Michael Pearce - The Mingrelian Conspiracy

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.