Michael Pearce - The Snake Catcher’s Daughter

“Just a moment, Sayeed Abdullah; what was that?”

“I’ve seen her do it before, effendi. You remember, I mentioned it to you? The constable up from the country- the one who wouldn’t pay his subscription?”

“I do remember. But, Sayeed Abdullah, what is it that you are saying? That the woman who cast the evil eye on that occasion was-the Aalima? Are you sure?”

“Yes, effendi. And that was why I was so worried. I did try and warn Selim, I could do no less after his kindness to me, but he said that you had bidden-”

“Let us be quite clear about this. The Aalima worked with Hassan? Perhaps still does work with Hassan?”

“I do not know about that, effendi, but I know that she did work with Hassan, that she came when he called. And what she did once-”

“Thank you, Sayeed Abdullah, that is most helpful.” Owen went back up the steps and sat down again on his chair. Below him, in the yard, the music swirled and the men danced. Torches now were brought and fixed to the wall. In their fiery light he saw the excited, happy faces.

He went down the steps again and called to one of the women in the doorway.

“Is Aisha there?”

Shortly afterwards, Selim’s wife appeared.

“Aisha,” said Owen, “is the Aalima still with you?”

“She is, indeed, effendi. She feasts with us within.”

“I would like to see her,” said Owen. “On the roof.”

Aisha went into the house and returned with the tall figure of the Aalima.

“Some questions about the ritual?” said McPhee, over Owen’s shoulder.

“Some other questions first,” said Owen.

They drew back from the edge into the centre of the roof space, where it was quieter.

“There was a time,” said Owen, “when you worked with a man named Hassan. He was an orderly at the police station. He worked for a Greek, Philipides effendi, and did his bidding. Among the things he did was collect money from the other orderlies and from new constables. If they refused to give, he would have them beaten; and sometimes he would do other things. Once, for instance, there was a man newly up from the country whose wife was having a baby, and he called a woman in and made her cast the evil eye. That woman was you.”

“What if it was?” said the Aalima.

“If it was,” said Owen, “it was another thing to add to the many things that are piling up against your name. The heap will very soon topple over.”

“To cast the evil eye is nothing,” said the Aalima scornfully.

“To work against police officers is something,” said Owen. “And to work with Hassan is something more.”

“Those are just words,” she muttered.

“They are more. You cannot go home tonight. You come with me to the Bab-el-Khalk.”

“I have done nothing!” she protested.

“You have worked with others who have done something. That is enough.”

For the first time she was shaken.

“If I have,” she said, “it is very little.”

“That is perhaps so,” said Owen, “and if it is, I will make a difference between you and the others. But only if you help me.”

“I have already told you everything-”

She stopped and looked at Owen.

“Tell me about Hassan.”

She shivered slightly and drew her shawl about her, even though beads of perspiration were running down her face.

“I had not seen him for some time,” she said, “and then he came again.”

“When was this?”

“Before the Bimbashi came. He came to tell me the Bimbashi was coming. And what to do.”

“To put a drug in the drink?”

The Aalima inclined her head.

“And to arrange for him to be taken?”

“No, no,” said the Aalima, “that was nothing to do with me. All I had to do was make sure the Bimbashi was drugged. Hassan would do the rest.”

“I shall ask him.”

She shrugged.

“He may say other,” she said, “but I have told the truth.”

“All right,” said Owen, “we will speak more tomorrow. Now we go to the Bab-el-Khalk.”

The Aalima followed him submissively. As they reached the steps, he turned to her.

“Perhaps I will speak with Hassan now,” he said. “Where is he?”

“Effendi, I do not know. I never knew his house. He would always send when he wanted me.”

“But more recently he has come?”

“Yes, effendi, but I still do not know where he lives. He stays, I think, with his sister. It is in the Gamaliya somewhere.”

“What is the name of the sister?”

“I do not know. She is married. Her husband is, I think, a snake catcher.”

“That will do,” said Owen.

“It’s Al-Lewa again, darling,” said Zeinab, folding up the newspaper. “They’re still after you, I’m afraid.”

“What is it now?”

“However, it’s plainly false this time.”

“This time?”

“Well, the other time it was about women, and you know what you are-”

“Irreproachable,” said Owen, offended.

On any other occasion, Zeinab would have taken the matter up and developed, not to say embroidered, the theme. This morning, though, she was worried.

“It’s about those stones,” she said. “Both the diamond and the necklace. They know all about them and are asking what’s happened to them. Darling-?”

“They’re in a safe place,” Owen assured her.

“Not-not your pocket, by any chance?”

Owen pulled them out.

Zeinab came across.

“Look, darling, I don’t normally question what you do, but I really do think this time-! They are bound to ask what you are doing with them in your pockets.”

“I’m taking them round,” said Owen, “to all the jewellers. And asking them who bought them.”

In Mahmoud’s little office, with the three of them in there, the temperature was over 100. Sweat ran down Philipides’s face in trickles; but that may, of course, have not been just due to the heat. He put his handkerchief to his forehead.

“It was done without my knowledge,” he said.

Mahmoud bent forward over his desk. He was less like a mongoose now than a bird of prey: one of the smaller hawks perhaps.

“Let us get this straight; when Hassan approached Police Officer Abdul Bakri and solicited money, it was with your knowledge; when he approached Orderly Sayeed Abdullah and solicited money, it was without your knowledge?”

“That is correct,” said Philipides, in a voice that was almost inaudible.

“Others were approached too. Can you tell me which of them were approached with your knowledge?”

“I cannot remember.”

“You remembered Abdul Bakri.”

“He was the one-”

“That Garvin found out about?” Mahmoud finished.

Philipides bowed his head.

“Which were the ones he did not find out about? Can you give me their names?”

“It is too long ago,” said Philipides wretchedly.

“Wasn’t there a record?”

“Mustapha Mir-”

His voice died away. Mahmoud sat watching him.

“Mustapha Mir,” he said softly after a while. “Tell me about him.”

Philipides made a weary gesture.

“What is there to tell? You know-”

“Have you spoken to him lately?”

“Spoken? How could I? He is in Damascus.”

“I thought you might have spoken when he gave you your instructions.”

“Instructions? What instructions?”

“You tell me.”

There was a little silence.

“I know nothing of any instructions,” said Philipides shakily.

Mahmoud gave him a moment or two. Then, without a sign being given, Owen knew it was his turn. The two had interrogated together before.

“Philipides,” said Owen softly, “did you know that your wife had come to see me?”

“ ‘Wife’?” said Philipides, eyes starting from his head. “Wife?”