Michael Pearce - The Snake Catcher’s Daughter

“I very much regret any difficulty or embarrassment this has caused you,” he said.

The Sheikh shrugged and spread his hands.

“I don’t suppose he intended it,” he said.

“The very last thing he would have wished would have been to cause offence.”

“Maybe,” said the Sheikh; “but he was there, wasn’t he?”

“He was brought there by a trick.”

“Why would anyone wish to do that?” asked Sheikh Musa. “I could understand if it had been a mosque. There are always those who wish to fan the flames of religious division. But a Zzarr? Why a Zzarr?”

“Because they knew McPhee would come to it. If it had been a mosque or anything to do with orthodox religious practice he wouldn’t have touched it. He has great, genuine respect for such matters and knows too much about them to be inveigled into doing something that would offend. But a Zzarr, well, a Zzarr would be different. For him it is the past, from the days before there was Islam or even Christianity. That kind of thing fascinates him.”

“If they knew that about him,” said Sheikh Musa, “then they must have known him well.”

He had gone to the Sheikh hoping that he could have put him into touch with people who had been present in the outer courtyard that night and who had seen the whole thing. After considerable hesitation-the Sheikh, like Owen, still had hopes that the whole thing would die away and be quietly forgotten, and had no wish to do anything which might resurrect sleeping embers-he had reluctantly agreed to let Owen meet two suitable members of his flock. They had certainly been present; unfortunately, they had been chosen for their trustworthiness and discretion rather than for their ability to convey their impressions of what they had seen, and he got little out of them.

Yes, the Bimbashi had been brought out into the outer courtyard and lifted up on a chair so that he could be clearly seen by all who were present. “In the torchlight,” one of them added. “Drunk,” said the other.

“Not drunk,” said Owen, “drugged.”

The two remained unconvinced.

“In a thing like this,” said the Sheikh afterwards, “people believe what is said at the time.”

Owen asked about the men. They came from outside the Gamaliya. The two were quite sure of this. Most Cairenes, probably wisely, were sure of this sort of fact whenever it fell to their lot to witness a crime. Owen did not insist.

But what had happened to McPhee at the end, after he had been shown to the assembled population? He had been taken away, the men said vaguely. Who by? The same men? Probably. Couldn’t they remember anything about it? Nothing at all. How many men had there been, Owen asked desperately? Four. Or rather two. Plus one who had led them. Three, then? The men conferred. You might say that; yes, you might say that. What was this other one like? A lowly man, they said with scorn. Lowly? Definitely. A fellah? Worse than that. But was not that strange, a mere fellah, and a leader?

Ah, well, he hadn’t exactly been their leader, at least, not like that, more one who had shown them the way. He had known the way, then, himself? Seemed to. And the others had not? Definitely not. They were from outside the Gamaliya. And the other one? The one who had led? Couldn’t see, it was dark, etc., etc.

So he had come from the Gamaliya. In fact, he must have known the Gamaliya well to have been able to guide the men into a backyard and then to the cistern into which they had dropped McPhee.

That wasn’t the sort of place you hit on by accident as you were fleeing. McPhee must have been dropped there deliberately, as a kind of cruel joke. Which suggested that the man, the lowly one who had guided them, had known it was there.

Owen decided to go and see Jalila.

The yard was busy now. Semi-finished screens for the large, box-like windows which were a feature of old Cairo were propped up everywhere with men bent over them applying the final touches. Elsewhere, men were working on earlier stages. In one corner they were doing the preliminary sawing, holding the wood in their toes; in another they were turning the pegs with little pigmy-like bows. All the work was being done on the ground, none on benches.

Owen greeted the men politely and asked for Jalila. You did not usually ask for women by name-in fact, you did not usually ask for women at all-but snake-catchers’ daughters were different. One of the men went to the back of the yard and called up to a window at the top of some wooden stairs. A moment later, Jalila appeared.

“There’s an Effendi here who wishes to speak with you, Jalila.”

“Oh, it’s you,” said Jalila, pleased, and came down the stairs.

“Posh friends our Jalila’s got!” one of the workmen said to another.

“He’s probably been showing her a snake. Or something,” said the other.

As Jalila went past the cistern she put her arm down into it and scooped out a snake; which she promptly threw in the direction of the speakers.

There was pandemonium in the yard as the workmen dropped their work and jumped hastily out of the way. Jalila stood for a moment, hands on hips, enjoying the panic, then walked across, picked up the snake and put it back in the cistern.

“I hope that one was milked,” said Owen.

“Maybe,” said Jalila. “Maybe not.”

“Can we talk?”

Jalila led him up the stairs and then up another flight round the side of the building and so on to the roof. Some rolled up mattresses suggested that like many Cairo roofs, especially in hot weather, it was used for sleeping.

“You were not, of course, up here the night the Bimbashi was put in the cistern?”

“I was at the Zzarr.”

“Of course. Was-was-” he was not sure of her circumstances-“anyone else up here?”

“My father was sleeping with Ali Haja’s widow. In another house.”

“I was wondering if anyone had heard anything. People on other roofs, perhaps.”

“If they did, no one has said so.”

“Isn’t that strange? A hot night, in the open. Surely someone must have heard.”

“No one has said anything. I do not know if that is strange.”

“It is, of course, possible that no one heard anything. If that were so it would be because the men came quietly. And if that were so, it would be because they knew their way, or at least, one of them did.”

“Many people know the yard.”

“And the cistern?”

“They might if they had come here on business. To see my father.”

Owen was disappointed. He had hoped he was narrowing things down.

“Even so,” he said, “it means they must have known the Gamaliya. More, this part of the Gamaliya. And I think that is true, for they knew of the Aalima, and they knew which house was the Copt’s.”

Jalila wriggled her toes. Not surprisingly, thought Owen. The roof was so hot that even to put your hand on it was painful.

Jalila was bare-faced as well as bare-footed. Interesting, that. Poor women usually wore a veil. Perhaps snake-catchers’ daughters were so low in the social hierarchy that they fell even below that level.

Jalila, now he came to consider it, had a pleasant face, not Arab-aquiline like Zeinab’s but broad and round.

“Where does your father come from, Jalila?” he asked.

“Here.”

“And his father?”

“Here. We have always been here.”

“It is the face. It does not seem a northern face.”

“They say we originally came from Suakin.”

“Ah!”

A port city. Therefore, probably mixed. He fancied he saw something Somali in her features.

“You like my face?”

“Yes. It is a pretty one.”

Jalila wriggled her toes again.

“I like this kind of conversation,” she said.