Michael Pearce - The Snake Catcher’s Daughter

He banged his fist so fiercely that even some of the other bangers looked round.

“And as Welshmen, too,” added Mahmoud, a little selfconsciously.

What was he going to do? Owen asked himself. Not about Mahmoud’s depression-he was bouncing out of it now and was once more rearing to go-but about the issue of principle? The Consul-General had defined it and that ought to have been the end of it for any member of the British Administration. But Owen wasn’t, or, at least, not quite, entirely a member of the British Administration and interpreted himself as having some degree of latitude. He didn’t have to go along with it if he didn’t want to.

“Why don’t they let me investigate?” cried Mahmoud, firing up again. “Have they something to hide?”

“I doubt it. It’s just the normal bureaucratic reaction.”

“Is it that they do not trust me?” demanded Mahmoud fiercely.

“No, no, no, no. It’s nothing like that.”

Except that in a way it was. Every administrator-and Owen was one himself-developed a kind of plural sense of the truth. They knew the truth had more than one side. The difference between Owen and the others, however, was that whereas for them there were only two sides-their Department’s and anyone else’s-for him there were so many sides that he couldn’t keep up with them. Mahmoud, on the other hand, believed that there was only one truth, which it was his job to discover.

People who felt like that were always difficult to deal with. They recognized everybody else’s partiality but not their own. They made, however, very good investigators.

“They look down on me,” said Mahmoud, “because I am an Egyptian!”

“Nonsense!”

He knew, however, that he would have to do something. “I’ll tell you what,” he said: “you can look at my files.” Mahmoud stopped in his rhetorical tracks.

“I can?”

“Or rather, Mustapha Mir’s. Those relating to that period. The ones we can find,” he amended, remembering what Nikos had said.

“That will be something,” said Mahmoud. “That, in fact, would be a great help.”

“I hope so.”

“But, look,” said Mahmoud, remembering that Owen was his friend, and concerned, “I don’t want to get you into trouble.”

“That’s all right.”

“How will you get round the Consul-General’s ruling?”

“No one’s told me about it yet,” said Owen. “By the time they do, it might be too late.”

“No one’s said anything about it yet.”

The necklace hung casually on a hook beside Zeinab’s dressing table. It had not been admitted to the silver box where she kept her bracelets, rings and other jewellery.

“That’s funny,” said Owen, picking it up. “You’d have expected someone to have claimed the credit by now.”

“Or the reward?”

“There isn’t going to be a reward,” said Owen firmly.

“No?”

Zeinab put the necklace back on the hook; which was exactly where she liked to keep Owen.

“You’re right, though,” he said, reflecting. “No one gives something for nothing. The question is: what reward did they have in mind?”

“I’d have thought that was obvious,” said Zeinab.

“That’s what I thought, too. But the fact that they haven’t come forward is making me think again.”

“What else could it be?”

“Either it’s part of some deal your father is cooking up-”

“Forget about my father. He usually tells me if he’s thinking of me marrying someone.”

“-or else, or else, it’s not really to do with you at all, it’s-”

“Yes?”

“It’s something to do with me.”

“Oh, come, darling-”

“It’s like those earrings. The ones that were sent to Garvin. Or rather, to Garvin’s wife.”

He told her about them. Zeinab listened seriously.

“First the diamond,” she said, “then this. I think you ought to go a bit carefully, darling. For a while.”

“Yes, you’re right. We ought to be a bit careful with the necklace. See it’s kept somewhere.”

“Your pocket, perhaps?” suggested Zeinab.

The Aalima, straight-backed and veiled, was waiting to receive him. The coffee pot was already standing on the low table beside the divan and the pleasant aroma of the coffee filled the room. The shutters were closed because of the intense heat, but enough light came through the slots to make it unnecessary to use a lamp.

The Aalima was more relaxed this time and conversation was conducted at a proper pace. Owen fell naturally into the long, graceful Arabic salutations and then gradually, feigning proper reluctance, allowed himself to be persuaded to sip his coffee, praising it copiously. One of the things he liked about visiting Egyptians was that their courteous insistence on observing the forms reduced everything to a slow rhythm. Owen was all in favour of slow rhythms, especially in heat like this.

They discussed the hot spell and wondered when it would end; and little by little the conversation turned to the point of his visit.

“I have done what you wished,” said the Aalima at last. “I have asked my women what happened in the courtyard that night.”

“And?”

The Aalima frowned.

“It is bad,” she said. “I wish I had never agreed. Either to their suggestion that I let him see or to his own insistence. It was bad. And bad comes to bad.”

“It was bad to drug him, certainly.”

“What followed was worse. Men came into the courtyard.”

“Is not that forbidden?”

“They said they had my word. My women knew that I had made some agreement and thought that this was part of it. That is what I meant when I said that bad leads to bad.”

“They used you for their own ends.”

“That is always the way,” said the Aalima, “with men.”

Owen said nothing.

“It spoiled it,” said the Aalima. “It destroyed the sanctity of the Zzarr. I should not have agreed. Now I shall have to do it again.”

“You have, of course, done it again, and I hope my presence did not spoil it that time.”

“We shall have to see. All I know is that what I did the first time was not successful.”

“The spirits remained after?”

The Aalima inclined her head.

“Not surprisingly,” she said.

“What did your women see?”

“Men came into the courtyard. They took the Bimbashi on his chair and carried him out.”

“Did they know the men?”

The Aalima shook her head.

“Would they know them again?”

“It was dark.”

“They carried him out of the courtyard. Did your women see where they carried him to?”

The Aalima hesitated.

“This is the worst part,” she said. “They carried him back into the outer courtyard.” She looked at Owen. “So that everyone could see.”

“I do not understand.”

“They showed him to those who were there. They raised him on his chair.”

Still Owen did not understand.

“There were people in the courtyard?”

“Many.”

“And McPhee was…displayed?”

“Yes. They said: ‘See how the Zzarr has been violated! And see who has done it!’ ”

“No one has told me this.”

“I did not know it either,” said the Aalima, “until I asked.”

Sheikh Musa sighed.

“Well, of course!” he said. “That was exactly the problem. After that there could be no denying it. Everyone had seen. I did my best. I tried to play it down. ‘Zzarr?’ I said. ‘What Zzarr? The church does not know any such thing.’ Which was all very well, except that everyone else did. To deny that there had been a Bimbashi as well would have been too much. It would have been like performing a sort of inverse miracle.” Owen found himself warming to the Sheikh.