

“Abdul will bring you to my house, effendi. It will only be a small affair, since the child is a girl—”

“A girl? Oh dear! Well, better luck next time.”

“This is the third time. All girls. If she doesn’t do better with the fourth,” said Selim darkly, “she’ll have to go.”

“Oh, well, yes. Perhaps you’d better give it a break before trying again?”

“Aisha says we should consult the Aalima. I don’t believe in these things myself, especially after all that nonsense about casting out a devil. All the same, it might be worth trying. It’s a woman’s thing, unfortunately, so you’ve got to go along with them.”

“Hmm, yes, well—”

It transpired that McPhee had also been invited. This was normal, as McPhee was Selim’s direct boss—Owen borrowed constables when he needed them—and it was the practice in the Bab-el-Khalk for superiors to be invited to family festivities. Owen had been to many weddings and several circumcisions but never to a
suboah
, or seventh day naming.

“A most interesting occasion,” said McPhee happily. “Pre-Muslim and even pre-Christian, I would say. Some resemblance to the Eleusinian rites. Definitely Greek influence. The strewing of flowers—Demeter? Persephone, perhaps? Anyway, definitely Greek.”

“Again?”

“Well,” said McPhee defensively, “Egypt is a country of mixed cultures and that goes back a long time. Popular ritual is rarely pure, you know. It contains a mixture of elements, incorporates contributions from different cultures. In a place like Egypt, that’s a good thing. It brings cultures together, blurs the differences between them. That’s half the trouble with the country. As the old popular rituals decay, there’s nothing to bring the different groups together, not in a sort of lived celebratory way. So they come apart.”

“There’s some sense in that,” said Owen, “but there’s no going back now.”

“But do we have to go onwards quite so fast?” asked McPhee. “It sometimes seems to me that the aspirations of the politicians—and of the people like Garvin who are always wanting to change things—are running ahead of what ordinary people actually want.”

“Yes, well,” said Owen. “See you there!”

Back in his office. Selim again.

“Effendi, it’s not my idea,” said Selim, “it’s hers.”

“What idea?”

“To invite the Aalima. We need someone to preside at the ceremony and Aisha said why not try the Aalima? Effendi, I’m not too happy about this, mine has always been a respectable house, well, fairly respectable, and I said, what with the Effendi coming, not to mention the Bimbashi, I mean, what would the Bimbashi think, he might think someone was going to slip something in his drink, but, effendi, there won’t be anything like that, I mean, there
will
be something in the drink, but just for you and me, I’ll see to that, anyway, Aisha said why not
ask
the Effendi instead of just saying no—so would you mind, effendi?” concluded Selim, looking at Owen anxiously.

“Mind?” said Owen. “No I don’t think so. No,” he said, “I don’t think so at all.”

As Owen was passing the orderly room, he bumped into the orderly from whom McPhee had first heard about the Zzarr. “Greetings, Osman,” he said heartily. “How is your cousin?”

“Cousin?” said the orderly unhappily.

“Amina, I think her name was. Or wasn’t.”

“She is well,” Osman muttered.

“Good. And have you given back the hundred piastres, as you said you would?”

“Not yet, effendi,” the orderly admitted. “I have not seen the man—”

“A pity. I was hoping you were keeping an eye open for him.”

“I am, effendi, oh, I am!”

“I hope you see him soon.”

Osman looked despondent.

“And what did Zeinab think?” asked Mahmoud.

“She wondered who the other whore was.”

Mahmoud laughed, but uncomfortably. It was exactly her capacity to make this kind of remark that bothered him about Zeinab. He wasn’t quite sure how to handle it, coming from a woman. Mahmoud, like most young Egyptians of the professional classes, had had very few opportunities of meeting women at all; still less one of the ‘new’ European sort. In theory, he approved of female emancipation; encountering it in practice, however, made him uncomfortable. And then there was this business of sexual liberation. Again, in principle, Mahmoud was all in favour; in practice he felt uncomfortable about the relationship between Owen and Zeinab.

“You may be interested, too.”

“Well, I think—” began Mahmoud, even more uncomfortably.

“Mrs Philipides.”

Mahmoud shot bolt upright in his chair.

“
Our
Mrs Philipides?”

Owen nodded.

“The same.”

“But—”

He told Mahmoud about his encounters with the lady.

“But this is wrong!” said Mahmoud. “Very wrong! Trying to influence the course of justice by favours. Bribery and— and sexual favours!”

“She seemed to think that was the way to proceed.”

“Well, I know that has been the practice in the past. But— but we’re trying to get away from it now. It’s outrageous!”

“As you say, it’s the old way of doing things. Which Garvin, of course, is trying to change. And
Al-Lewa
, it appears, is anxious to go back to.”

