Michael Pearce - The Snake Catcher’s Daughter

“What other way round?” said Owen, lost.

“Denunciation to wooing,” said Zeinab. “At least, in Demerdash’s case.”

“Got another one?” said the snake catcher, looking around Owen’s garden. “They do come thick and fast. It’s the heat, I expect.”

“No, it’s not a snake this time,” said Owen. “It’s just that I wanted to ask you something.”

“Oh!” said the snake catcher, disappointed, letting his bag drop on the ground.

“Of course, I’ll make it worth your while. I know it’s your time.”

“Ah, well, that’s different!” said the snake catcher, brightening up.

The smell was, as Jalila had said, very distinct, the same as on her own arms but stronger, spicier, fresher.

“I could have done with you the other day,” said Owen. “That business at the Bab-el-Khalk? Well, you’re getting into deep water there, you know.”

“I would have sent for you, only they said you were visiting your son.”

The snake catcher looked vague.

“Yes,” he said. “I think so.”

“I don’t,” said Owen, smiling. He gave an exaggerated sniff. “Funny smell,” he said.

The snake catcher looked at him guardedly.

“It’s once a year you go, isn’t it? There’s the balsam, of course. And then there’s the teryaq. And of course, it has to be done in the right way, in the right frame of mind. That’s why you need a teacher, I expect.”

“It may be,” said the snake catcher non-committally.

“Well, I’m not going to ask you about it because I know these things are secret. But I want to know the name of your teacher.”

“I can’t tell you that!” said the snake catcher, aghast.

“I think you can. The teacher is not secret. It’s what he teaches that’s secret.”

It took Owen a long time to persuade him. It took a lot of promises and quite a lot of money. But eventually he got what he wanted.

Owen found Mahmoud pacing about his office. He turned an angry face towards him.

“The Khedive’s birthday!” he spat out. “What do I care about the Khedive’s birthday?”

“What, indeed?” said Owen, taken aback.

“Look at this!” said Mahmoud, with a fiery gesture towards his desk, piled high with papers. “I’m in court twice this week, three times next. Five cases to be finalized! How do they think I’m going to do it?”

“Well-”

“There’s always a lot of preparation at the last moment. Witnesses to be taken through their evidence, clerks to be chivvied-they always leave things till it’s almost too late, damn them. And then something like this happens!”

“What exactly-?”

“You haven’t heard? No, and nor has anyone else. And do you know why? Because he only made up his mind to do it this week. This week!”

“Sorry, his birthday, you said? Surely-?”

“Public holiday. He’s declared a public holiday for the day after tomorrow.”

“Oh!”

“Yes,” said Mahmoud. “Exactly!”

He plunged into his chair and buried his face in his hands. “Lunacy!” he said. “Sheer lunacy!”

“It’s not that bad.”

“It is,” said Mahmoud, refusing to be consoled. “How can you achieve anything when everything is so-so capricious?”

“Well-”

“It’s so inefficient!” he burst out in exasperation.

The best thing, Owen knew from long experience of Mahmoud, was to change the subject.

“That Philipides business,” he said; “how are you getting on?”

“That’s an example,” said Mahmoud, declining to be sidetracked. “Not at all. I’ve been going through the records to check which police officers were in post at the time; I wanted to ask them what they knew about it, if they’d been approached in the same way as Bakri.”

“And had they?”

“They weren’t saying.”

“It’s hardly surprising. They might find themselves incriminating their mates. Or even themselves.”

“Yes.” Mahmoud, calm now, sat back in his chair. “Of course, there’s another explanation possible.”

“What’s that?”

“That Bakri was the only instance. And that Garvin made the most of it.”

“According to Philipides, there were enough other ones to make Wainwright open an investigation.”

“Not quite. He may have feared there were other ones. The only one he may have actually known about was the Bakri case. That’s why it’s so important to get Wainwright out here. Only then can we know what prompted his action.”

“Bakri said there were others.”

“If you’re caught on a thing like this, you usually do.”

“Are you saying there weren’t any others? That Bakri was the only one and that Garvin-”

“Made the most of it. For his own ends.”

“You still think it was a plot to get the Egyptians out and the British in?”

“I think it may have been much more localized than it was made out to be at the time. And much less significant.”

“You talked to the police: did you talk to the orderlies?”

“No. Should I?”

“There’s a man I would like you to meet.”

“The Khedive’s birthday?” said Garvin in tones of disgust. “Another comic caper we could do without!”

“Oh, I don’t know,” protested Owen, who had been looking forward to spending a complete day with Zeinab. “He can hardly help having a birthday, can he?”

“Yes, but this is his second this year already!”

“Well, it’ll be popular.”

“Popular?” said Garvin dourly. “I hope so. Because the highlight of it is going to be a big parade in front of the Abdin Palace at which my job will be to see that one of those subjects with whom he’s so popular doesn’t take a pot-shot at him!”

“Keep them at a distance.”

“And put plenty of soldiers between them and him, yes, I know. I tell you,” said Garvin bitterly, “the amount of money and time wasted on a thing like this is immense.”

He sat down heavily in his chair.

“What was it you were going to ask me?”

“The Philipides business. His orderly was a man named Hassan.”

“Oh. I remember him,” said Garvin. “A nasty piece of work. He got out just in time. Otherwise he’d have been in the dock along with the others.”

“It may only have been deferred. Can you tell me anything about him?”

“Not much. He was a go-between, the man who put the bite on. There were rumours of violence and coercion. I was sufficiently bothered to put a guard on Bakri.”

“Very wise. Anything else?”

“It’s a while ago now,” said Garvin, shaking his head.

“I’m trying to track him down. You’ve no idea where I might look, have you?”

“Afraid not.”

“He’s been seen in the Gamaliya.”

“He used to know that district, certainly. He was at the sub-station there for several years before he moved to the Citadel. I remember, because I checked to see if there was anyone else like Bakri.”

“And was there?”

“If there were,” said Garvin, “they weren’t saying.”

As Owen walked through the city the following day, there were signs of the coming celebrations. Bunting hung across some of the streets and clusters of brightly-coloured balloons dangled from the overhanging windows. Little boys were decorating their sheep before the open doors of their houses.

As soon as he penetrated into the older part, however, the bunting disappeared. In these medieval streets the Khedive was a parvenu. The allegiances they acknowledged were older. “The sheikh? Certainly, effendi. I will show you.” ‘Sheikh’ was a courtesy title extended to anyone of venerable years and a reputation for piety or learning. Genuine scholars-Sheikh Musa, for instance-might have challenged this particular application on both counts. Ordinary people, however, thought it prudent to recognize with respect the peculiar knowledge that the ‘sheikh’ laid claim to. He was the man who supervised the spiritual exercises of the Rifa’i when they withdrew for their annual period of re-preparation.