Michael Pearce - The Last Cut

‘To take revenge on?’

‘Well,’ said Labiba, ‘is that not our Egyptian way?’

Macrae caught him as he passed.

‘We’re having a wee celebration,’ he said. ‘Tuesday, the Sporting Club, at eight. Burns Night. Would you like to come?’

‘Nothing I’d like more!’ Then a thought struck him. ‘But surely Burns Night isn’t for some time yet?’

‘Aye. But it goes down better if you have a few rehearsals.’

Zeinab, stretched out beside Owen, had been hearing about his encounter with the girl’s father.

‘It is a good job my father is rich,’ she said sombrely. And enlightened. Relatively.’

Zeinab always liked to hear about the women in his cases. She tended to identify with them strongly. It was as if, uncertain of her own position in society, she needed to try on other positions. It always made him feel guilty. He was aware that what would give her position was marriage. But the British Administration did not look kindly on its officers marrying Egyptians. And what about her father’s attitude? Nuri, he knew, would have preferred her to marry someone rich. That was the way, he thought, with fathers; perhaps not just in this society.

What made the difference, though, between Zeinab and Leila was that Zeinab did not have to do just what her father said. Perhaps, however, that was an illusion. Perhaps in the end she did have to do what he said, perhaps there were limits to her freedom. Meanwhile, though, there was the space created by wealth, which allowed indulgence. And, to be fair, by enlightenment. Relative, that was.

‘I gather you’re going to talk to the boy.’

‘Yes.’

Wait a minute: ‘gather’?

‘You’ve been talking to Labiba!’

‘Certainly. She is a remarkable woman.’

That, no doubt, was another role that Zeinab had been trying on. Widow. Widow! Surely there were better solutions than that!

Nikos looked up from his desk.

A call for you. Urgent. From the Parquet.’

‘Mahmoud?’

‘Someone in his office. Would you meet him at the Mortuary?’ Again the slow journey by arabeah.

‘One has to think of the horse, Effendi. And of the people in the way. And of the flowers in the gardens and the doves in the trees.’

‘I’ll think about them. You think about getting me to the Mortuary.’

In fact, they made speedy progress. At this hour in the afternoon, when the world was taking its siesta, the streets were empty. Search as the arabeah driver might for reason for delay, he could find none. Even the horse, made brisker by a little breeze from the river, and finding motion cooler than standing stunned in the sun outside the Bab-el-Khalk, quickened its usual step.

Mahmoud was waiting for Owen at the door of the Mortuary, standing in its cool shadow. He was holding a piece of paper. ‘It’s an early warning,’ he said.

‘Warning?’

‘That they’re going to change the autopsy findings.’

‘On what grounds?’

‘Cause of death.’

‘Not-?’

‘-what we thought. They’ve found a ligature around her neck. A thin cord very deeply embedded. They missed it the first time because of the condition of the body.’

‘So-’

‘She was garotted,’ said Mahmoud.

‘Garotted' screamed the newspapers.

The news, despite Owen’s efforts, had leaked out at once. Ordinarily it would have created no stir. In Cairo people were being garotted all the time, or it felt as if they were, and what was one among so many, particularly if she was merely a water-carrier’s daughter? This time, however, there was something different.

‘Could there be a connection with the Cut?’ asked the newspapers.

‘No, there could not,’ said Owen, and to make sure he excised the suggestion from the newspapers. Censorship of the press was one of Owen’s barmier duties.

The press, always resourceful, came back the next day, less directly.

‘Will this cast a blight over the forthcoming festivities?’ it enquired.

‘No, it won’t,’ said the Mamur Zapt, and in the interests of conviviality he cut that out, too. He knew, however, that in the circulation of rumour word of newspaper was less important than word of mouth, and sat back resignedly to await developments.

They were not long in coming. There was trouble with the Muslim gravediggers, said Paul over the phone. When Owen got to the meeting, however, he found that the trouble, at first sight, was not what he expected.

‘There seems to be some problem about the Cut,’ said Paul, who had convened the meeting on behalf of the Consul-General.

‘It’s about who does the actual cutting,’ said Garvin.

‘I thought we’d settled that. Isn’t it the Jews’ turn?’

‘Yes, but if you remember, there was the problem about the pay. They wanted extra because it was the Sabbath.’

‘Well, we’ve fixed that, haven’t we? I got the Old Man to speak to Finance.’

‘Yes, but now the Muslims are saying, why should the Jews be paid extra? It’s rank discrimination. There’s a traditional rate for the job. Why should they be paid more?’

‘Because they won’t do it, otherwise.’

‘Ah, but the Muslims say they will. At the old rate.’

‘What do the Jews say?’

‘They say it’s their turn.’

‘Has this happened before?’ asked Paul.

‘It happens every year. There’s always been trouble about who was going to do the Cut. The way we resolved it is that they take turns. It’s worked up till now. It’s just that this year it’s different because it’s the Jews’ turn and the Cut falls on a Sabbath.’

‘Couldn’t the Jews still do it but at the old rate?’

‘They say that the Government would be going back on its word.’

‘Well, that’s not unknown, is it?’

‘They’re not going to like it,’ warned Garvin.

‘The Muslims are not going to like it either,’ said the Kadi. ‘They’re counting on getting the work now.’

There was a little silence.

‘How about them both doing it?’ suggested Paul. ‘Together?’

‘They’d be at each other’s throats. And don’t forget they’d have spades and picks.’

A further silence.

‘Why don’t we get somebody else altogether?’

‘What about the Copts?’ said the Copts’ representative eagerly.

‘There’d be a bloody massacre,’ said Garvin shortly.

‘I was thinking of British soldiers,’ said Paul.

‘There’d be a bloody massacre,’ said Owen.

Yet further silence. Prolonged.

‘We could call the whole thing off. I suppose,’ said Paul. ‘After all, we don’t really need a cut, do we? We don’t even need water in the Canal. In fact, it would be better without it. Then they could get straight on with filling it in. Why don’t we just call the whole thing off.’

‘That way we really would have a riot!’

The meeting adjourned without reaching a conclusion. ‘There’s still time,’ said Paul.

‘Not much,’ said Garvin. ‘The Cut is next week.’

‘I do think we should try to resolve this as quickly as possible,’ said the Kadi. ‘We wouldn’t want it to get out of hand.’

‘Why should it get out of hand?’

The Kadi looked at Owen.

‘I understand something has come up about the girl? You know, the one found under the “Bride of the Nile”.’

‘The autopsy findings have been revised.’

‘Yes. That’s what I heard.’

‘That Maiden thing? A lot of bosh!’ declared Garvin. ‘Muslim girl? Jewish diggers? A public occasion? Bad feeling? Big crowds? I don’t regard that as a lot of bosh.’

‘I don’t either,’ said Owen. ‘I’ve got people down in the Bab-el-Foutouh keeping an eye on things.’