Michael Pearce - The Last Cut

‘He’ll be along.’

‘Why don’t we go and wait for him, then?’

The men went over to lie in the shade. Owen went with them.

‘You need a drink on a day like this,’ he said.

‘Too true; and out here in the desert there’s not much chance of getting one.’

‘You’d do better by the river.’

‘We don’t get much chance of working there. The graveyards are all this side of the city.’

‘You’re probably glad when it’s your turn to do the Cut, then.’

‘We certainly are!’

‘I don’t see why we shouldn’t do it every year,’ said one of the men. ‘Why do we have to share it with the Jews? What have they got to do with it?’

‘It’s always been like this,’ said another of the men. ‘One year it’s us, the next year it’s them.’

‘Yes. But why does it have to be like that, I’m asking? Why shouldn’t we do it every time?’

‘Because they’ve got their fingers in the pie and they’re not going to take them out.’

‘They’ll have to take them out after this. Because after that there’s going to be no pie!’

‘I don’t hold with that, either. Why do they have to fill the canal in? It’s doing all right as it is.’

‘Ah, yes. But that’s progress. That’s the modern world for you, Mohammed.’

‘Well, I could do without it. They’re taking everything away from us. Last year it was the Hoseini celebrations, this year it’s the canal. Next year we won’t even have the Cut!’

‘Yes, and it would have been our turn!’

‘I like the Cut,’ said one of the men.

‘Well, yes, so do I. There’s something good about seeing a rush of water. Especially when you’re used to working out here.’

‘Do you think that girl would have made any difference?’ asked someone speculatively.

‘The one the Jews put under the mound?’

‘Yes.’

‘Well, I reckon it might.’

‘Because I don’t see it. I mean, you’ve got all these bodies up here, haven’t you? Why don’t they make it all fertile? I mean, if a girl could do it, why can’t they?’

‘Because there isn’t any water. That’s just the point. Up here, see, it’s all dry and when the bodies get put away, they don’t rot. They just sort of mummify. Whereas down in the Canal, when that water comes in, it makes the body rot. Then it’s all fertile. I mean, that’s the point.’

‘So it’s a good thing?’

‘Well, it’s perhaps a good thing to put a girl there. But I don’t hold with it being a Muslim girl. Why can’t it be a Jewish girl? Or a Copt?’

‘The Jews picked her, didn’t they? And they wouldn’t have picked one of their own.’

‘Well, I don’t like it. They seem to be having everything their way. First, they get to do the cutting. Then they get paid extra for it! And then they pick a girl who’s not even theirs!’

‘It’s a sort of sacrifice, isn’t it?’

‘Yes, well, if it’s a sacrifice, that means you ought to be giving something up, doesn’t it? I mean, if we did it, we’d be giving up one of our girls, wouldn’t we? And we wouldn’t be too happy about that, because we’re advanced, like. But those Jews, they’re really crafty. They offer up the girl and say, “here’s the sacrifice, let’s have something back on account,” and all the time they’re not offering up one of their own but one of ours!’

‘Yes, but God will see through that, won’t he?’

‘I reckon he already has. The body was found, wasn’t it? Well, I reckon that’s his way of saying: “No thanks, you crafty buggers, that won’t do for me!”’

‘Well, I do think he ought not to let them get away with it.’

‘Yes, but he needs a bit of help, doesn’t he?’

‘What do you mean, Abdul?’

‘Well, they’re going to turn up to do the Cut, aren’t they? In spite of everything they’ve done. And I think somebody ought to teach them a lesson!’

Owen heard the clinking as he turned down a street away from the graveyard and, sure enough, there, coming down the road towards him was a water-carrier. The clinking came from two brass saucers which he was striking together like cymbals to give notice of his presence. Not all the water-carriers had saucers which were brass. Some had mere earthenware ones. Those a step or two up had cups.

Seeing Owen looking at him, the man stopped in the shade. Owen accepted a saucerful, drinking directly from the saucer. Like so many before him. He had learned to stifle qualms.

‘The water is fresh,’ he said, with the obligatory compliment.

‘And heavy,’ said the water-carrier.

It was a different man from either the one he had met outside the cafe or from Ali Khedri. Evidently there were a lot of water-carriers down here, although that was to be expected in so poor a quarter.

‘There are some who wait for you with eagerness,’ said Owen, pointing to the graveyard.

‘The diggers? Well, digging is thirsty work.’

‘And carrying. The river is far. Are you not eager for the Cut? The Canal is closer.’

‘I like the river,’ said the man. ‘It is not so far, not when you are used to it. And I like to walk into it with the bags, which you can’t do with the Canal.’

‘You are a true water-carrier,’ said Owen, complimenting him.

‘But one of the last. My son will not follow in my footsteps.’

‘Because of the pipes?’

The man shrugged.

‘Because of everything. This is the last Cut. Next year there will be no canal. The world changes.’

‘But the river stays the same.’

‘They try to change that. Even in my lifetime I have seen new barrages at Aswan and Assiut and Asna.’

Irue.

Owen handed the saucer back.

‘Do you know the house of Fatima?’ he asked.

Ahmed Uthman’s wife?’

‘I know only that she is the wife of a water-carrier.’

‘That would be her.’

The man gave him directions.

‘I know one other thing about her,’ said Owen. ‘She took in the daughter of Ali Khedri when he threw her out.’

The man looked pained.

‘That was a bad business,’ he said.

‘It was well that someone took her in.’

‘Not well enough,’ said the man grimly.

‘How came it that she died when she was under their roof?’

‘The Jews took her.’

Ah? And how do they know it was them?’

‘Who else could it have been? With the Cut coming up. But what I know is this: they will not go unpunished.’

‘By God?’ said Owen. ‘Or by man?’

‘God, certainly. But sometimes he uses man.’

‘What man?’

But the water-carrier could tell him nothing, probably knew nothing, specific. It was significant, though, that the assumption was widespread in that quarter. With the Cut coming up.

‘Well, I couldn’t leave her,’ said the woman, ‘not the way she was.’

‘It would have been better if you had,’ said her husband. Owen had caught them at the end of the siesta, when the man was just on the point of setting out again. The half-full water-skins lay by the door.

The woman turned on her husband.

‘He might have changed his mind,’ she said.

‘He thought right the first time,’ muttered the man, then lapsed into surly silence.

‘It was only for a day or two,’ said the woman, ‘and she eats no more than a bird.’

The house was, perhaps, not as poor as Ali Khedri’s, but poor enough. The number of mouths was important in such places. ‘How long was she with you?’ asked Owen.

‘No more than five days.’

‘And then?’

‘Well, then she went out one day and-’ the woman looked bewildered-‘and then we didn’t see her any more.’

‘The Jews got her,’ said the man.