“That is a mistake!” cried Mahmoud. “They are quite mistaken. I assure you, that is not the position of the Nationalist Party. It is precisely that sort of thing that we wish to get rid of. It is humiliating, shaming!”

He banged his fist on the table.

“In this case,” said Owen, “it is also puzzling. Why does she address me?”

“You’re the Mamur Zapt.”

“Yes, but you’re in charge of the investigation. Why doesn’t she solicit you?”

“Because she knows I wouldn’t—”

“Thank you.”

Mahmoud beat his brow with his fists.

“What have I said? Forgive me, dear friend, forgive me!” He leaped up and embraced Owen. “I withdraw that! I withdraw that absolutely!”

He sat down again and buried his face in his hands. The people at adjoining tables did not even look up. They took this as perfectly normal conversational behaviour.

“Actually,” said Owen, “I don’t think it’s that, or just that. Or even that she’s so locked in the past that she thinks the Mamur Zapt is still the one to go to. I wonder, in fact, if this is about intercession at all.”

Mahmoud raised his head and stared.

“Well, of course it is!” he said. “It must be. What else?”

“There were three of us attacked in that article,” said Owen, “and I wonder if it is just coincidence.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I am wondering whether the Philipides business connects up with the McPhee business. Not to mention the side-swipes aimed at me.”

“But how could—I mean, why should—?”

“I wonder if there is a plot to get rid of the three of us.”

“Oh, my dear fellow,” said Mahmoud, putting a hand on Owen’s arm, “how could there be? It is so unlikely!”

“Any more unlikely,” said Owen, “than that Garvin should have tried to get rid of Mustapha Mir, Philipides and Wain-wright?”

Georgiades came into the office and perched himself on Nikos’s desk, which he knew Nikos hated. It was not that Nikos had anything personal against Georgiades; it was just that, obsessively tidy-minded, he believed that the top of a desk was for paper not flesh.

“That orderly of Philipides,” Georgiades said. “Hassan was his name; you were going to go through the lists.”

“Halfway through,” said Nikos, without raising his head.

“Don’t bother. He’s not dead.”

“Right!” said Nikos, without interest.

“Not dead?” said Owen, overhearing.

“No. Alive and kicking. And in the Gamaliya somewhere. I’ve found someone who knows him. Would you like to meet him?”

The
kahweh
was like any other coffee shop which you might find in the poorer, more traditional quarters. Along its front was a raised stone seat, or
mastaba
, about three feet high and about the same width. Similar benches ran along the walls of the single room inside. They were the only seats. You sat with your back against the wall and, if you smoked, your pipe on the ground beside you.

In this hot weather most of the customers had brought their water pipes. There was a gourd-shaped bowl on the ground which held the water and the smoke was inhaled through a flexible hose. The whole contraption was quite a thing to carry and if you were sick you employed a servant for that purpose. Most of the men of the
kahweh
were not rich and carried their own.

Owen and Georgiades stepped down into the room inside. For a moment they stopped to let their eyes grow accustomed to the dark. The only light came through the open front door. In this country the object was to keep the sun out, not let it in.

There was hardly anyone inside. Most of the regulars preferred to sit outside on the exterior
mastaba
, where they could take the air and chat with the people going past. That suited Owen and he made for an empty corner on the other side of the room.

Cups were brought first, little porcelain ones held inside larger brass ones which were better for holding. The coffee came in a hanging pot, supported from three chains and with charcoal at the bottom. The strong bitter smell filled the room.

Sayeed Abdullah arrived a few minutes later. He was a small, spare man with the hair at his temples beginning to grey. He walked with a limp.

He greeted them in a way you seldom saw now, putting his hands to his brow and ducking his head. He seemed nervous of their proffered hands and shook them hesitantly. Then he sat down on the
mastaba
beside them, tucking one leg up beneath him. The other, the injured one, he let hang.

He had met Georgiades before and for a while, until the man became used to him, Owen was content to let the two make conversation. Talk was mainly about old times. Sayeed Abdullah had been an orderly at one of the sub-police stations in the Citadel quarter. Georgiades appeared to know it well and they had acquaintances in common, most of whom had now retired. Georgiades asked after them.

At last he came to the point, the point that Sayeed had been expecting.

“And Hassan?”

“He still comes.”

“You see him?” asked Owen.

“Every week,” said Sayeed Abdullah. “He comes round to collect.”

“Collect?” said Owen. “What is it that he is collecting?”

“The subscription,” said Georgiades.

“Subscription? What to? A benefit society or something?”

“You could call it that.”

“In those days, effendi,” Sayeed Abdullah explained, “if you wanted a job with the police, you would go to someone who could arrange it. You paid them money, of course. Usually you did not have money. So you would agree to pay so much a week after you got the job.”

“But surely that was years ago? How is it that Hassan is still collecting? You must have paid the debt off years ago.”

