Michael Pearce - The Last Cut

‘What has the Cut got to do with it?’ demanded Owen.

‘It’s the last one, isn’t it? That makes it a bit special. Well, what I reckon is that they wanted to mark it out, this being the last one, and it being their turn. They take it in turns, you see, them and the gravediggers from the cemetery here. I don’t know that I hold with that, really, but it’s been like that for centuries, they say. Turn and turn about. Well, this time it was their turn and I reckon they wanted to mark it out, this being the last time.’

‘What are you saying?’

‘Well, that they put her there. It was the old tradition, you see. Bury a virgin under The Bride. And I reckon they thought that would round it off nicely. They’re great ones for tradition, the Jews. It was probably them who thought of the idea in the first place. Only I don’t hold with that, not with putting a good Muslim girl under the cone. Now if it was a Jewish girl, that might be different-’

‘You think they found your daughter and buried her under The Bride of the Nile?’

‘Not found her.’

‘Not…?’

‘Killed her. The bastards.’

‘She died,’ said Mahmoud, ‘from the effects of poorly performed circumcision. And from neglect and ill treatment afterwards. If anyone killed her, it was you.’

‹5‘«Sk?›

They walked back up the Suk-en-Nahassin past some of the most ancient and beautiful mosques in the world, past the Sultan-en-Nasir, the Sultan Kalaun and El-Hakim, past the fountain house of Abd-er-Rahman and the Sheikh’s house next to the Barkukiya. The past was all about you in Cairo, thought Owen. That was the trouble.

By tacit mutual consent they dropped into a cafe just before they got to the Khan-el-Khalil. Both were feeling depressed.

‘What do I do?’ said Owen. ‘Put him inside until the Cut is over?’

‘The Cut is not the problem,’ said Mahmoud.

‘No,’ agreed Owen sadly.

‹? m?›

Back in the office he said to Nikos:

‘There’s an old man down by the Muslim graveyard. Ali Khedri. A water-carrier. He’s probably harmless but I don’t want him saying things that could cause trouble.’

‘You want him picked up?’

‘No. But I want someone down there keeping an eye on things. Until the Cut is over.’

‘Georgiades?’

‘No. I want him to stay in the gardens. He’ll like that.’

‘What’s he supposed to be doing there?’

‘Talking to the workmen. I want him to find out about Babikr. Where he comes from, where he stays when he’s up here. Who he talks to. Who-more important-talks to him.’

Owen had been invited to a reception at the hospital. The invitation had come from Cairns-Grant, the pathologist, a man with whom Owen had often had dealings and for whom he had a great deal of respect. When he arrived, the reception was in full swing and Cairns-Grant was talking to fellow-countrymen: Macrae and Ferguson.

‘We were talking about the regulator,’ said Ferguson.

‘And I was asking who could do a thing like that,’ said Macrae.

‘And I was saying I could,’ said Cairns-Grant.

‘You could?’ said Owen.

Aye. Half our problems come from the barrages.’

‘That’s not fair!’ protested Macrae.

‘What’s the commonest disease in the country?’

‘Malaria.’

‘Ophthalmia,’ said Owen.

‘Bilharzia,’ said Cairns-Grant. ‘If you add in ankylostoma, which you should, eighty-five per cent of the male population have it. Why? Because they work in the fields-and because of the irrigation system.’

‘I don’t see-’

‘There’s a wee snail. It’s a water snail and it’s host to the bilharzia parasite. Bilharzia is a water-borne disease. So, for that matter, in this country, are ophthalmia and malaria.’

‘But you can’t blame it all on the Irrigation Department!’ cried Macrae. ‘They must always have been here!’

Aye, but until recently it was confined to the northern parts of the Delta. Now you find it everywhere, all through Middle and Upper Egypt. And why? Because of the irrigation system.’ ’Now, come, Alec-‘ began Macrae.

‘It’s the change of system, from basin irrigation to perennial, which you get with the barrages. In the old days they would draw the water off into basins and let it lie there until it soaked away, leaving the silt. After that they left the land alone, which gave the sun a chance to cauterize it-I’m talking medically, ye understand-killing off the shell fish left behind by the flood.’

‘But the basin system was very inefficient, Alec. You could only get one watering and therefore one crop a year, now you can have watering all the time and therefore two or sometimes even three crops. You’ve got to think of the cotton, Alec. It’s increased production no end.’

Aye, but it’s also increased bilharzia, that’s what I’m saying. Eighty-five per cent of the population, man! It leaves them anaemic and debilitated. There’s been an actual decline in the health of the population over the past forty years. And it’s getting worse. So,’ said Cairns-Grant, ‘if I was one of the young Nationalists, instead of throwing a bomb at the Khedive or the Consul-General, or maybe, more sensibly, the Mamur Zapt, I would throw one at the barrage!’

‘Well,’ said Macrae, taking his arm, ‘I hope no one’s listening to you.’

Across the lawn a middle-aged lady, Egyptian, was advancing on them.

‘My favourite lassie!’ cried Cairns-Grant, delightedly. ‘Have ye met?’ he said to Owen. ‘Her husband was Dean of the Medical School here. Labiba Latifa!’

‘We were speaking only this morning,’ said Labiba, shaking hands.

‘You were? Well, you don’t need me to tell you then, Owen, that she’s a formidable lady. You see that?’ He pointed to a long, low building beside the hospital. ‘It’s the Midwifery Extension. And it wouldn’t have been there if it hadn’t been for her!’

‘Oh, come, Alec!’ she said.

Owen guessed that she seldom addressed people, even at parties, without purpose; guessed, too, that he was her purpose.

‘I have to thank you,’ he said.

‘You have spoken to him?’

‘This morning.’

‘And what are you going to do?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Sometimes it is right to hesitate,’ said Labiba, as if she was talking of a novel experience.

‘In my position you always have to think of wider consequences,’ said Owen.

‘Is that a reason for action or for inaction?’ asked Labiba. Owen smiled.

‘In your case, for action, I am sure. My interest, though, is often in prevention.’

‘Perhaps our interests are not always dissimilar,’ said Labiba. ‘I have come to ask you for a favour, Captain Owen.’

‘I will do what I can,’ said Owen, ‘although-’

Labiba smiled.

‘I shall come back to you later on-well, on the more general issue. My favour, this time, is a particular one. It concerns Suleiman Hannam.’

‘That young boy? The one with-?’

‘Yes, the one you met at Um Fattouha’s. I would like you to speak with him. I am afraid he may do something foolish.’

‘What in particular?’

‘He is very confused. I think it is because it is the first time he has met death. He cannot accept it. He knows, of course, in his heart of hearts, that nothing can bring Leila back. But he believes-half of him believes-that if in some way good could come from her death, that would probably redeem it, give it and her life a meaning which at the moment it seems to lack. That is why he came to me.’

‘Because of your work on circumcision?’

‘Yes.’

‘I am afraid I still don’t see-Do you wish me to dissuade him?’

‘Hardly! The reverse, if anything. The activity would do him good!’ Labiba brightened. ‘Yes,’ she said gleefully, ‘that would be good. To have the Mamur Zapt proselytizing on my behalf! They would really think I was formidable then! But, no, Captain Owen, that was not what I wanted you to talk to him about. It is the other half of him. The other half of him is angry. It is looking for someone to blame.’