Michael Pearce - The Snake Catcher’s Daughter

“You think there’s no chance then?”

“It’s Mahmoud v the Rest of the World. Again, poor chap.”

“Access to my files?” said Garvin. “He’ll be lucky!”

“Not so much yours as Wainwright’s.”

Garvin shook his head.

“Impossible. Can’t separate them. Besides, isn’t there a question of principle?”

“Access to the files?” said Nikos, shocked, standing in front of the cabinets as if an immediate attack was about to be made on their honour. “Never!”

“Only those dating back to Mustapha Mir’s time,” said Owen.

“All destroyed,” said Nikos. “It’s an important principle. When you leave office you destroy all your papers. Anyone with any intelligence knows that.”

“Did Wainwright know that?”

“Well, of course, Wainwright-”

“There may not have been any papers,” Owen said to Mahmoud. “And if there were, there won’t be now.”

He found Zeinab fastening a necklace around her neck. It was a silver chain with pendant razzmatazz dangling from the front of it which sparkled and flashed in the lamplight. “Very nice!” he said, kissing her just above the pendant. Zeinab examined herself in the mirror.

“Yes,” she said, “it suits me quite well. You don’t usually have such good taste, darling.”

“What?” said Owen.

Zeinab put her arms round his neck and kissed him. “Thank you, darling,” she said. “We haven’t seen each other for at least two days and I was just beginning to think that in your absent-minded way you had completely forgotten about me, when you produce something like this!”

“Just a minute!” said Owen.

Zeinab released him.

“Something wrong?”

“It doesn’t come from me.”

“Oh!”

She sat down on the divan. After a moment she reached up and unfastened the necklace.

“Another admirer?”

“Shut up!” said Zeinab, and threw the necklace on the floor.

He tried to make amends by kissing her but she turned her head away.

“Perhaps your father sent it,” he suggested.

“When he gives me presents he likes to give me them directly.”

“Or one of his friends?”

It always worried Owen that one day Nuri Pasha might seek to marry his daughter off. Nuri was a westernized Francophile but you never knew in a thing like this and there had been recent signs that he was prepared to use his daughter to cement a political alliance.

“Marbrouk, for instance?”

“Don’t be ridiculous! He’s still on the Riviera. Where he went at your suggestion.”

“What about that new man your father seemed very thick with the other night at the Khedive’s reception?”

“Demerdash Pasha?”

“That’s right. The pro-Turk one.”

“He’s not pro-Turk,” said Zeinab, “he’s pro-Khedive. Khedive as he was twenty years ago.”

“That’s the one.”

“Just because my father flirts with him,” said Zeinab coldly, “that doesn’t mean he flirts with me.”

“All right, all right. I just thought an alliance might be in the making.”

“If it was,” said Zeinab, “I don’t think Demerdash would think of consulting me. Or that it was necessary to placate me with gifts.”

Owen picked up the necklace. It felt heavy. That sometimes meant such things were genuine silver.

“Whoever sent it will find a way of letting you know, won’t they?”

“Why? Would you kill them?”

“Not exactly, but-”

Zeinab was disappointed.

“You English,” she complained, “lack passion.”

“Let me convince you otherwise,” said Owen.

The Aalima’s house, or perhaps he should call it coven, was a small modest building in a respectable part of the Gamaliya. Inside, however, it was surprisingly well furnished, with carpets on the walls, several low, well-cushioned divans and an unusual profusion of knick-knacks: fine porcelain lamp bowls, copper and silver trays and little silver filigree boxes. A brazier with a coffee pot was already waiting. Witch, she might be, but she knew how to behave.

She was, this time, decently veiled. Only the fine eyes were visible to remind Owen of the striking face. The matronly bearing, however, remained. Owen was shepherded firmly to one of the divans and given a cup of coffee. The Aalima sat down opposite; alone. She plainly had no truck with the usual convention which required a male family friend to be present when conversation was had with a lady.

“Well?” she said.

Owen discarded the smooth introduction he had prepared.

“Did you know the Bimbashi was going to be there?” he asked.

“No,” said the Aalima firmly.

“Then how was it you had the drug ready?”

The Aalima started to speak then stopped, as if changing her mind.

“We always have drugs,” she said. “They are part of the ceremony. We use different ones at different times. This was one we normally use late on: if someone is over-excited.”

“Why, then, was it given to the Bimbashi?”

The Aalima’s eyes flashed.

“It was none of his business!” she said angrily. “It was not right that he should be there. I could not have done everything if he had been watching, I would not have been able to complete the ceremony.”

“So you sent him to sleep?”

“What is wrong with that?”

“You gave him too much. You could have killed him.”

The Aalima hesitated.

“We had no wish to kill him. If we gave him too much it was because we wished to make sure. We were not used to giving such doses.”

Owen nodded.

“The girl,” he said, “Jalila; she put it in?”

“Jalila? No. She merely carries the bowl.”

“Did you put it in yourself?”

“It was part of the ceremony,” she said evasively.

“No matter; you are the one who will be held responsible.”

“He should not have come,” she said.

“I know; and therefore I am prepared to be lenient with you. Give me the information I want and you need hear no more of this.”

“What information do you want?”

“Let me ask my first question again. Did you know the Bimbashi would be there?”

“No,” she said. “I knew only that he might be.”

“Who gave you that information?”

“I cannot say. Truthfully,” she added quickly. “These things come to one, some words muttered in the suk, and one does not always see who has spoken. One only knows afterwards that they are important by the gift.”

“There was a gift?”

The Aalima inclined her head.

“What were the words?”

“A man might come.”

“There must have been more words than that.”

“No. Only that a man would come, a foolish Effendi, and I would know him when I saw him.”

“What were you to do?”

The Aalima hesitated.

“I was to let him stay,” she said reluctantly. “I was to let him see.”

“No more?” said Owen, puzzled.

“Isn’t that enough?”

“There was nothing else?”

“Nothing, I swear.”

“You have sworn,” said Owen, “and I accept your word. If it turns out that you have forsworn, I must warn you that it will go heavy with you.”

“I have not forsworn. That was all that was said. And,” said the Aalima, “I did not do what I was bid.”

“You did not let him see?”

“Not all. Some, yes, but not all. I could not bring myself to do it. The present they gave me was good, yes, but all the gold in the world-”

“I understand.”

“When I saw him there, and saw that he was looking, after he had said that he would not, I was angry and told-”

“Them to put in the drug?” Owen finished.

“Yes,” said the Aalima, looking at him defiantly.

Owen took his time about replying. He sipped his coffee carefully and then put the cup down on the little copper tray beside him.