“That is what I said, effendi.”

“And?”

Sayeed pointed to his leg.

“He did that?”

“They did that. Effendi, I still would not have paid, only afterwards, when I was in hospital, they came and said: First you, then your wife, then your sons. So I paid.”

“But all this was long ago. You have left the service, Hassan has left—”

“That is why he collects, effendi. He needs the money, he says.”

“Even though you no longer have the job?”

“I have a pension, effendi. It was given me after—after this.” He touched his leg.

“It must be very small.”

“After I have paid the subscription,” said Sayeed Abdullah, “there is little left.”

“Why have you not told someone?”

Sayeed Abdullah looked at him steadily.

“Who should I speak to, effendi, seeing for whom Hassan worked?”

“It
is
different now.”

“So they say.”

“It is different now,” said Georgiades.

Sayeed Abdullah shrugged.

“Hassan still comes round,” he said. “And I still have a wife and sons.”

“Are there others like you?” asked Owen.

“I do not ask, effendi. But I think so.”

“And they, too, were treated like this?”

He pointed to Sayeed’s leg.

“After they had seen what happened to me,” said Sayeed Abdullah, “that was not necessary.”

Owen signalled for more coffee. Sayeed Abdullah acknowledged it with the same old-fashioned, traditional bob of the head as before.

“He had other ways, too,” he said. “There was a new man who came to our station. He was just up from the country and had a new wife who was expecting a child. Hassan had a friend, an evil woman who could cast spells. And he said to this man who had come up from the country, if you do not pay, I know someone who will put the evil eye on your wife.”

“And did he pay?”

“No, effendi. He said, what is this nonsense about the evil eye? But the baby died, effendi, and the next time he paid.”

Owen was silent for a while. Then he said: “It is time this was ended.”

“That was what your friend said.” Sayeed Abdullah looked at Georgiades. “He said, too, that you were the man who could end it.”

“I need your help.”

“You want me to speak,” said Sayeed Abdullah. “Yes, I know.”

“And will you?”

“It is easy to ask, effendi. Harder to do, if you have a wife and sons.”

“I shall put Hassan in a place where he will not be able to harm you. And until then I will give you a guard. In fact, I know just the man. For both you and your family.”

Sayeed Abdullah hesitated.

“It is easy for you, effendi. Things happen not to you but to people in the streets.”

“I intend to see that they don’t happen to people in the streets. But for that I need your help.”

Sayeed Abdullah sat for a long time looking down on the ground. Then he raised his eyes.

“I will do it, effendi. Because I know that only in this way can it be ended, effendi, I will do as you ask.”

Owen sat there with him until Georgiades returned with the guard he had in mind. Selim.

He noticed the change in atmosphere as soon as he got back to the Bab-el-Khalk. The bearers, who normally greeted him with backchat, averted their eyes. He went into his office and summoned his orderly.

“What’s up?”

Yussuf considered beating about the bush, then took a look at Owen’s face and decided not to.

“Effendi, you’re in trouble.”

“Why?”

“That snake business. Everyone thinks you pulled a fast one. The Rifa’i don’t like it.”

“What are they complaining about? We tried to use our ordinary snake catcher, didn’t we? And then when we couldn’t find him we tried to use others. We couldn’t find anybody. They want to make it a bit more possible to find their members before they start complaining.”

“Effendi,” said Yussuf desperately, “that’s not the idea.”

“What do you mean, it’s not the idea?”

“It’s the other way round. The Rifa’i want to make it harder to find a snake catcher when you want one. That way they can put their prices up.”

“And that’s what they were doing?”

“Yes, effendi,” said Yussuf sadly, “and you spoiled it.”

“Well, that’s too bad.”

“Yes, effendi, but now everyone’s afraid the Rifa’i will put the snakes back and…and…”

“Yes?”

“Suleiman wants to use the lavatory again.”

Zeinab had been out having her hair done. She frequented a modish salon in the Ismailiya and used it as an opportunity to catch up with the fashionable gossip of the town. Today she was gleeful.

“The Whore of Babylon!” she said. “Samira is most envious.”

“What’s all this?”

“They’ve been reading
Al-Lewa
. It is not, it must be confessed, a paper that they usually read but when they heard that I was in it…! ‘What company you keep, Zeinab’, Félicité said; ‘all those policemen! Still, someone must be the criminal, I suppose.’ And do you know what they say? There’s going to be more tomorrow.”

“Oh, is there?” said Owen. “I’ll soon see about that.”

“They don’t mind. Demerdash is paying all the fines, you see.”

“Demerdash?”

“Unlikely, I know. And I do take it amiss. Gets the paper to write the article and then blames me for appearing in it!”

“Just a minute. Are you sure?”

“That’s what Iolanthe says, and she should know since she’s sleeping with Daouad. They can hardly believe their luck, she says, and can only think Demerdash has never read the paper. Well, that’s quite possible, I suppose; he’s been out of the country a long time and I dare say that in Damascus or Constantinople or wherever he’s been he doesn’t get much chance to keep up with things. But I do think it’s nasty of him to get me put in the paper or, at least, not to object, and then to make all that fuss with my father! Still,” said Zeinab, thinking, “I prefer that to the other way round.”

“What other way round?” said Owen, lost.

“Denunciation to wooing,” said Zeinab. “At least, in Demerdash’s case.”

“Got another one?” said the snake catcher, looking around Owen’s garden. “They do come thick and fast. It’s the heat, I expect.”

“No, it’s not a snake this time,” said Owen. “It’s just that I wanted to ask you something.”

“Oh!” said the snake catcher, disappointed, letting his bag drop on the ground.

“Of course, I’ll make it worth your while. I know it’s your time.”

“Ah, well, that’s different!” said the snake catcher, brightening up.

The smell was, as Jalila had said, very distinct, the same as on her own arms but stronger, spicier, fresher.

“I could have done with you the other day,” said Owen. “That business at the Bab-el-Khalk? Well, you’re getting into deep water there, you know.”

“I would have sent for you, only they said you were visiting your son.”

The snake catcher looked vague.

“Yes,” he said. “I think so.”

“I don’t,” said Owen, smiling. He gave an exaggerated sniff. “Funny smell,” he said.

The snake catcher looked at him guardedly.

“It’s once a year you go, isn’t it? There’s the balsam, of course. And then there’s the
teryaq
. And of course, it has to be done in the right way, in the right frame of mind. That’s why you need a teacher, I expect.”

“It may be,” said the snake catcher non-committally.

“Well, I’m not going to ask you about it because I know these things are secret. But I want to know the name of your teacher.”

“I can’t tell you that!” said the snake catcher, aghast.

“I think you can. The teacher is not secret. It’s what he teaches that’s secret.”

It took Owen a long time to persuade him. It took a lot of promises and quite a lot of money. But eventually he got what he wanted.

Owen found Mahmoud pacing about his office. He turned an angry face towards him.

“The Khedive’s birthday!” he spat out. “What do I care about the Khedive’s birthday?”

“What, indeed?” said Owen, taken aback.

“Look at this!” said Mahmoud, with a fiery gesture towards his desk, piled high with papers. “I’m in court twice this week, three times next. Five cases to be finalized! How do they think I’m going to do it?”

“Well—”

“There’s always a lot of preparation at the last moment. Witnesses to be taken through their evidence, clerks to be chivvied—they always leave things till it’s almost too late, damn them. And then something like this happens!”

“What exactly—?”

“You haven’t heard? No, and nor has anyone else. And do you know why? Because he only made up his mind to do it this week. This week!”

“Sorry, his birthday, you said? Surely—?”

“Public holiday. He’s declared a public holiday for the day after tomorrow.”

“Oh!”

“Yes,” said Mahmoud. “Exactly!”

He plunged into his chair and buried his face in his hands. “Lunacy!” he said. “Sheer lunacy!”

“It’s not that bad.”

“It is,” said Mahmoud, refusing to be consoled. “How can you achieve anything when everything is so—so capricious?”

“Well—”

“It’s so
inefficient
!” he burst out in exasperation.

The best thing, Owen knew from long experience of Mahmoud, was to change the subject.

“That Philipides business,” he said; “how are you getting on?”

“That’s an example,” said Mahmoud, declining to be sidetracked. “Not at all. I’ve been going through the records to check which police officers were in post at the time; I wanted to ask them what they knew about it, if they’d been approached in the same way as Bakri.”

“And had they?”

“They weren’t saying.”

“It’s hardly surprising. They might find themselves incriminating their mates. Or even themselves.”

“Yes.” Mahmoud, calm now, sat back in his chair. “Of course, there’s another explanation possible.”

“What’s that?”

“That Bakri was the only instance. And that Garvin made the most of it.”

“According to Philipides, there were enough other ones to make Wainwright open an investigation.”

“Not quite. He may have
feared
there were other ones. The only one he may have actually known about was the Bakri case. That’s why it’s so important to get Wainwright out here. Only then can we know what prompted his action.”

“Bakri said there were others.”

“If you’re caught on a thing like this, you usually do.”

“Are you saying there weren’t any others? That Bakri was the only one and that Garvin—”

“Made the most of it. For his own ends.”

“You still think it was a plot to get the Egyptians out and the British in?”

“I think it may have been much more localized than it was made out to be at the time. And much less significant.”

“You talked to the police: did you talk to the orderlies?”

“No. Should I?”

“There’s a man I would like you to meet.”

“The Khedive’s birthday?” said Garvin in tones of disgust. “Another comic caper we could do without!”